#ftm reader

[yanderemommabean]

Momma this is one if the weirder asks I’ve ever sent but this is a safe space right 🫣

Imagine like… transmasc reader tied down by a yandere who by some means (magical, technological, whatever they might be capable of) gave him a cock. And it’s super sensitive, either because it’s new or because the yandere made some… personal adjustments in the process of making it. Just being tied down for hours on end while ensuring all kinds of stimulation that you could hardly even imagine before and losing your mind into their mouth.

Anyway haha who said that

Ugh. Tasty. Imagining Satoru just milking you and calling you a good boy while you sob and cry.

“It hurts!”

He shakes his head, squeezing the base of your cock from the bottom to the tip to make sure it all gets out. “It doesn’t.”

“Y-yes, yes it does, p-please I can’t, I can’t!”

Oh you poor dear. You think it hurts? Then why are you making such a wonderful mess? Why are your hips jerking and twitching like they can’t get enough?

“Honestly, I think you’re just overwhelmed. I can tell when it’s painful sweetheart. I think you just need a few more forced out of you so you can calm down.”

He would adore how you fall apart. Calling out, pitifully begging him for a break, to let you rest, having those beautiful eyes filled with tears. It only makes him harder you know? You look so good when you’re breaking from pleasure.

-Mommabean (sorry for the ramble lol)

[dangerousstrawberryshark]

Priest Miguel O'Hara x Incubus reader. I had this idea for two years, only now writing it. The reader is ftm! (cunt, pussy, and clit are used in this! Turn away from this!)

Imagine priest Miguel finishing a sermon, preaching the words of God to the attendees as he stood at the altar, closing the Bible with a soft thud. The light shining on him from the morning sun made him look holy and godly. His black vestments covered his muscular body, underneath which would make every woman in the vicinity want him, but he doesn't dwell on or engage in those desires as they are impure and go against God's vision. He watched everyone leaving their pews, some coming up to chat before leaving, then he saw you.

Imagine you are walking up to the altar, making sure everyone is gone. Your boots clicking along the floor, deliberate and sensual. "Is there something you need, child?" (or whatever the priest says.) Miguel says as he sees your body coming into view, his mouth goes dry. You were handsome, almost divine. Miguel then smelled something strange in the air, not the usual incense; it was sweet, richer, and dizzying. Miguel felt something come over him, but he quelled it, for now.

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," you said, your voice soft as silk and warm blankets. A smirk planted on your face as you see the effects the aphrodisiacs were having on Miguel. It's been a long time since you last feasted, priests and married men were your main options, so much pent-up desire and needs that they have to bury for the sake of being deemed worthy for the pearly gates, you didn't understand that. You never will, but you didn't care. Sex is amazing.

Imagine priest Miguel listening to your confession, it was the most sinful confession he has ever heard. You confessed to having sex with a variety of married men and indulging in voyeuristic tendencies. Yet, he continued listening. The smell was getting stronger, his mind was becoming cloudy, and his body was boiling hot. Miguel's breathing got heavier as his large cock was aching in his pants, throbbing and leaking. Something primal and darker was clawing at him as the holy facade was cracking from the pressure. When Miguel looked again, the young man had horns, wings, and a tail.

"You're a demon..." Miguel mutters, attempting to hold himself back and not indulge in sin, with an incubus no less. Having sex in God's holy temple was blasphemy. Miguel mutters scriptures and pleas to God, begging for forgiveness. He was unaware of you kneeling before him, tugging at his robe until he felt your warm fingers grabbing his cock.

"My, My... already leaking and all of this is for me?" you purred, grinning from hearing Miguel's strangled groans and moans. This priest's cock was bigger and thicker than any other you've had. Your cunt leaked, drenching your underwear with the sticky, sweet fluid. Miguel snapped out of his babbling when he felt your warm, hungry mouth wrapping around his cock. His groans echoed in the quiet church, he fell back against the altar as you deepthroated him, gripping it for support. Miguel bit down on his hand as you worshipped his cock, like it was God. Your tongue teasing his cockhead, slit, and undersides, one of your hands fondling his balls.

"You taste divine, Father." That was the last straw for Miguel. He gave in to the temptation.

Imagine priest Miguel yanking your head off his cock and perches you against the altar. He ripped your underwear off, slapping his throbbing cock against your soaked pussy, gathering the slick and smearing all over his cock. Your dominant and assertive attitude was replaced with submissiveness as felt Miguel's cock teasing your swollen clit, purposely stimulating it. Your poor little hole fluttered around nothing, trying to capture the cockhead, so much slick was gushing out.

"F-fuck..." The word is foreign to Miguel as he rarely curses. His cock was sheathed in your warm, tight, and wet cunt, every inch of his cock was squeezed and massage by your warm insides, slick coating his cock, his heavy balls resting against your ass. Your cunt was hungry as it clenched around his cock every time he attempts to pull out, it didn't Miguel to pull out. Miguel was in pure heaven or hell. Was this how sex felt? It felt amazing, specifically gay sex! His cock being massaged and drenched in slick.

"This is what you've been missing out on, Father. Feel my cunt? It wants you, wants your sin, seed."

Imagine priest Miguel fucking you against the altar, his large, worn hands gripping your hips as he fucked your demon pussy. Moans and other debaucheries filled the silent church: wet skin slapping, pussy squelching, and strangled moans. You could feel Miguel's cock stretching your entrance as his cock dug you out. Your arms locked around Miguel's shoulder, back arching. Your mind was cloudy, but you could feel the energy flooding your body; you weren't going to completely drain Miguel.

"M-Miguel-- oh God... fuck." you cried, causing Miguel to fuck you harder. How dare you, a slutty demon, use God's name, shouldn't be allow to leave your mouth. Miguel groans, his hips stuttering as his thrusts become slow but harder.

"S-so deep... s-so full! Yes, yes! Fill me, Father~ wanna feel it inside me~ breed your sins into me~" you babbled greedily sucking the priest's cock deeper. You could feel the tip ramming against your second entrance, you rubbed your swollen clit in rhythm with Miguel's thrusts. Your body quivered from the sensation as it came around Miguel's thrusting cock, clamping around the piece of meat, milking it of its thick, virile load.

That didn't happen; instead, Miguel pulled out in tight and came all over your stomach. His eyes fluttered shut as his cock pulses, spurting more cum. You were impressed: no man has managed to do this, it seems like Miguel has regained a semblance of control.

Oh yeah, you were definitely coming back for seconds

Author's note: I haven't proofread this, and hopefully it sounds good! Kinda rushed tbh and was delirious due to lack of sleep.

Taglist: @hiddens-eden @spnfanboy777 @buckyshusband0 @zamfam4272 @raspberryyuuki @maxxioislost @furiousflowercreation @ghostking4m @sluttyhusband @wolf-knights @your-cow-boy @mack-thedork @starboye @boypied @sleep-0-deprived @cronasluvr

(The inspiration for this Drabble: plz don’t be mean tumblr and flag this 🙏🏾)

[porcalinecunt]

𝐆𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐈𝐆 𝐁𝐎𝐈 .ᐟ

🫗ᯓ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ single sissy? wanting a big boy? meet mister ken ‘draken’ ryuguji! ♡

⋆˚࿔ FEATURING . . 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐑𝐘𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐉𝐈 𝐗 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

ྀི . ° . cw — ftm! reader , size kink , breeding , choking , headlock position , doggy position , praise , degradation(?) , stomach bulge , slight fluff in the beginning.

𓂃۶ৎ author’s note: i wrote this after midnight so sorry if its ass ; ; had draken thoughts and couldn’t contain them in my conscious. an nee ways, enjoy! <3

ᥫ᭡. ~ big boyfie draken is a sissy boy’s dream come true! after all, there’s not many hunks out there who’s willing to give boys like you a shot. after meeting you, cute in your ‘lil work uniform at the local cafe after putting street runts down, the second in command officer never felt any mushier with someone then with you.

after all, it’s like you couldn’t stop charming the guy! from kind words after a rough fight to patching him up to doing his braid every morning when he misses your hands roaming the dragon tattoo carved into the side of his head. his perfect little prince, a man he protects with his fists and body alike, someone who brings out the best in him even when things got serious. even more so thanks to the insane size difference between the both of you.

draken was huge, bigger then most of the guys even at a young age. even more so the older he got, his biceps bigger then your head and his body practically becoming a damn wall. it seemed like his growth spurt never stopped growing, until your face could only see his chest unless you craned your neck up to look at his face. you found it inconveniencing, annoying even! though through the eyes of draken, you only got cuter by the second.

millisecond if you count the times he nearly came by just making eye contact with you during sex. ♡

there’s a reason why this man has you in doggy tonight, not just to watch your pretty ass bounce as he fucks himself into your cunt, but to see you turn your head back to face him with the same heart eyes gaze that got you in this position in the first place. heavy eyelids with your irises rolling back everytime he hit that sweet spot, teeth sunken into your bottom lip as your face grew hot by the second. a normal reaction when your boyfriend’s fat cock is kissing your cervix and threatening to put a baby in you.

he felt heavy in your tummy, a bulge forming in and out as he dragged his girth along your sensitive walls. “kennyyyy!—“ you whined, turning your head again with a pout on your wet lips this time. “feels so good—ngh, wanna cum..cum in mee!”

“i know i know baby..doin’ so good f’me over here..” he leans down, cooing in your ear before licking your earlobe. he practically was on the verge of an orgasm, watching you squirm and plead for him was enough to push him over the edge. so much so, he couldn’t help but wrap his whole arm around your marked up neck and lock you in a chokehold. he felt your smaller hands shot up instinctively, gripping his wrist and bicep as he applied more pressure onto your windpipe.

he almost pulled away out of concern for your breathing until he felt you clench. suddenly, you felt a chuckle spill through his lips and into your ear. “ahh..you like this don’t ya?” “k-kenny..i jus—AH!”

“nah nah nah..don’t try ‘n run from me.” he pulled you up until your back touched his chest, arching away from your menace of a man as he pumps his length deeper into your ruined cunt. “your fuckin’ dirty boy, y’know that? tell me your a dirty boy f’me.”

“a-ah..’m y-you’re d-dirty boy..” you choked out, only to receive a tighter squeeze from your boyfriend. “i’m your dirty boy kenny! i’m your dirty boy!” you answered, both desperate yet cocked out beyond cognitive ability. how a simple headlock can have you babbling for dick embarrassed yet endeared you. didn’t matter anyways, draken was already inching towards his orgasm by the minute and you were going to take every last drop, even if he ended up knocking you up.

“yeahhh..my dirty boy loves my dick, always lovin’ my fuckin’ dick..” draken grunted as he screwed his eyes shut. “yess..i love it ken..i love it so so much!—ah!” before you could continue your mantra of your boyfriend, the feeling of your orgasm along with his hot seed spilling into your cunt knocked the wind out of your lungs. well, as much wind was left considering how tightly he was holding your neck. even so, you had enough energy to turn your fucked out gaze to him.

“can you do it harder next time?”

© porcalinecunt 🍷 𓂃۶ৎ do not steal, translate, or use my work and claim as your own.

[lazy4honey]

Bedmates

Contains: monster under the bed x ftm reader (with only a vault after removal of uterus, ovaries and cervix), dub-con, huge flared p, many orgasms for the reader, overstimulation, about 1k words, NSFW & MDNI

Does every bed have its own monster underneath, or is it the person sleeping on the bed to whom the monster belongs? Before tonight, you never thought you’d be asking yourself this, much less actually receive an answer.

The light of the motel’s neon sign shone into your room through the old wooden blinds, illuminating the shabby furnishings just enough for you to see their vague outlines. You lay in bed, dead tired yet wide awake, waiting to fall asleep as you stared at the long shadows, when they suddenly moved. They writhed as if struggling, fighting against something unseen clawing its way out.

And then you saw it. Shadows of varying opacity layered over each other had gained a vaguely humanoid, constantly shifting form that was hard for tired eyes to focus on. They crawled out from the shadows beneath your bed and towered over you.

The shadow creature reached out a hand. Their touch was warm against your cheek, with a resistance akin to skin, accompanied by a faint tingly feeling. There was also a special scent to them, strangely familiar and reassuring, stronger than the musty smell filling the motel room and clinging to the sheets.

You slowly blinked and rubbed against their hands.

The monster from under your bed seemed a little startled, almost flinching away from your touch but stubbornly resisting the instinct to let go.

Then they leaned down. They buried their head in the crook of your neck and slid a hand down your flat chest and stomach. The shadows slipped past your blanket and clothes as if they had no substance and came in contact with your warm crotch. Their clawed fingers brushed against your t-dick, eliciting a gasp from you. Your boy pussy twitched when they started rubbing and tugging your t-dick, the slightly too rough actions stimulating your arousal and making you want more.

It felt like a dream as the shadowy creature lay down on you. They catered to your t-dick like no one else ever had, and you couldn’t resist thrusting into their hand in your sleepy haze.

You felt your t-dick twitch, and then your boy pussy fluttered around nothing as you came. Your awareness floated away, like you were finally about to fall asleep, yet a certain sensation abruptly pulled you back into your body. Confused, you blinked, two tears of satiated lust rolling down your cheeks, and then you realized that the monster from under your bed had spread your legs and was pressing the flared tip of their huge cock against your entrance.

You had trouble focusing your mind amidst the tiredness and waves of pain and pleasure that radiated from your crotch as they forced themselves inside you. The flared tip took so long you felt your thighs grow numb from how much they trembled, but once it was in the rest of their huge cock quickly followed.

They bottomed out in one swift stroke that harshly hit your vault and immediately made you come again with a cry. Your boy pussy’s contractions caused the monster to groan and start thrusting, and you dimly realized that despite filling you the brim, they hadn’t managed to hilt their fat cock.

The bed shook and dully hit the wall as they rutted into you, giving you the feeling that they wanted to desperately cram their entire length into your comparatively pitifully small human body. They clutched at your waist and hips, licked your flat chest and sucked on your nipples. Every slam of warm, tingly shadow against your ass made you clearly feel the flared tip stretch your vault, and just a light touch to your belly let you know just how much their huge cock distended your abdomen.

Your little t-dick bounced and your breath stuttered with each thrust as your heart throbbed and white flashed before your eyes when you came for a third time.

Afterwards, you lost count of how many times you came from being fucked like a toy. The punishing pace was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before, and the size so overwhelming you didn’t even feel envious. Whenever your mind managed to focus a bit after an orgasm, you found your voice hoarse like sandpaper from crying and your boy pussy still being relentlessly fucked, so much so there was a constant switch between burning pain and exhilarating pleasure.

You had no idea whether you passed out or were just cock-drunk, but you were certain you had no idea when the monster flipped you onto your belly and took you from behind or how you ended up riding that monstrous cock.

Riding that huge cock, bouncing up and down and having your erect t-dick graze against the monster’s abdomen, you were so slick with your own fluids it squelched. You came once more, heaven knows how many times it’s already been, and just as you thought the sky beyond the wooden blinds seemed to have gotten brighter, their pace grew disjointed and chaotic. It was so bad you felt like your already mushy thoughts were fucked out of your head, and then they came.

Cum erupted from the flared tip of that big fat cock and shot into your vault, triggering another row of orgasms. If the monster had stopped moving, their enormous shaft would’ve plugged your boy pussy and forced your belly to bulge with not just their cock but also their cum, but they didn’t. They continued messily shoving their length into you and allowed the cum to gush out and splatter all over their shadowy figure and your thighs and the bed, drenching both of you in the sticky fluid.

Then you passed out.

When you woke up again, it was already noon. The sun slanted into your room through the old wooden blinds and you could see the dust motes dancing in the air. Everything seemed normal — until you sat up.

It wasn’t a problem to move or sit, in fact it felt like nothing was wrong, but your body was full of marking telling the story of a wild and passionate night. Shoulders, collarbone, chest, abdomen, thighs, all of it was covered in hickeys and large hand-shaped bruises, and your t-dick and boy pussy were swollen and fucked raw. You just didn’t feel any pain or discomfort.

Doubting your senses, you went to the bathroom, but even after washing, dressing, eating something and setting off again, the marks of that night remained. Even by the time you returned home, there were still some obvious bruises visible. That wasn’t the problem though.

The problem was that you would lay awake at night, unable to fall asleep, and when you wondered why that was, you found that you were waiting for that monster to find you and fuck you again. You spent days trying to get rid of that awful habit, even getting a huge horse cock dildo at your most desperate, but nothing helped.

It was very frustrating.

Then one night, lying in your own bed, in your own apartment, you saw the shadows move. They writhed as if struggling, fighting against something unseen clawing its way out.

And then you saw it. Shadows of varying opacity layered over each other had gained a familiar, vaguely humanoid, constantly shifting form that was hard to focus on. They crawled out from the shadows beneath your bed and towered over you, reaching out a hand to cup your cheek and snuggle close.

“Found you."

[dukestags]

Hii, I have a request for a Bucky Barnes x Male reader where Bucky is looking for a secretary or something like that and reader is the best for the role. Reader didn't imagine that his boss would be that hot, and he couldn't take the eyes of Bucky's arms during the job interview

Unprofessional Thoughts

Bucky Barnes x male reader (can be read as ftm reader as well)

summary: you cant focus during interview job... those arms of his.

warnings: bucky... and slight insight of the dirty minded reader.

You were prepared. Resume polished, tie straight, voice practiced. You had this.

At least you thought you did—until Bucky Barnes walked into the room.

Black button-up, sleeves rolled to the elbows, thick forearms dusted with dark hair and veins that made your mouth go dry. His metal arm gleamed under the office lights, all sleek and dangerous, but it was the other one—the flesh-and-blood arm—that had your brain short-circuiting.

It flexed as he adjusted his watch. Veins popped. Muscle shifted under skin.

And just like that, your mind betrayed you.

You weren’t thinking about the job anymore. You were thinking about that arm flexing behind your head, bicep bulging as his hand closed around your throat. Imagining the pressure—not too rough, but firm—controlling, commanding. Your thighs tensed as you fought the image down, swallowing hard.

“(Y/N), right?” Bucky said, his voice deep, warm, and smooth as sin.

You nodded way too fast. “Yes. Uh—yes, sir. I mean—yeah. Hi.”

He grinned, and holy hell, his teeth were perfect. His jaw alone looked like it could cut glass.

“Come on in,” he said. “Let’s have a chat.”

You sat across from him, trying to focus. Really, you did. But he leaned forward, resting one arm on the desk. That goddamn arm again.

That bicep could ruin lives.

You caught yourself staring and quickly looked away, pretending to fix your sleeve.

“I was impressed with your resume,” Bucky continued, flipping through it. “You’ve handled some high-pressure executive roles before. That’ll come in handy around here.”

Oh, I can handle pressure, your brain offered helpfully. Preferably with your arm around my neck while you call me a good boy as you pound me—

You blinked, blinking hard. “Yeah! Uh, pressure is... fine. I’m good with pressure.”

Bucky glanced up at you, one brow raised slightly, amused.

“You sure? You’re lookin’ kinda flushed.”

You tried to laugh. It came out a little too high. “It’s warm in here.”

It wasn’t. The A/C was perfect. You were just horny and unprepared.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. That made it worse. Muscles stacked on muscles, and the fabric of his shirt pulled so tight across his biceps you wanted to commit a felony.

“So,” he said slowly, clearly enjoying himself now, “you’ve got experience, good instincts… But can you focus? Pay attention, even when things get… distracting?”

Is this man flirting or just accidentally sexy? your brain screamed. Either way, I’m losing.

You nodded, trying to focus on his words and not on the intrusive mental image of those arms pinning yours down as he—

“I can focus,” you said quickly. “Very well. Extremely… focused.”

He smirked and held out his hand. “Then you’re hired.”

You reached out, shook it—and that just made everything worse. His grip was warm, commanding. Dominant. You almost whimpered.

“Welcome to the team, (Y/N),” he said, voice low. “Looking forward to working… very closely with you.”

You left the interview five minutes later with the job—and a serious problem in your pants.

[monstersholygrail]

When you first showed interest in your Cat Hybrid the shelter warned you that this particular cat was hostile and didn’t get along with most of the people at the shelter. You figured they were just being dramatic and all he needed was a kind and loving home but time quickly proved you wrong.

He stayed away from you most days, even taking his meal times separately from yours. And when you did try and get close, he’d hiss and swipe at you. Managing to get a few war wounds in whenever you tried to give him some affection.

You were beginning to feel defeated that you’d ever manage to build trust and love between the two of you. It was a shame too as you initially adopted the hybrid in order to have a companion by your side as you started your transition, finally biting the bullet and becoming the you you’ve always known you are inside.

But with how things have been going you were starting to lose hope that things would turn around. That is until three months after you started taking testosterone and everything began to change.

Now from what you read, you got the impression that a lot of Cat Hybrids were very sensitive to smell and had a distaste for strong orders. You figured that was just great and soon your companion would hate you even more. But instead of being put off by it, your Cat Hybrid seemed to crave it.

When before he wouldn’t go anywhere near you, now you can’t get rid of him. He follows you throughout the house wherever you go like he’s tracking your scent. He sits right outside when you go to the bathroom or have a door closed, protecting you.

During meal times he patiently waits for you to serve yourself too before sitting at the table and sharing a meal with you. When you have to work overtime or don’t come home when you say you will, he calls and whines, bugging you into coming home sooner.

And instead of sitting on the opposite end of the couch he snuggles right up next to you, purring loudly as he rubs his cheek into your neck, mixing your scent with his. You giggle in response, leaning away from the tickling sensation only for the hybrid to lean even heavier into you.

“What has been up with you lately?” You ask playfully, the deepening rasp in your voice making the hybrid shiver.

“You just- you just smell so good,” he snarls, almost like he’s angry about it.

He pushes into you until you go tumbling down onto the couch with a crackling yelp. Before you can try to get up, he’s right there on top of you, straddling your lap and inhaling deeply. Your eyes widen, breath hitching as he starts grinding into your core.

“Do I?” You ask breathlessly, placing your hands on his hips and your Cat Hybrid mewls just as sensitive for you as you are him.

Angling his hips he slides his rock hard cock along your center. Even through the layers of clothes he can feel the heat radiating from where you need him most.

“Yessss. I need more,” he growls, a feral look passing over his face.

Before you can piece together what he means he starts kissing and sucking down your throat as if he’s tracking to see where your scent is the strongest as he always does. You gasp and arch into his mouth, your body aching for more. As he moves down your plush frame he removes every piece of clothing keeping you from him until you lay perfectly bare and so dashingly handsome it takes the hybrid’s breath away.

With another deep inhale his eyes snap toward your dripping hole, your slick all smeared against your thick thighs. Practically begging for his attention. He runs his fingers along your slit, spreading your folds and wrapping them around your throbbing little t-dick. You cry out, your body burning so hot and needy you might explode.

“Look at this fat boy pussy all needy for my touch. Absolutely soaked f’me, and all because your grumpy hybrid is finally giving you the attention you’ve craved. Are you that desperate?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer and it’s a good thing too because you don’t think you could’ve even if you wanted to. You were far too turned on, gasping and moaning with every stroke of his fingers. Plus the answer would’ve been yes. After all these months of getting the cold shoulder from your companion, you were eager to soak up all their recent affection.

Before you could even blink the Cat Hybrid was pouncing on you, his rough tongue eagerly lapping up your sloppy hole like a man starved. His growls and your moans of pleasure pierce the air as he fucks you ruthlessly with his tongue.

Almost like you both have been waiting for this longer than either of you care to admit. You can’t get enough of it, your hips bucking into his eagerly mouth. His claws hands tighten around your wide waist and pin you against him, refusing you even a second of relief as his long tongue lashes itself inside you and along every nerve of your core.

You can only hold on for so long, not wanting this moment to end, before you’re exploding all over his tongue, your center throbbing with the force of your release. You feel his claws prick at your flesh as he marks you as his while he hisses and works you through your release.

Each swirl of his tongue sends you gushing with more of your essence, leaving a prickling sensation that only turns you on more and more. But you can see he’s happy to remain there and lick up whatever you give him as your scent increases tenfold, flooding his senses and filling him completely with you.

By the bliss on his and your face it seems as though you’re both liking what this new arrangement might bring.

[reveryfics]

Intimate Connections

Spencer Reid x FtM Reader

Summary: Late one night, with the residue of a tough case and the warmth of wine lingering, Reid revealed he'd been thinking of you in ways that were anything but platonic. You couldn't deny the delicious truth: the sentiment was entirely reciprocated.

A/N: Been wanting to do "top ftm reader" for awhile now, bet kept talking myself out of it. Now Spencer is the first to get the strap, and certainly not the last. No man is safe, that is a threat.

TW: Top reader - Bottom Spencer - Strap on - First time - Soft sex - Minors DNI - Females DNI

"The best love is the kind that awakens the soul and makes us reach for more, that plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds. That’s what you’ve given me." - Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

Spencer's hearty laughter, a sound rarely heard with such unrestrained joy, gradually subsided, leaving a comfortable quiet in its wake. His gaze, however, remained fixed on you from across the plush couch. The only illumination came from the soft, warm glow of a nearby table lamp, casting a gentle halo around your silhouette. He wasn't entirely sure what was causing the unsettling yet exhilarating churn in his stomach – perhaps it was the residual warmth of the cheap red wine he'd been nursing, or the lingering intensity of the day's challenging case. More likely, though, it was the way you effortlessly made him feel so incredibly normal, so utterly at ease, that was truly disorienting his carefully constructed world.

His mind, usually a torrent of facts and theories, went delightfully numb as he watched you. Every subtle movement became magnified: the way your lips curved when you spoke, forming words that, for once, barely registered in his analytical brain. He found himself mesmerized by the habitual gesture of you tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear when you were deep in thought. And then there was your physical presence. Despite the undeniably masculine angles of your frame, he couldn't help but notice the subtle, soft curve of your hips, and the almost unfair way your jeans seemed to cling to you, fitting just right.

Lately, Spencer had found his thoughts drifting, unbidden and undeniably explicit, towards you. He'd catch himself fantasizing, allowing his imagination to wander, conjuring images of how high or how low your happy trail might extend. He wondered, with a desperate longing, how the faint stubble on your jawline would feel against his fingertips, whether it would be rough or surprisingly soft. His mind painted vivid pictures of tracing the faint lines of your top surgery scars, just beneath your pectoral muscles, while he was beneath you, utterly consumed. He'd replayed countless scenarios in his head, imagining the taste of your lips on his, the way your voice would sound, raw and hushed, whispering his name into the stillness of a shared bedroom, the soft sheets a comforting caress against his naked body.

The thought of you, of being with you, was a potent intoxicant. Spencer knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified him, that he would risk everything – his career, his carefully cultivated reputation, even his own guarded heart – if it meant just one night in your bed. If it meant finally feeling your lips against his, your hands tracing every inch of his body as he trembled, surrendered, beneath you. What Spencer, in his self-absorption, hadn't yet grasped was the mirror image of his own desire. You looked at him with the same simmering intensity, the same unspoken longing. You, too, fantasized about him beneath you, his body a canvas for your touch, wondering what his voice would sound like, ragged and breathless, moaning your name into the encompassing darkness of your own bedroom.

You craved the feeling of Reid's hands on your body, grasping at your bare skin, his nails digging just slightly into your soft flesh, a delicious ache. You longed for his fingers to meticulously trace your top surgery scars, a silent acknowledgment of your journey. And gods, you would indeed risk it all if it meant hearing your name escape his lips, raw and passionate, just for one night.

Spencer, jolted back to the present, cleared his throat, the sound a little rougher than intended. He took the last sip of the cheap red wine from his glass, the liquid doing little to quell the heat rising in his cheeks. He hadn't realized how long he'd been staring, his gaze locked on the subtle movements of your lips as you spoke, even though your words had, for a significant stretch, fallen on entirely deaf ears.

"Can I... may I ask you something?" Spencer whispered, his voice a little hoarse, the words stuttering out in a display of nervousness.

You, having finished your own drink, gently set your empty wine glass down on the coffee table, a soft clink echoing in the quiet room, placing it next to Spencer's. "Of course," you murmured, your voice a warm invitation. "You know you don't have to ask."

"I... I was wondering," Spencer began, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze dropping from your eyes to the condensation forming on his empty wine glass. He swirled the remnants, the action betraying his internal turmoil. "Have you ever... felt such a profound, almost overwhelming desire for someone? In ways that... well, that you couldn't openly share with them?"

A tiny frown creased your brow. His question hung in the air, thick with an unspoken meaning that eluded you. It sounded like he was wrestling with something intensely personal, something he was struggling to articulate. Before you could even formulate a question, to ask him to clarify, Spencer pressed on, a fresh wave of nervous energy washing over him.

He cleared his throat again, the sound more a nervous habit than a physical necessity. "I mean," he stammered, his gaze darting back to yours, then quickly away. "Have you ever... looked at someone you're close with, someone you see every day, and suddenly... your mind just goes there? Like, you start to see them in intimate ways? Not just in a friendly way, but... you fantasize about them? About what it would be like to touch them, to be with them?" He finally managed to meet your eyes, a raw vulnerability laid bare in their depths. "Have you ever done that?"

You took a slow, deliberate breath, the air feeling suddenly heavy in your lungs. Spencer's words, raw and unedited, hung between you, painting a picture of a vulnerability he rarely displayed. He was laying something significant at your feet, something deeply personal. It wasn't just a question; it was an admission, cloaked in curiosity. You could feel the weight of his gaze, searching your face for a reaction, for understanding.

A long moment stretched between you, filled only by the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant chirping of crickets outside. You thought about his earlier stutters, the way he'd dropped his eyes, and now, the almost painful sincerity in his voice. He wasn't talking about some abstract concept; he was talking about someone. And the way he looked at you now, the way he had been looking at you all evening, sent a jolt of realization through you. Could it be...?

Finally, you met his eyes, a soft, knowing smile playing on your lips. "Spencer," you began, your voice a gentle murmur, "I absolutely have."

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees, your gaze never leaving his. "More than I probably should, if I'm being honest with myself." A quiet chuckle escaped your lips, though your eyes held a deeper, more serious glint. "It's... it's a strange feeling, isn't it? To be around someone you care about so much, someone you trust with your life, and then suddenly, your mind just veers off course. You catch yourself thinking about them in ways that are... intensely private." You paused, letting your gaze linger on his, allowing a hint of your own burgeoning desire to show. "Ways that sometimes send chills, delicious chills, right up your spine."

You held his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you, a fragile bridge built on unspoken longing. The air crackled with a new, potent energy, the kind that promised a shift in the delicate balance of your relationship.

A slow, dawning realization spread across Spencer's face, replacing the earlier anxiety with a look of stunned wonder. Your words, so softly spoken, were a mirror to his own secret thoughts, confirming a connection he'd only dared to dream existed. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, and he leaned back against the couch cushions, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips.

"Chills, huh?" he murmured, his voice a little shaky, but laced with a new, vibrant warmth. His eyes, usually so intense and analytical, softened as they met yours. "I... I wasn't sure if I was just losing my mind." He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "It's a lot to process, isn't it? To have these kinds of thoughts about someone who's... so present in your life." He paused, his gaze lingering on your lips, then drifting to your eyes. "It's not just the thoughts, though, is it? It's the feeling that comes with them. The longing. The... the anticipation."

The air between you thrummed with unspoken electricity, a silent conversation passing between your gazes. The casual comfort of your usual interactions had been irrevocably altered, replaced by a potent awareness of something deeper, something profoundly intimate that had been simmering beneath the surface.

"No," you agreed, your voice barely above a whisper, "it's definitely not just the thoughts. It's the feeling. The sheer magnetic pull of it all." You took a breath, letting the moment hang, allowing the weight of your shared admission to settle. "It’s like... suddenly, every touch, every glance, every shared laugh takes on a whole new meaning, doesn't it?"

Spencer nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in your words. The lamp beside you seemed to glow brighter, casting a golden light on the nascent understanding blooming between you.

A soft, almost breathless laugh escaped your lips, surprising even yourself. It was a sound of amusement, yes, but also of profound relief and a blossoming excitement. Spencer, still caught in the magnetic pull between you, blinked, clearly taken aback by your sudden mirth.

"Oh, Spencer," you chuckled, shaking your head just slightly, a genuine smile now gracing your face. You leaned in a little closer, your voice dropping to a warm, conspiratorial tone. "For someone with an IQ that could probably solve world hunger, you can be surprisingly oblivious sometimes." You paused, letting your gaze sweep over his features, a playful challenge in your eyes. "I've been dropping hints, my friend. More than hints, actually. For a while now. And it's not just me that can see it, by the way." You gestured vaguely around the room, even if it was just the two of you. "The way you look at me? It's not exactly subtle."

Spencer's eyes widened, a flush creeping up his neck. He opened his mouth, then closed it, searching for words. Finally, they tumbled out in a rush, unfiltered and raw. "You're right," he blurted, his voice thick with a mixture of exasperation and profound longing. "You're absolutely right. But what am I supposed to say? How do I articulate this... this all-consuming feeling, without just bluntly saying I want to have sex with you?"

A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. You shifted on the couch, closing the small distance between you until your knee was brushing against his. "You just did, Spencer," you murmured, your voice a low, seductive purr. You watched as his breath hitched, his gaze fixed on your lips. "And for the record, I've thought about you too. More times than I can count. How your hair would feel tangled in my fingers, how your glasses would fall off your nose if I kissed you just right." Your hand, almost unconsciously, reached out and gently traced the line of his jaw. "I've imagined the way your skin would feel against mine, the sound of your breath catching in your throat, the taste of you..."

Spencer, mesmerized by your words and the proximity of your touch, felt a tremor run through him. His carefully constructed composure shattered. "God," he whispered, his own hand coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb stroking softly. "It's all I can think about. Your lips, the way they move when you talk, when you laugh. I keep thinking about what it would feel like to feel the stubble on your jaw against my own, to just..." His eyes dropped to your chest, then back to your eyes, a desperate hunger in their depths. "To feel your scars beneath my fingers, to just trace every inch of you. I've fantasized about your happy trail, about discovering every secret curve and line of your body. I'd do anything, risk everything, just for one night with you. One single night."

You didn't break eye contact as your hand, which had been resting on his jaw, slid to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair. With a gentle but firm tug, you guided him, pulling him closer, until he was no longer just leaning, but slowly, almost unsteadily, settling onto your lap. The shift in weight was intimate, undeniable, and a low sigh escaped your lips as his hips found a natural resting place against yours.

Looking up at him, your eyes, half-lidded with a profound, almost aching longing, met his. The soft lamplight seemed to catch the depth of your emotion, laying it bare. "Spencer," you breathed, your voice a husky whisper, "I would risk absolutely everything to have you under me. All I can think about, all I've been able to think about, is you. How much I want you."

A low, guttural whine escaped Spencer's throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated desire that vibrated through your chest. His hands, which had instinctively moved to your shoulders for balance, tightened their grip, his fingers digging in just slightly. He looked down at you, his own eyes heavy-lidded, dark with need. "God," he rasped, his voice rough with emotion, "I want nothing more than to feel you tonight. Just... you."

As Spencer settled fully onto your lap, a shiver ran through both of you. His hands, still gripping your shoulders, slid down your arms, his touch gentle, hesitant, as if he were still afraid this was a dream. You lifted your hands, cupping his face, your thumbs tracing the soft skin beneath his eyes, memorizing the delicate curve of his cheekbones.

"Spencer," you whispered again, the sound laced with all the affection and pent-up desire that had been simmering for so long. His eyes, dark and half-lidded, searched yours, a silent plea for reassurance that this was real, that you truly wanted this as much as he did.

You leaned in, slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, but he didn't. Instead, his breath hitched, and he met you halfway. Your lips met, a soft, hesitant brush at first, a feather-light exploration. It was a kiss of pure longing, a gentle sigh of release after years of unspoken feelings. There was no rush, no urgency, just a profound tenderness that blossomed between you.

His mouth was soft, tasting faintly of the cheap red wine and something uniquely Spencer – perhaps the scent of old books and late-night coffee. You deepened the kiss just a fraction, your lips molding against his, a quiet hum of pleasure vibrating through you. Spencer let out another low groan, a sound that was both vulnerable and utterly intoxicating. His hands finally found their way to your waist, holding you close, grounding him.

You felt his eyelashes flutter against your cheek as he shifted, seeking a better angle, and your fingers threaded into his soft, messy hair, pulling him closer still. The kiss deepened, a slow, deliberate dance of lips and tongues, each movement a silent conversation of years of shared glances, quiet moments, and now, finally, raw, beautiful desire. It was a kiss that promised everything and nothing, a moment suspended in time, filled with the intoxicating sweetness of a dream finally coming true.

You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the frantic beat of his heart mirroring your own. It was a kiss of love, of deep affection, of a longing that had been kept under lock and key for far too long, now unleashed in the soft glow of the lamp.

The world outside seemed to fade into a distant hum. All that existed was the press of Spencer's lips against yours, the gentle exploration of his tongue, and the intoxicating scent of him – a mix of his familiar cologne and something uniquely his, something warm and inviting. His hands, no longer tentative, moved from your waist to cup your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks as the kiss deepened.

You felt a sigh escape him, a soft, contented sound that vibrated against your lips, and you mirrored it. Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, pulled him even closer, wanting to eliminate any space between you. The slow, languid rhythm of the kiss spoke of a patience born of deep affection, each touch a testament to years of unspoken desires finally finding their voice. It wasn't just passion; it was a profound sense of coming home, of finding a missing piece you hadn't even realized you were searching for.

His breath mingled with yours, warm and sweet, as the kiss became more insistent, yet still incredibly tender. You felt the subtle shift of his weight on your lap, a comfortable melding of bodies that felt entirely right. His lips moved over yours with a gentle urgency, each small movement a silent promise of more, a delicate dance of give and take that left you breathless and yearning. You could feel the slight tremble in his hands, betraying a vulnerability that only made him more endearing.

When he finally pulled back, just a fraction of an inch, his eyes were still closed, his forehead resting against yours. Your lips were swollen and tingling, and a warmth spread through your entire body. He opened his eyes slowly, their usual analytical sharpness softened by desire, reflecting the same profound longing that swirled within you.

"God," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "I've wanted to do that for so long." His thumb gently traced the curve of your bottom lip, a feather-light touch that sent shivers through you.

His admission, a soft murmur against your lips, sent a fresh wave of warmth through you. "I know, Spencer," you replied, your voice equally hushed, your thumb tracing the faint scar above his eyebrow. "Me too. More than you could ever imagine."

The air between you thickened, charged with the weight of years of unspoken longing, now finally acknowledged. He leaned in again, his gaze dropping to your mouth, a silent question in his eyes. You answered by tilting your head slightly, inviting him back. This time, the kiss was less hesitant, more confident, a shared understanding settling comfortably between you. It deepened quickly, a hungry, yet still tender, exploration. His hands, still cupping your face, shifted, one tracing the line of your jaw, the other moving to thread through your hair, pulling you even closer until there was no space left.

You felt the gentle pressure of his body against yours, the subtle shifts of his weight on your lap, and a soft moan escaped your throat, a sound quickly swallowed by his kiss. The world outside the soft glow of the lamp faded into insignificance. All that mattered was the dizzying sensation of his lips on yours, the intoxicating scent of his skin, and the overwhelming feeling of finally being exactly where you were meant to be. The quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of crickets were the only witnesses to the profound intimacy unfolding between you.

The soft lamplight from the living room now seemed a distant memory, replaced by the hushed darkness of your bedroom, broken only by the faint glow of the city filtering through the curtains. Spencer lay back against the cool, soft sheets of your bed, his chest heaving ever so slightly, the air thick with anticipation. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, were fixed on you as you stood at the edge of the bed.

He watched, every nerve alive, as you reached for the hem of your shirt and, with a smooth, fluid motion, pulled it over your head. Gods, it was everything he had ever dreamed of, every secret fantasy brought vividly to life. The subtle, almost imperceptible difference in the texture and color of your skin where your soft top surgery scars lay, a testament to your journey, was more beautiful than he could have imagined. His gaze lingered on the delicate trail of hair, your happy trail, that led up your abdomen and seemingly continued tantalizingly below the hem of your pants. His breath caught in his throat, a sharp, silent gasp.

Then, with a predatory grace that sent a shiver through him, you moved, crawling onto the bed and straddling his hips. Your hands, warm and seeking, immediately found their way beneath the hem of his shirt, your cool fingertips brushing against his lower abdomen. He barely registered the sensation before he, with a desperate urgency, reached up and yanked his own shirt over his head, discarding it onto the floor beside the bed.

You smiled down at him, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, your fingertips now resting just above his waistband. He felt his skin jump under your touch, every nerve ending alive and singing. Spencer's hand, almost instinctively, reached up, his fingers trembling slightly as he made first contact with the top surgery scars on your chest. He traced them gently, reverently, his touch feather-light, before slowly, agonizingly, trailing his fingers down your abdomen, following the path of your happy trail, a silent promise in his touch.

You leaned down, your breath ghosting over Spencer’s chest, making his already heaving breaths hitch. His eyes, still half-lidded with a mixture of desire and disbelief, watched your every move. You took your time, a silent promise to savor every moment, every sensation. Your lips, still tender from his kisses, began their slow descent, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone, lingering at the hollow of his throat. You could feel the frantic pulse beating there, a testament to his escalating arousal.

A soft gasp escaped Spencer's lips as your tongue flickered briefly over a particularly sensitive spot just below his Adam's apple. His hands, which had been resting on your hips, moved to your back, his fingers spreading wide, then his nails raked lightly down your spine, a primal, involuntary reaction to the pleasure you were coaxing from him.

You smiled against his skin, a soft hum vibrating in your chest. "You feel so good, Spencer," you murmured, your voice a low, encouraging praise that seemed to unravel him even further. His body jumped under your touch, a delightful tremor that spread through his frame. He was a whiny mess below you, a symphony of soft moans and hitched breaths, reacting in ways he clearly wasn't accustomed to, his usual composure utterly obliterated.

Your lips continued their journey, pressing soft kisses along the sculpted lines of his chest, moving over his ribs, and then, with deliberate slowness, tracing the taut skin of his abdomen. You felt his muscles tense, his stomach clenching beneath your touch. The undeniable proof of his desire pressed against your inner thigh – his erection, hard and straining against the fabric of his jeans. Yet, you kept it slow, soft, drawing out every exquisite moment, building the anticipation with a languid precision that was almost cruel in its sweetness.

Your hand trailed lower, past his navel, and paused just at the waistband of his jeans, your fingers brushing the warm denim. The gentle pressure there, combined with the soft, lingering kisses you were pressing against his lower ribs, made Spencer whimper, a raw, needy sound that sent a thrill through you. His hips arched instinctively against yours, a silent plea for more, for release.

"Please," he rasped, his voice thick with unfulfilled desire. His fingers, still raking your back, moved higher, gripping your shoulders, as if to pull you closer, to press you deeper into him. "Please, I can't... I can't take much more of this." The admission was a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor, a testament to how completely you were undoing him.

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his, a playful glint in their depths even as your own body hummed with a delicious ache. "Oh, but you can, Spencer," you murmured, your voice a low, confident tease. "You're doing so well." Your gaze dropped to his straining jeans, then back to his flushed face. The contradiction of his intense mind and his wildly responsive body was endlessly fascinating.

You leaned down again, this time pressing a lingering kiss to the sensitive skin just above his navel, feeling his stomach muscles clench violently under your lips. He let out a strangled groan, his head falling back against the pillow, exposing the taut line of his throat. His legs shifted restlessly beneath yours, a silent testament to the exquisite torment you were putting him through. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle tremor that ran through his entire frame. Every fiber of his being was focused on your touch.

You slowly, deliberately, slid off the bed, pulling yourself away from Spencer's desperate hold. He let out a soft groan of protest, his eyes, still half-lidded and clouded with desire, following your every movement as you walked toward your nightstand. The air in the room was charged, thick with unspoken anticipation, every rustle of fabric, every breath a heightened sensation.

Spencer's breath hitched audibly in his throat as you reached the nightstand, your back briefly turned to him as you leaned over. Then, with agonizing slowness, you undid the button on your jeans. His gaze was fixed on your hands, watching as they moved to the zipper, then to the denim that hugged your hips. You peeled them down, the soft rasp of fabric against skin loud in the quiet room, your boxers following suit. You could feel his eyes on you, a burning intensity that trailed lower and lower until you knew he was staring at your vagina.

Turning back to face him, standing in the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains, you looked directly into his eyes. "Do you still want to continue, Spencer?" you whispered, your voice soft, a gentle invitation, yet firm in its question.

He swallowed hard, his gaze still fixed, unblinking, on you. "Y-yes," he stuttered out, the word barely a breath. "More than... more than anything." The instant the words left his lips, he fell silent, his eyes wide as you moved back to the bed, crawling over him once more. His arms instinctively lifted to help as you reached for the waistband of his jeans, pulling them down along with his boxers. The last barrier gone, you were both bare, skin to skin.

You straddled him again, your hips settling against his, and leaned down, capturing his lips in a deep, hungry kiss. His hands immediately found their way to your bare back, exploring the planes and curves of your skin, a silent symphony of touch. Your own hands roamed his bare chest and abdomen, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin, tracing the faint lines of his muscles, delighting in the shivers that ran through him with every contact. The kiss was passionate, a desperate release of pent-up longing, his mouth moving over yours with a raw intensity that left you breathless. His body pressed against yours, hard and demanding, and the world outside the confines of your embrace ceased to exist.

You slowly pulled away from the kiss, the air between your lips snapping with residual electricity. Your gaze dropped from Spencer's dazed eyes, now roaming his bare chest and abdomen. A low hum of pleasure vibrated in your throat as you began to explore, your lips and fingers trailing a path of fire across his skin. You kissed the taut line of his collarbone, the soft dip of his sternum, the hard planes of his ribs. Your fingers danced over every inch, marking him with your touch, reveling in the subtle tremors that ran through his body with each brush of your skin against his. He was warm, pliant, utterly yours in this moment.

You leaned up, kissing under his jaw, your voice a husky murmur against his skin. "Just lay back for me, Spencer," you whispered. "Relax."

You slid off the bed once more, the sudden absence of your weight eliciting a soft sound of protest from him. His eyes, still wide and vulnerable, followed your every move as you reached for the drawer of your nightstand. You pulled it open, revealing its contents. His breath hitched when your hand emerged, holding a condom and then, with deliberate intent, your strap-on.

He watched, mesmerized, as you secured the harness, the soft material settling against your hips. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, a clear sign of his nerves, as you picked up the condom. Your eyes met his across the dim room as you slowly, carefully, rolled the condom onto the strap-on. The mundane act of preparing for intimacy became charged with a potent, unspoken energy.

The second you were back on top of him, straddling his hips, the strap-on pressing lightly against his erect cock through the thin layer of the condom, Spencer let out a shaky breath. "I... I've never done this before," he confessed, his voice barely audible, a mix of apprehension and raw excitement.

You leaned down, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips. "I know," you whispered back, your fingers threading into his soft hair. "And I'll take it slow. Every single step."

You shifted your weight, the head of the strap-on gliding against the tip of his penis, making him gasp and arch his back. His hands, which had been resting on your hips, now gripped your ass, pulling you even closer, a desperate, unspoken plea for entry.

"Easy, love," you murmured, leaning down to pepper soft kisses along his jawline, then down his throat, tasting the salty tang of his skin. "We've got all night." You felt the subtle tremor that ran through his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your chest. He was a beautiful mess of nerves and raw desire, and you reveled in the power of it, the trust he was implicitly placing in you.

You eased yourself in, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the condom-clad strap-on finding its mark. Spencer's breath hitched, a low moan escaping his lips as he felt the first stretch, the unfamiliar sensation encompassing him. His grip on your ass tightened, his fingers digging in just slightly, an anchor in the storm of new sensations.

"Alright?" you whispered, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort, any hesitation.

He nodded, a jerky motion, his eyes wide and glazed with building pleasure. "More than," he managed, his voice a strained whisper.

With his unspoken permission, you began to move, a slow, deliberate rocking motion that sent shivers through both of you. You watched his face, mesmerized by the subtle shifts in his expression – the clenching of his jaw, the furrowing of his brow, the occasional flash of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that flickered across his features. Each slow thrust was met with a low groan from Spencer, a primal sound that vibrated through your core. You could feel the heat building between you, the exquisite friction, the intoxicating rhythm that was quickly becoming a shared heartbeat.

You continued your slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust a gentle, yet firm, assertion of your presence within him. Spencer's body trembled beneath yours, a constant, delicious vibration that echoed the escalating pleasure. He was making soft, continuous sounds now, a low, drawn-out hum of contentment and building arousal that was music to your ears. His hips began to instinctively buck up to meet your thrusts, a subtle, primal response that indicated his body was adapting, welcoming you deeper.

You leaned down, pressing soft kisses to his chest, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin. You moved from his pec to his sternum, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against your lips. "You're taking me so well, Spencer," you murmured against his skin, your voice a husky whisper of praise. "So incredibly well."

His fingers, still digging into you, flexed, his nails leaving faint, temporary crescent marks on your skin. He let out a low groan, arching his back slightly as you pressed another lingering kiss to the sensitive skin of his neck, just behind his ear. The combination of the slow, grinding friction, the intimate kisses, and your whispered words seemed to overwhelm his senses. He was completely undone, a beautiful, vulnerable mess beneath you.

You felt the muscles of his abdomen clench with each stroke, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps now. The strap-on was slick and smooth, gliding effortlessly within him, and you focused on maintaining that slow, controlled pace, drawing out the pleasure, savoring every ripple of sensation that passed between your bodies. The sounds from his throat became more frequent, more desperate, a clear indication that he was on the precipice, teetering on the edge of a release he had perhaps never imagined.

Spencer's hands tightened, his fingers digging in urgently as you hit a particularly sensitive spot. A profound, almost raw sound tore from his throat – a gasp, a groan, a choked sob all at once. His eyes, previously half-lidded, flew open, wide and unfocused, staring up at the ceiling.

"God," he gasped, his voice already breaking, a frantic, breathless ramble beginning to pour from his lips. "God, this is... this is everything. Everything I've dreamed of. I swear, every night, just fantasizing about this, about you, about feeling... this." His hips instinctively bucked harder, a desperate, uncontrolled movement, as the tip of your strap-on brushed against his prostate again, a sweet, agonizing pressure that sent jolts of pure sensation through his entire being.

He was trembling violently beneath you, a complete surrender of his usually composed self. His head thrashed slightly on the pillow, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. "It's so much better than I ever imagined," he choked out, his voice thick with tears he was desperately trying to hold back. "The way you feel, the way you're touching me... I just..." He couldn't form a coherent thought, lost in the overwhelming tide of pleasure and emotion.

You leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to his clammy forehead, feeling the heat radiating from him. His body was tense, vibrating with an intensity that promised a profound release was imminent. He was teetering on the edge, completely vulnerable, completely open, and completely yours.

You watched Spencer, his face a mask of raw ecstasy and overwhelming emotion. The way his body trembled beneath you, the guttural sounds he was making, the desperate pleas for more – it was all a symphony of pure, unadulterated pleasure. You continued your slow, rhythmic thrusts, deliberately keeping your movements controlled, prolonging the exquisite agony for him. You wanted him to feel every inch of this, to truly experience the depth of sensation.

"You're so close, love," you whispered, your voice thick with your own building desire, a counterpoint to his frantic gasps. You leaned down, pressing soft kisses to his temples, feeling the pulse throbbing there, a frantic drumbeat against your lips. His hands moved from your ass, reaching up to grip your shoulders, his fingers digging in tightly as his body arched high off the bed, meeting your every thrust with a desperate urgency.

He was a beautiful, writhing mess, his eyes squeezed shut now, tears finally escaping the corners and tracing paths down his temples. "Please," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper, ragged and broken. "I... I can't... I'm going to—"

You felt the tremor intensify throughout his entire frame, a shuddering wave that began deep within him and rippled outwards. With a final, deep thrust, you held yourself still, feeling the powerful contractions begin to rack his body. A loud, guttural moan tore from his throat, a sound of pure, uninhibited release that echoed in the quiet room. His head thrashed from side to side, and his muscles tensed, then slowly, exquisitely, relaxed beneath you as he came, his body convulsing in your arms.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his, feeling the dampness of his skin, tasting the salty tears that now freely streamed down his face. You held him close, rocking him gently as the aftershocks of his orgasm rippled through him. His breathing was coming in ragged gasps, slowly evening out, and his grip on your shoulders loosened, his hands now resting lightly on your back, pulling you into a tight embrace.

Spencer's body slowly relaxed beneath you, the last tremors of his orgasm fading. He lay still for a long moment, his breathing ragged, his face buried in your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of his tears against your skin, a raw and beautiful testament to the intensity of his release. You held him close, stroking his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple, letting the quiet intimacy of the moment wash over you both.

Finally, he stirred, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He lifted his head, his eyes, though still clouded with the afterglow of pleasure, now held a profound tenderness and something akin to awe. He looked at you, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the very first time, a slow, gentle smile spreading across his face.

"Wow," he whispered, the single word loaded with a multitude of emotions – wonder, gratitude, pure contentment. He reached up, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking softly. "I... I don't even have a word for that."

You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss into the palm of his hand. "You don't need one," you murmured, your voice thick with your own lingering desire and affection. "Just... us."

He nodded, his gaze dropping to your bare chest, then back to your eyes, a silent reverence in their depths. The earlier nervousness was gone, replaced by a comfortable, profound peace. He pulled you closer, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, a kiss that tasted of shared vulnerability and promises whispered in the quiet of the night.

"Thank you," he breathed against your mouth, a genuine, heartfelt thank you that spoke of more than just physical pleasure. It was a thank you for the trust, for the understanding, for finally breaking through the walls he'd built around himself.

You smiled, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. "Anytime, Spencer. Anytime."

[simplyaboy]

tw : yandere hiccup, smut

hiccup haddock is a pervert.

you would know. you're the one who has to experience it firsthand, after all. of course—you love hiccup dearly, the man is simply a lovesick fool at your hands. seemingly always has been. though . . . you'd argue he loves you a little too much. his fixation on you should be disturbing. it really should; but it isn't, and at some point, you grew to enjoy it. an absolute sweetheart in public, yet he's the same one stealing your panties. the same one who eats you out with hearts in his eyes, who whimpers when you pull at his hair just right, who overstimulates himself just to please you. and because his pull out game is shit. and gods, you wouldn't trade the poor man for anything. probably because he'd burn down and ruin countless lands trying to get to you, but that's beside the point.

[yanderestarangel]

⊹₊⟡⋆ 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓽𝓸 𝓪 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻... 𝓯𝓾𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓪 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻

♡⁠┊TW — dp, anal sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, monster fuck, praise, breeedkink, afab reader, dark smut, dead dove, Ghost has two dicks here (because I chose to write it like that)

"Don't look anywhere else, look at me... I'm still your husband." The words were followed by the wet sound of the two cocks of your now radioactively-rayed husband, who looked like a monstrous anomaly — with two extra heads, two extra arms, and... two extra cocks.

You hadn't expected that in thousands of years, but when Simon came out the door completely safe and sound, looking like that was shocking and at least scary to your eyes.

Even so, you were on your hands and knees, feeling one of his cocks enter your ass while the other filled your wet pussy, making you whimper loudly as you felt his very hot and heavy balls hit your clit with the slow thrusts that the military man was giving you.

You could feel every pulsing vein of his shafts in your wet holes, the slickness between your thighs and his groin increasing. His now gray eyes were locked completely on your figure, two of his four arms gripping your waist while the other two held your wrists behind your back, ready to dominate and maneuver you as he pleased.

Hearing your moans of acceptance, his two cocks throbbed like never before, impaling you to the point where you even forgot that your partner was now a shadow of what he once was.

All that mattered in that moment was that you could take every inch of what he was giving you, as if your life depended on it—as if every fluid that came out of his cocks was a poison that made you crave more and more of him.

The slow, flesh-to-flesh pounding that had once been tender was now replaced by Simon's almost animalistic movements above you. A little drool dripped from your mouth as you could only wriggle your toes every time one of his cocks reached the tip of your womb while the other kissed limits you didn’t even know existed.

Grunts escaped his lips, muffled by the mask that was now completely part of his skin, fused to his flesh like a second garment. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks as a hoarse growl came from his throat, echoing like a triad through his three heads.

"Come on, sweetheart... I know you want to cum, don't deny it... cum for me." His words were tinged with the same honey that once soothed your soul. It was still him, even with that new body—and you felt yourself becoming addicted to it, like a drug, leaving you with pleasure so intense it made your system shut down.

You felt him give one final thrust, and at the same time, your pussy was filled with the warm, viscous liquid of his semen. Your other hole was filled as well, causing tears to spill from your eyes as you whimpered from how full you were. But your partner didn’t stop—Simon continued with small thrusts until he felt your inner walls drain him. One of his many hands moved to your pussy lips, slowly opening them to expose your tight slit as it swallowed his cock.

"I won’t let you leave here until I see you beautiful, full, and carrying my children in your belly... Do you understand, my angel?" His words left no room for argument, and no matter how tired you were, saying "no" wasn't an option. After all, you wanted him too, regardless of his appearance. He was still yours.

[starboye]

older bf!toji eating you out to help you relax from studying (but he gas a tongue peircing)

"fuck ngh toji calm down" you had one hand tangled in his hair and the other gripping the sheets, writhing in pleasure as his tongue plunged into your folds again and again, the metal peircing making it even more pleasurable

"just let me help you baby" he coos darting his eyes up from your glistening folds to to look at you before going back to focusing on eating you out like the good boyfriend he is, i mean you were under the pressure of studying for you finals and he just wanted to help you calm down

and what better way to help you calm down than twirling your sensitive bud with the cold metal of his new piercing he's been dying to try on you, he was hoping you'd finally stop being so stuck up and just let him do this

"toji please i have to study" you whine trying to pull yourself back from him but toji just brings you tight back down to situate his mouth back in between your legs "stay down" he sternly says, wrapping one of his hands around your thighs to keep you there while the other came to play with you puffy clit, toying with it sent waves of euphoria through your body

it had you gripping and tugging his hair even more, now going from wanting to go back to studying to wanting toji to keep fucking you with his mouth "tastes so fucking good" he mutters to himself taking his hand on your thighs off to hold your hand

"you like that" he smirks, you couldn't even respond well enough "you better reply or im gonna stop" he said and that immediately shot words out of your mouth faster than you could think, moaning out a shaky "tes toji" before going back to playing with his hair

your hips were bucking upwards, you were close to cumming and he knew "you promise to take a break after this" he lifted his head to look at your glistening eyes, replacing his mouth with his hand, sliding in three of his calloused and rough fingers to plunge in and out of you "yes i promise i promise please just let me cum" you whimpered

you were matching the pace of his hand with your hips, toji dropping back down to kiss and lick all over your leaking cunt before you finally came all over his mouth, and toji had no problem cleaning it all up with his mouth, making sure to tease you a little more with that piercing, watching you shiver from the overstimulation

[soaln]

can i request hcs of monster trio and ace/law getting jealous of someone stealing reader’s attention?

𝓗𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 ﹒ ౨ৎ

𓏵 ﹒ ┈ warnings : none, pure fluff, gender isn't mentioned I think ｡— ◟ 𖦹

𝓜𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐃. 𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐘

Luffy, despite his carefree and unrefined nature, is open about his feelings for you. His youthful exuberance and boundless energy make his attachment to you both overwhelming and endearing. If someone tries to take your attention away, he doesn’t hesitate to express his feelings. His face scrunches up into an exaggerated pout, his lips puffing out as he declares, “Hey! That’s my [Y/N]!” in a tone that is both childish and possessive.

Luffy usually doesn’t care much about competition, but when it comes to you, he will go to great lengths to capture your attention. Whether it’s interrupting conversations with his signature enthusiasm or pulling you into a tight, playful hug, he makes sure everyone knows you are his priority.

If someone continues to ignore him, Luffy's behavior will become even more outrageous. He might start doing silly stunts, telling jokes, or even challenging the intruder to a goofy competition—all to get your attention back. His actions are loud, chaotic, and completely in character, but they stem from a place of genuine affection.

𝓡𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐀 𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐎

Zoro’s jealousy is as sharp and precise as his swordsmanship. He’s not one to wear his emotions openly, but when someone catches your attention, his stoic demeanor becomes a little more intense. His arms cross, his gaze narrows, and his silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t need words to convey his displeasure.

If the situation escalates, Zoro's pride won't allow him to stand by without taking action. He'll find a way to involve himself, often pretending that he needs your help with something trivial, like adjusting his swords or reaching for a drink. His movements are deliberate, and his tone remains casual, but his piercing gaze is always fixed on the intruder.

Zoro’s jealousy is subtle yet powerful. He doesn’t create a scene, but his actions and presence are enough to remind everyone—especially you—that he’s not someone to be underestimated when it comes to matters of the heart.

𝓥𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈

Sanji’s jealousy is as intense and dramatic as his personality. When someone tries to capture your attention, his romantic nature ignites like a storm. His words are filled with passion and possessiveness, and his voice drips with charming sweetness as he declares, “Darling, you should know, no one could ever treat you the way I do!”

His jealousy is anything but subtle. He showers you with flirtatious compliments while his eyes smolder with intensity, casting pointed glances at anyone he sees as a threat. Sanji's love language revolves around grand gestures, which he uses to remind you—and everyone else—that you are his muse, his one and only.

If the situation requires it, Sanji will go all out. He might prepare an extravagant meal just for you, presenting it with a theatrical bow and flourish. His jealousy is intertwined with passion, spectacle, and an unwavering devotion that is impossible to ignore.

𝓟𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐆𝐀𝐒 𝐃. 𝐀𝐂𝐄

Ace’s jealousy is subtle, reflecting his laid-back personality, yet it runs deep. When someone captures your attention, he observes from a distance, maintaining a calm expression while his gaze remains intense. A quiet tension fills the air, and a slight change in his demeanor reveals the depth of his feelings.

If the intruder persists, Ace will step in with his trademark charm and ease. His words are teasing, his tone light, but there’s a possessiveness lurking beneath the surface. “Careful, they might bite,” he might say with a smirk, his voice smooth and affectionate. “You wouldn’t want to get too close.”

Ace’s jealousy is never overt, but it’s always present. He doesn’t need grand gestures or dramatic declarations to remind you where his heart lies. His quiet confidence and subtle actions speak louder than words ever could.

𝓣𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐃. 𝓦𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐖

Law's jealousy is a masterclass in restraint and quiet intensity. He doesn't engage in loud displays of emotion, but when someone attracts too much of your attention, his presence becomes unmistakable. He lingers in the background, his posture rigid and his gaze sharp, while his silence is heavy with unspoken possessiveness.

His actions are intentional and thoughtful. A gentle touch, a soft word, or a slight change in distance is enough to remind you—and everyone else—that you belong to him. “You seem… quite interested in them,” he might murmur, his tone cool but tinged with a hint of irritation.

When Law's patience begins to wear thin, his jealousy becomes more evident. A slight scowl, a protective arm around you, or a sharp glare at the intruder acts as a silent warning. His love is deep and intimate, and he won't hesitate to defend it with the same precision he uses in battle.

[481mclarg]

· BOYFRIEND ·

✮          your hands are so soft, please, never take them off.

⭒ Alex Albon × Trans FTM Reader

⋆ oneshot WC: 1567 ⋮⋮⋮ journalist reader ⋮⋮⋮ fluff ⋮⋮⋮ insta-love.

⋆ summary ┈ The world of sports journalism is not easy being trans, but Alex is willing to accompany you in everything.

⋆ face claim ┈ nobody.

⋆ warnings ┈ transphobia mention - transphobic countries. Slight mention of Williams driver replacements.

⋆ requested? ┈ Yes! ◀ (thanks 🩰 for the request! <3)

« K »            Posting this & running to the classroom to take an exam. Hope it's cute enough, or at least a little cute.

· Hope yall enjoy :]

You knew that being trans in the world of sports journalism wasn't easy. Much less for you, who aspired to cover Formula 1 seasons, as so many people you had seen do since you were a child.

You dreamed of being the one to give those often iconic interviews, although the interviewer's work wasn't always truly recognized.

It was your dream, and despite knowing the path would be complicated and perhaps even fraught with extra obstacles, you decided to try. You decided to make your dream a reality.

You studied, you prepared, and you put in as much effort as you could to climb the ladder to make a name for yourself. You worked hard, tirelessly, but you knew it had all been worth it when the opportunity of a lifetime presented itself: a fellow journalist from the channel was retiring. His job? Covering Formula 1 race weekends from the tracks.

You didn't hesitate for a second to accept the job. You couldn't believe what you were experiencing, not even when you were already in Imola, leaving the hotel parking lot with your team, heading to the track.

But your dreams weren't the only ones coming true that weekend.

Williams was the center of attention, more specifically Franco Colapinto, who would be making his official debut for a full weekend and lasting until the end of the year.

That same weekend, even though he was overwhelmed by everything happening around him, you met Alex.

He was as sweet in person as he looked in videos or even sweeter. Attentive, he mentioned that he remembered talking to the previous journalist about his retirement and that he was happy you had gotten the job.

You were nervous, it was inevitable, but his words gave you encouragement and some calm.

"I'm sure you'll do a great job. I hope to see you often."

"Likewise for you! Good luck in qualifying tomorrow."

You congratulated him on scoring points over the weekend, and then it was on to Azerbaijan, a race you covered from the studio.

While waiting between the Italian Grand Prix and the Singapore Grand Prix, you noticed certain names popping up in your social media notifications. alex_albon and georgerussell63. You laughed as you watched them, preparing for the following weekend.

“You didn't come to Azerbaijan,” you heard as you walked through the paddock, looking for the rest of your team.

“Alex!” You turned around, surprised that he had approached you to talk. He shook your hand in greeting, as you replied, “We decided with the channel that I would cover some races from the studio,” you explained briefly.

Alex didn't elaborate on the topic, and you didn't mention anything else before he started talking to you about that race.

You congratulated him on his good result and the points he had managed to score. It had been a spectacular weekend for Williams.

You noticed how you had slowed down, maybe to take longer to reach the hospitality area, but it was inevitable, and your ways had to separate.

"See you later," in an act that Alex could only describe to George as 'a rush of adrenaline', he winked at you before running to take refuge in the Williams hospitality area.

Feeling the temperature slowly rise on your face, you continued on your way, hoping you weren't too flushed so you could go on camera without question.

From that weekend on, you were the first person Alex looked for from the moment he arrived at the track to the post-race interviews.

The brief conversations while walking around the paddock grew longer and longer, and you even started chatting via Instagram until you ended up exchanging phone numbers. Then, as the months went by, the outings outside the track began, like dinners together after races or walks around the city.

Your coworkers had started joking about your relationship, and although you pretended to be annoyed, you were somewhat excited.

Alex was very sweet, always trying to make you feel comfortable and safe. You enjoyed your time with him, and he seemed comfortable, too. The fact that you were trans was never a secret between you, and he never made you feel less or unaccepted, quite the opposite.

You didn't usually share much of your life and experiences with other people, much less with other cis men, but Alex never made you feel afraid to speak up. He inspired a trust in you that few people ever instilled before. And the more time you spent together, the greater the trust grew.

You felt comfortable, and it was evident that Alex did too.

You realized this when you found yourself meeting Alex's pets and his sister.

Sitting on the floor of the house, with a cat sleeping in your lap, watching the siblings in front of you, telling you stories from their childhood.

There was a feeling of familiarity. You couldn't describe it, but it just felt right.

Alex felt something similar when he saw you at his house, with his family, his pets, and his friends. Now, with his sister, or when you and George and Carmen went out to dinner. The inside jokes that now included you; the constant messages on the weekends, whether you were at the track or not; sometimes even calls, especially on those non-racing weekends that found you away for days.

Everyone around Alex was starting to wonder when the two of you would make your relationship official; others even believed you were dating, especially the people on social media, who had seen for almost two years how you interacted both in person and in comments on posts.

And the long-awaited day finally arrived.

During the winter break, after the 2025 season, he surprised you with a message: "Would you be surprised to see me at your door if I asked for your address first?"

No, he asking for your address didn't make it any less shocking to see him arrive by taxi at your house. Especially not after he told you he had a reservation at a fancy restaurant for the weekend.

“Don't feel pressured to accept. I understand if you refuse. I mean, I appeared out of nowhere. Maybe it was a bad idea…”

“Alex,” you interrupted. “Dinner? I'd love to.” That signature smile of his returned to his face, following him to the dinner two days later.

A dream restaurant, one that also seemed quite expensive, but as soon as you entered, Alex said that the night was on him. 'As a thank you for accepting the invitation without forewarning.' You wanted to argue, but it was in vain. –Then, when George found out, he mocked that maybe Alex liked paying for everyone's dinners.–

The night passed between chatting and laughing, even agreeing to order dessert so you could spend a little more time there, stretching the night as much as possible. When it was impossible to continue there, you went for a ride around the city.

With Alex by your side, even the most ordinary views felt special now. And they became even more special when, after driving slowly through the streets in a rented car, Alex parked where you indicated.

“Now are you supposed to ask me out, or do I have to?”

“I was waiting to see if you wanted to,” he confessed between laughs, which quickly spread to you. “Should I ask or you?”

“Both?” Still giggling, you both nodded.

Counting with his fingers, Alex counted down until when it reached zero, the two of you asked in unison, “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” before you both nodded in unison.

You were both calming down from your laughter when you saw the other.

“Are you sure you want to date me?” you asked.

“I’ve never been so sure about something,” he nodded, as if it were a given. “There’s nothing I want more.”

“But— are you sure?”

“What's all this about? Why wouldn't I be sure?”

“I... I don't know. Maybe…” ‘Maybe being trans is a problem.’ Alex, who seemed to be able to read your mind, quickly found your hand and entwine your fingers.

“Honestly, was there ever a time when you felt like I didn't accept something about you?” You quickly shook your head. He had never done or said anything even close. You'd never felt afraid or uncomfortable around him. You were afraid, but you didn't even have any reason to feel that way, at least not on his part. “I love and accept you as you are, and if necessary, I'm willing to remind you of that every day. My boyfriend doesn't deserve to feel insecure about anything.” You let out a small laugh.

“I think that's enough... for now.” You wouldn't deny that you liked those kinds of affirmations, although with the mix of emotions, you knew that now your entire face was completely red.

“Fine. But whenever you need me to remind you what a wonderful man you are, or talk about how lucky I feel to have such an amazing boyfriend like you, you can just ask.” You laughed again, wanting to cover your face, but since Alex was still holding your hand, you could only look away.

When you looked at him again, you felt his gaze like a question, to which you nodded, silently giving him permission to come closer, sealing their first kiss. The first of many.

⋮⋮⋮                 481MCLARG | 13 . 06 . 2025

[carnalcrows]

DAYS IN THE SUN

summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than the strange one. The wrong one. The boy in too-short sleeves and too-sharp stares, tucked away in a village that never wanted to understand you. But when your father goes missing, you don’t hesitate. And when you find him imprisoned by a monster— a beast with too many arms, too many eyes, and a curse so old it hums in the walls— you make a deal. You stay. And slowly, something unexpected begins to bloom between all the thorns.

pairing: the beast ! ryomen sukuna x belle ! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + penetrative), bottom trans male reader, transphobia (implied, not explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, mild violence, trueform sukuna, canon-typical blood, sharp-toothed tenderness, trauma, enchanted furniture, redemption arc, flower language, they kiss a lot.

word count: 7.4k

best viewed in dark mode

The village always woke before the sun.

You could hear it through the window of your father’s little workshop— boots on dirt, chickens fussing, someone slamming a cart too hard around the bend. You lay still beneath the quilt, blinking up at the ceiling beams and waiting for the ache in your chest to settle into something manageable. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not grief. More like a weight. A quiet hum of not-right-ness, of not-fitting-here-ness, stretching out from under your ribs and seeping into the corners of the room.

Downstairs, the smell of oil paints drifted up from your father’s studio. He would already be hunched over his latest canvas, humming absently, paint on his sleeves. He never asked questions about why you dressed the way you did or why you flinched when someone called you “girl.” He didn’t ask. But he saw you.

It helped.

A little.

 ⋆｡°✩

You dressed quickly— shirt, vest, trousers— clothes that always earned stares from the butcher’s wife and side-eyes from the baker’s daughter. They weren’t what you were supposed to wear, they said. Not feminine. Not proper. But they made it easier to breathe. That was enough.

With a worn book tucked under your arm and Megumi at your heels— scruffy, growling, loyal as ever— you stepped into the morning light.

The village square had already come alive. Market stalls groaned with apples and spices, men shouted greetings across the fountain, and the children had started their daily ritual of chasing chickens between carts. It should’ve felt like home.

It never did.

They all knew you— or thought they did. The painter’s ‘daughter’. A little strange. Bookish. Lonely. A poor excuse for a wife, someone had whispered once. Not fit for marriage. You carried those words in your spine, learned how to make yourself smaller in crowds, how to walk fast and smile politely, how to pretend you didn’t hear the things they said.

⋆｡°✩

“[Y/N]!”

The voice cut through the hum of the village like a blade. You stopped short.

Naoya Zenin swaggered across the square like it belonged to him— tall, smug, jacket unbuttoned just enough to show off. He had a musket strapped across his back, though no one could remember the last time he used it for anything other than posing. A few women tittered from behind the flower stall. Naoya winked at them, then turned his full attention on you.

“I was just telling my friends,” he said loudly, “you’d make the perfect wife. Sharp enough to be interesting, quiet enough to be trainable.”

The air in your lungs turned to glass.

You didn’t answer. You never did. It never stopped him.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” he offered, already reaching for your elbow. “We should talk about our future.”

Megumi growled low in his throat, teeth flashing.

You stepped back. “No.”

Naoya blinked, mock-offended. “Still playing hard to get, huh?”

“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m not interested.”

The words sat there, raw and final.

Naoya’s smile twisted. “Not interested,” he repeated, like the words were foreign. Then softer, closer: “What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to be taken care of?”

You didn’t answer.

There wasn’t a point.

You turned and walked away, boots crunching hard over the packed dirt. Behind you, Naoya whistled low— long and slow and mocking.

The only thing that stopped you from running was the book clenched tight against your chest.

⋆｡°✩

You spent the rest of the morning in your usual spot— a quiet bench beneath the oak tree behind the chapel, where no one ever looked twice at you. You opened the book. You tried to read. But the words swam. All you could think of was his hand on your arm. The assumption in his voice. The way no one ever corrected him.

No one ever looked at you and saw you.

Not yet.

Your father was already halfway through packing by the time you got home.

His old travel satchel sat open on the floor, its seams stretched from years of patched repairs. Brushes wrapped in linen were tucked beside ink pots and carefully sealed sketches. A bundle of warm bread from the baker's daughter— a rare kindness— rested on the table near a folded scarf.

“You’re leaving early,” you said softly, slipping into the studio.

He looked up from where he was fastening a buckle. His face— lined, sun-browned, familiar— softened when he saw you. “Storm’s coming. Thought I’d get ahead of it.”

You nodded, moving to help. “You’ll sell more this time,” you said. “People’ll see how good it is.”

He chuckled, gruff and quiet. “If they’re not too busy ogling Zenin’s new coat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you. It vanished just as quickly. He caught the shift in your face. Of course he did.

“Is he bothering you again?” You hesitated.

You didn’t like worrying him. You knew how hard he worked, how much he already carried. But the truth sat heavy in your chest.

“He thinks I’ll say yes if he asks enough times,” you said finally. Your father’s jaw tightened. “Let him try again. Next time I’ll—”

“It’s not worth it,” you interrupted gently. “He doesn’t see me. Not really.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “One day someone will. Someone who sees you. All of you.”

You looked at him, and something unspoken passed between you. Not full understanding, but something close.

He reached out and smoothed your hair, the way he used to when you were younger. “Anything you want me to bring back?”

You thought about it. The markets were always full of junk— glittery trinkets, loud music, bad paintings pretending to be art. You never asked for much. But something tugged at you now.

“A rose,” you said.

He blinked. “A rose?”

“Yeah. Just… something alive.” He studied you for a second, then smiled. “Alright. A rose.”

You handed him his coat. Watched him fasten the last clasp. Watched him sling the bag over his shoulder like he always did before leaving. It should have been routine.

But something felt different. A heaviness you couldn’t name.

⋆｡°✩

The storm hit sooner than anyone expected.

By dusk, the sky turned slate gray and the wind howled like it wanted to rip the roofs off the village. You stood at the window long after the last candle burned out, watching the trees bend and sway. Your fingers twitched against the windowsill.

You thought of your father alone in the woods. You thought of wolves. Of ice.

You thought of the rose.

⋆｡°✩

The storm swallowed the path whole.

Your father’s horse had bolted hours ago, spooked by the thunder, and now he was stumbling through underbrush with frozen fingers and a soaked satchel, eyes straining for light. Branches clawed at his face. He could barely breathe through the fog and rain. But worse than the weather was the howling— not wind, not wolves, but something deeper. Something wrong.

Then he saw it.

Iron gates. Twisted and ancient, half-buried in ivy. Beyond them: a castle carved into the side of the mountain, black stone rising like a broken crown against the lightning. The torches at its doors flickered as if they had been waiting for him.

He didn’t question it. He was too cold to be afraid. Too tired to wonder.

The gates creaked open when he touched them.

⋆｡°✩

The castle halls were quiet. Not dead, but not alive either— as though the whole place were caught in a breath it hadn’t released in centuries. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects watching him with eyes that followed. Tapestries sagged, velvet faded. But the fire in the hearths was lit.

He moved slowly, half in a daze, whispering thanks to no one as he followed the warmth. A teacup clinked somewhere. He didn’t see who left the bread on the table, but he ate it. He didn’t question the clean towel. Or the blanket.

Only when he passed into the garden— hedges sculpted into monstrous shapes, thorns winding around marble statues— did he remember the rose.

There it was. Alone in the snow. Blooming bright red on a frost-bitten bush.

His fingers brushed it gently. He hesitated.

Then, with trembling hands, he plucked it.

The ground rumbled beneath his feet.

⋆｡°✩

A roar tore through the castle— deep and ancient and full of fury. He dropped the rose.

Something moved in the shadows.

It didn’t step so much as ripple— out of the dark came a form too big to be human, cloaked in heavy silk, horns gleaming wet under the moonlight. The man— if it was still a man— towered over him, four arms unfurling from beneath his robes, twin pairs of glowing eyes boring down. His skin was marked in black lines, sacred and savage, and his teeth glinted like knives when he bared them.

“Thief,” he growled.

Your father stumbled back, hand raised in defense, voice cracking as he tried to speak— to apologize, to plead. But the Beast was already moving, too fast for his size, fury radiating from him like heat.

He raised one clawed hand and the gates slammed shut.

“Your life is forfeit,” the Beast snarled, voice like splitting stone. “Or someone must take your place.”

And then he vanished, leaving only silence behind.

The castle looked worse in daylight.

Dark towers twisted against the gray sky like claws, their windows shuttered with old iron. You’d barely slept the night before— you’d begged anyone who would listen, searched every road, followed every clue— and now your horse was tied at the gate, still panting from the run. Your father’s satchel had been found tangled in the woods. The rose still sat in the saddlebag. It hadn’t wilted.

That was how you knew he was inside.

You shoved the gates open and stepped through.

Inside, the silence pressed close. The castle was too still, too warm. Fire crackled in the hearths without kindling. Curtains stirred without wind. Shadows stretched long across the stone. You moved carefully, hand on the book at your belt like it could protect you.

Then something moved.

You didn’t see him at first. Only a flicker of black silk. Then— a step, too loud. A shape too large. And out of the dark came a monster.

Four arms. Eyes like blood and gold. Skin covered in inked scripture and scars. He loomed, horned and massive, mouth curled in something far too cruel to be a smile.

You froze.

“So,” he said, voice like gravel and heat, “you came.”

You swallowed. “My father. You took him.”

“I spared him,” the Beast growled. “He stole from me. A life for a rose.”

“He didn’t know—”

“I don’t care what he knew.”

Your hands clenched into fists.

He stared at you, two pairs of eyes narrowing. “Are you here to beg, then? Scream? Cry?”

“No,” you said. “I’m here to take his place.”

The silence cracked like ice.

He looked at you long and hard. His gaze flicked over your clothes, your stance— your fear, buried deep under defiance. Something in his jaw ticked.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because he’s all I have.” You stood straighter. “And I don’t run from my choices.”

He stepped forward. You held your ground.

“I don’t want your tears,” he said slowly. “You’ll stay. One moon’s cycle. If you try to escape, he dies.”

You nodded once.

Then— impossibly— the corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A test. “We’ll see how long you last, little thief.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

⋆｡°✩

The door didn’t lock behind you, but it might as well have.

The room you were led to was massive— too grand for a prison cell, but too cold to be called a home. Tall windows let in gray light. A fire snapped quietly in the hearth. The bed was too large, draped in dark velvet, untouched and unfamiliar. Someone had left food on the table— covered, still warm.

You didn’t touch it.

Instead, you sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in your lap, and waited.

The castle didn’t creak like old houses do. It… shifted. Whispered. You could feel it in the stone beneath your boots, in the air moving through the curtains like breath.

“Do you think he’s going to cry?” a voice whispered.

You jumped.

“Don’t be rude, he’s new,” another voice sighed.

You turned fast enough to make yourself dizzy— but no one was there. Just a candelabra resting on the table, its three wax arms flickering calmly.

Until one of them waved at you.

“Hey, sunshine,” the candle said brightly. “Welcome to the worst Airbnb of your life.”

You screamed.

⋆｡°✩

Ten minutes later, you were sitting at the hearth with a talking candle, a very agitated clock, a feathery swan-shaped brush that kept hissing at your shoes, and a teapot who somehow radiated more maternal energy than your actual mother ever had. The little teacup at her side bounced excitedly with every word.

“I—this isn’t real,” you muttered.

Gojo, the candle, winked at you. “Define real.”

“You’re all—cursed?”

“Correct!” Geto, the clock said miserably. “Trapped. Forgotten. Left to rot with that thing upstairs.”

“Watch it,” said Shoko, her bristles flaring slightly. “He’s always listening.”

Kaori Itadori the teapot poured you a cup of something warm and spiced, her voice gentle. “You’re safe now, dear. No one here means you harm.”

Yuuji bounced beside her. “What’s your name? Do you like books? Do you know how to sword fight?!”

You blinked. “…You’re a teacup.”

“Exactly!” he beamed.

There was a long pause.

You drank the tea.

It helped.

⋆｡°✩

Later, after the introductions had settled into something like peace, Gojo flickered closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “So. Between us, what do you think of our dear master?”

You frowned. “He’s… a monster.”

Geto groaned. “Don’t antagonize him, Gojo.”

“Four arms,” you muttered. “And those eyes. He looked at me like—”

“Like he wanted to rip your soul apart and wear it as a scarf?” Shoko offered.

“Yes!”

There was a silence.

Then Gojo laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Don’t worry. That’s just his flirty face.”

“Flirty—?”

“You’ll see,” Kaori murmured, sipping from her own spout.

⋆｡°✩

You learned quickly that the castle had moods.

The halls rearranged themselves when they thought you weren’t looking. Windows that should’ve faced the gardens now overlooked cliffs. Stairs melted into ramps. Once, you turned down a corridor you swore led to the kitchens, only to find yourself in a balcony big enough to house half the kingdom.

You liked that one.

Sometimes, when no one else was around, you went back. Sat beneath the stained-glass skylight. Let the dust settle on your shoulders. Read until the words stopped swimming.

But you weren’t alone.

You never really were.

You felt him watching— not always, not obviously, but enough. A breath against the back of your neck. A shadow in the corners of your eye. Sometimes a faint growl echoing through the stone, like the walls were angry. You told yourself it was nothing.

But when you reached for the wrong door— the one at the end of the north hall, carved with unfamiliar script and choked in ivy— Gojo appeared out of nowhere.

“Don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious.

You frowned. “What’s in there?”

“Not for you,” Geto snapped, rolling up behind him. “Not for anyone.”

“You mean the Beast’s room.”

They both flinched.

“That’s not his name,” Kaori murmured from the end of the hall.

“But it’s what he is, right?”

Shoko sighed, fluttering down from a windowsill. “He wasn’t always.”

That made you pause.

You looked at the door again. Heavy. Silent. Waiting.

“He’ll kill you if you go in there,” Geto said flatly.

“He won’t,” Gojo said. “But you’ll break something.”

You didn’t go in.

Not that day.

But the seed had been planted.

And deep in the shadows above— just behind the balcony’s curve, Sukuna exhaled through his teeth.

“Curious little thing,” he muttered.

His claws curled around the railing.

“He’ll run screaming before the rose falls.”

But he kept watching anyway.

⋆｡°✩

You hadn’t meant to get lost.

The castle was different at night— colder, darker, the torches dimmed down to blue flame. You had gone looking for the library again, craving something quiet, but the halls kept shifting under your feet. The stone whispered under your boots, windows fogging over as if the castle itself had turned its face away.

Then came the thunder.

The wind howled through a broken pane and sent a gust down the corridor, cutting through your shirt like a blade. You hugged your arms to your chest and turned back— or tried to. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The paintings had changed. Doors sealed themselves. Your breath curled visibly in the air.

And then the torchlight vanished.

You stood in the dark, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. You weren’t afraid of shadows. You weren’t. But this was different— this was the kind of dark that watched.

You tried to move, but the cold sank deeper. Your legs felt heavy. The walls closed in.

And that’s when you heard it.

Boots. Heavy. Slow. Too many to belong to one man.

You turned, just in time to see the shape step into the hallway— tall, massive, horned, eyes glowing through the gloom.

He looked like death.

“S-Stay back,” you said, voice cracking.

Sukuna didn’t answer.

He moved forward, slow, shoulders wide enough to block out the torchlight behind him. Four arms moved with eerie synchronicity. His mouth curled in something unreadable.

You stumbled backward, spine hitting the stone wall.

“I told them not to let you wander,” he muttered.

“You—you were watching me?”

“I always watch what’s mine.”

That made you bristle, even through the fear. “I’m not yours.”

He cocked his head. “Aren’t you?”

You glared at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

He snorted. “You’d be screaming if I meant to.”

You opened your mouth to snap back— but a shiver cut through you, violent and sharp. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.

In two strides, he was there.

One massive hand— too warm, too careful— caught your arm before you could hit the ground. Another tugged his cloak off in one motion and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like ash and smoke and something older.

You blinked, stunned.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t leer or gloat. Just held you steady.

“Humans break too easily,” he said quietly.

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked again.

He looked down at you then— really looked, and for a moment, all the sharpness dropped from his face.

You weren’t sure who broke eye contact first.

⋆｡°✩

He brought you back in silence.

The cloak stayed around your shoulders. His hand never left your back. When you reached the door to your room, he paused. Said nothing. Waited.

You turned back toward him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears.

“…Why are you like this?” you asked.

He looked tired. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

A pause.

Then, softly— more a breath than a word. “Not tonight.”

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t expect him to knock.

The next morning, the castle was quiet again— no storm, no footsteps, no flickering shadows. You’d barely slept. Too many thoughts. Too much confusion. But when the knock came— low, firm, deliberate— you startled anyway.

You opened the door. He was standing there.

No cloak. No scowl. Just Sukuna, framed in sunlight, arms folded, like this was something he’d talked himself into and now regretted instantly.

“…Come with me,” he said.

You stared. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked.

You should’ve said no. You should’ve slammed the door and gone back to bed. But your feet moved without asking. You followed him.

The halls were quieter than usual. Even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. You passed by Kaori spinning in slow circles. Shoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Gojo and Geto were suspiciously nowhere in sight.

Finally, he stopped before a door you hadn’t seen before. Tall. Iron-bound. Carved with symbols that looked ancient.

He opened it with one hand.

The scent of old parchment and cedar drifted out.

You stepped inside— and froze.

It was a library.

Not just any library. A cathedral of books. Stacks that went up past the rafters. Staircases winding through shelves. A glass dome overhead flooding the space with morning light. It wasn’t just beautiful— it was impossible.

You turned slowly, staring.

“I thought you might be… bored,” he said.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t watching you. He was watching the ceiling. Like if he looked at you directly, something might crack.

“…You did this for me?”

“It was already here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Silence.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it:

“You’re the first one who’s stayed.”

Something tightened in your chest.

You stepped further into the room, running your hand along the spines. Some were cracked with age. Others looked untouched. Languages you couldn’t read. Stories waiting to be discovered.

You turned back to him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, as if trying to brush it off. “Don’t make it a habit.” But you smiled anyway.

And the moment stretched. You spent the rest of the morning there.

He didn’t leave. Didn’t say much. Just sat in the corner, arms crossed, pretending to nap while you read through half a novel out loud. Every now and then, when you glanced up, you found him watching— like he wasn’t sure how to stop.

You didn’t ask him to.

The castle started changing around you.

It was subtle. You didn’t notice it at first— a hallway that stopped shifting, a door that stayed unlocked. The room warmed. Curtains were drawn back. Kaori started humming again. Even Geto’s constant fretting softened into something bordering on hopeful.

But more than that, he changed.

Sukuna didn’t loom as much anymore. He didn’t snarl every time you asked a question. He still watched you— always— but it was different now. Less like a hunter. More like someone studying sunlight through stained glass, trying to understand how something so soft could still burn.

Some afternoons, he sat across from you in the library while you read aloud— never interrupting, just listening. His hands stayed folded. His eyes didn’t blink. But when you paused, he always knew how to fill the silence.

Other days, he took you through the gardens. Let you see where the snow hadn’t touched. Showed you flowers that shouldn’t have survived this high in the mountains. You learned his favourite place was a crumbled balcony overlooking the cliff’s edge. You stood there once beside him, the wind in your face, and he said nothing for a long time before finally muttering, “The world used to be so loud.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

And when you laughed— really laughed— at something stupid Gojo said one evening over dinner, you caught Sukuna staring again. His expression was unreadable, but his hands flexed on the armrest like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know how.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom happened by accident.

You’d found it while wandering— golden columns, frozen chandeliers, dust hanging like mist in the air. The moment you stepped inside, something in the walls shifted. Candles sparked to life. Music hummed faintly from nowhere. The floor gleamed beneath your boots.

He found you there later.

Didn’t speak. Just stood in the archway for a moment, watching. You turned.

“I didn’t mean to trespass,” you said. He shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”

He stepped inside. The room felt suddenly smaller.

You met him halfway. The silence stretched.

The— tentatively, almost shy— he reached out and offered one clawed hand.

Your breath caught. You took it.

He led you in a slow, clumsy circle— one hand awkward on your waist, the other curled around yours far too gently for a man with talons. He didn’t know how to dance. You didn’t care. The music rose around you. Your pulse kept time with the rhythm. He didn’t look away, not even once.

And when your fingers brushed— when you felt the rough edge of his palm curl a little tighter around yours— something clicked in your chest so sharp it nearly made you stumble.

You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t let go.

It started with curiosity.

You hadn’t meant to go into the West Wing. You’d promised— really, you had— but promises meant less when the person you made them to refused to explain why. You’d grown used to the castle shifting around you, bending its rules in silence. So when the corridor appeared— unmistakable and unchanged— something inside you said, now.

The door wasn’t locked.

The air inside was colder than the rest of the castle. Not freezing, but still. Still like a room preserved in grief. The furniture was draped in thick fabric, dust curling in the beams of sunlight through the tall, cracked windows. A mirror stood against one wall— ancient, silver-edged, humming with a kind of magic that made your stomach turn. But it wasn’t what drew you forward.

It was a rose.

Suspended in a glass dome, nestled on a carved pedestal, petals impossibly bright against the gloom. It glowed faintly, pulsing with something warm and alive. A few petals had already fallen, curled along the base like fallen stars.

You stepped closer. You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to. Just being near it made your chest ache.

You heard the growl before you saw him.

The roar shattered the stillness.

He was there— sudden and huge, fury pouring off him like fire, four arms tense, claws bared. He stormed into the room like it had betrayed him.

“What did I say?”

You stepped back, hands up. “I didn’t touch it—”

“You don’t belong here!”

“I just—!”

“You don’t belong anywhere in this castle!”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You stared at him— not at the monster, not at the claws, but at his face. At the panic buried beneath the rage.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said, softer.

“That’s what they always say,” he hissed. “Curious little things. Poking around. Making promises they don’t keep.”

You swallowed. “Who hurt you?”

He went still. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.

Then his eyes narrowed again, and his voice dropped to a snarl. “Leave.”

“What?”

“Get out.” You took a step back.

He didn’t shout again. He didn’t have to.

You turned and ran.

The forest was colder than it had been days before. You hadn’t meant to go far— only out, away, anywhere but that room— but the storm clouds overhead built fast. Within minutes, the path vanished beneath your boots, snow curling around your ankles, trees blurring into shadow.

Then came the howls.

Wolves. Closer than you expected.

Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. You tripped once— twice— the second time hard enough to scrape your palms. When the first set of glowing eyes appeared through the trees, you knew you weren’t making it back.

You raised your fists anyway.

They lunged.

And then he was there.

⋆｡°✩

Sukuna hit the wolves like a thunderclap— claws flashing, eyes burning, more fury than form. You couldn’t follow it all. Just movement. Just sound. Just teeth and blood and screaming.

Then silence.

He stood over you, chest heaving, snow melting where it hit his skin.

One arm was bleeding. Deep. Ugly.

You pushed yourself upright. “You’re—”

“Stupid,” he growled. “Running into the woods. You could’ve—”

“I know,” you said.

He winced. Dropped to one knee.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and caught him— your hands too small, your body too light, but he let you steady him anyway.

“Let me help.”

He didn’t argue.

⋆｡°✩

The fire in your room was still lit. You dragged a chair close, pushed him into it, and rolled up his sleeve— careful, gentle, still shaking. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you.

The gash across his bicep oozed, still fresh. You pressed a warm cloth against it and felt him tense.

“Why’d you follow me?”

“You ran.”

“You didn’t have to come after me.”

“You shouldn’t have left.”

The silence stretched.

You kept cleaning the wound. Carefully. Quietly.

“I thought you hated me,” you said.

He looked away.

“I thought you hated yourself.”

That got his attention.

“You’re wrong,” he said. Then, quieter: “I don’t hate you.”

You froze.

He exhaled, slow. “You’re the first person to look at me like I’m not something broken.”

You tied off the bandage. Sat back on your heels.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “Just scared.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away.

⋆｡°✩

The fire burned low. The storm had passed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, the castle was completely still.

Sukuna sat in the chair by the hearth, his injured arm resting on his knee, cloak draped over one shoulder like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. You sat across from him, the heat of your body still soaked into the cushions behind you. The bandages you’d tied were clean. The room smelled like ash, like rain-soaked fabric, like breath held too long.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

Neither of you moved.

The silence between you wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It hummed with something else now— a weight, a possibility. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but they watched you like he was memorizing. Like he was letting go.

You stood.

He didn’t stop you when you crossed the room. Didn’t flinch when you reached for the cloak around his shoulders, or when your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. He let you touch him.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

“I told you, you’re free.”

You looked up.

“I don’t mean the castle.”

For a moment, his expression flickered— something raw behind the bone and ink. Then he reached up— slowly, carefully— and pressed one hand against your chest. The warmth of his palm bled through your shirt.

“You shouldn’t want me,” he said.

“Too late.”

⋆｡°✩

When you kissed him, it wasn’t soft.

It was slow. Careful in the way only something dangerous could be— like you were both afraid the moment might shatter. His mouth was warmer than you expected, rough but patient. His claws ghosted over your ribs but never dug in. When you parted, breathless, you watched his eyes flutter open— and for once, they weren’t guarded. Just full.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩

The bed creaked beneath your weight. You let him guide you down with hands that had once shattered stone, now shaking as they touched your skin like it was something sacred. His lips followed— jaw, throat, collarbone— trailing reverent, slow heat. Your shirt peeled away. His claws never scratched. Not once.

When he saw you— all of you— he stilled.

You waited.

He leaned down, pressed his lips against the dip between your ribs, and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

The ache that bloomed in your chest was too much to hold.

⋆｡°✩

He kissed every inch of you, like he was trying to rewrite the memory of how you’d been seen before. His hands mapped your hips, your stomach, your thighs, never greedy, only steady— like if he rushed it, you’d vanish. You clung to his shoulders, the ridges of his arms, the heat of his body as he moved against you, slow and sure.

It didn’t matter that you shook. He held you. Listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into his, the way you whispered his name like it was a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

When he finally entered you— gentle, careful, with your breath caught in his mouth— the stretch burned, but you welcomed it. He didn’t move until you pulled him closer.

Every motion after that felt like a promise. His pace was slow, hips rolling deep, deeper, every thrust grounded in reverence. His name slipped from your lips again, and he cursed low against your skin. One of his hands found yours and squeezed— not possessive, but grounding.

You felt him unravel above you. Felt the way his rhythm faltered as your legs locked around his waist. When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his mouth at your throat.

He followed with a growl that shook through both of you.

⋆｡°✩

After, he cleaned you gently— like it meant something— and pulled you against him beneath the sheets. The weight of his arm across your waist was solid and warm. His other hands traced your spine like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you.

You lay there for a long time, chest to chest, breath to breath.

“I’ve never had this,” he murmured.

You looked up at him.

“You do now,” you said.

And he closed his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The next morning, you found him in the garden.

The sky was pale with early light, frost clinging to the edges of the stone, and Sukuna stood alone near the edge of the rosebushes— still dressed from the night before, cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.

You hadn’t spoken since. Not with words. But your body still ached with memory. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your waist, the rasp of his voice against your throat.

When he turned, you knew he’d already felt the shift.

“The mirror,” he said simply. “Ask it to show you.”

You hesitated.

Then you stepped forward, reached into the space between you, and the mirror bloomed to life in your hands.

Glass shimmered.

Your father’s face appeared in the surface— pale, shaking, trapped in a cage. Behind him, jeering voices. A man’s laughter that turned your stomach.

Naoya.

The world inside the mirror shifted, and you saw the asylum gates.

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Sukuna’s voice was quiet. “Go to him.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You can.”

“I’ll come back.”

His eyes flicked away. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.”

He didn’t argue.

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pressed the mirror into your hands. His thumb brushed your wrist, just once, before pulling away.

You held his gaze.

“You’re more than this,” you said.

His voice was barely a breath. “And you’re the only one who ever saw it.”

Neither of you said goodbye.

But as you turned and stepped through the gate, you felt something in your chest twist tight— like a thread had been tied between you, and you’d left it trembling in the cold.

The carriage was already waiting when you arrived.

They’d moved fast— too fast. Naoya had spun his lies like thread through every ear that would listen, his voice oiled with performance, face clean with practiced pity. “The poor painter,” he’d said. “Mad with grief. Imagining monsters. His daughter brainwashed.”

They never asked for your side. They never wanted it.

By the time you found your father, he was already bound and trembling, hands clutching the bars of the cage. His eyes lit up when he saw you— but the fear didn’t leave his face.

“He’s sending me away,” he whispered. “They won’t listen—”

“They will,” you said. “I’ll make them.”

You turned.

Naoya stood by the wagon with his arms folded, coat freshly pressed, a gleam in his eye that made your stomach turn. “Come to your senses?” he asked. “Or just here to cry some more?”

“I’m here to end this.”

Naoya smirked. “You don’t even know what you’ve been sleeping beside.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you held up the mirror.

And the courtyard fell silent.

⋆｡°✩

Gasps rippled as the image bloomed— Sukuna’s face, sharp and monstrous, watching from the castle gate. Behind him, the castle stretched in shadow and stormclouds. His four arms moved with eerie stillness. His eyes glowed.

Naoya’s smirk faltered.

“You see?” you said. “He exists. My father told the truth.”

“But he’s a monster,” someone muttered.

“He’s cursed.”

Naoya recovered fast. “Then he’s dangerous.”

“He saved my life.”

“He’s bewitched you.”

“He let me go,” you snapped. “He gave me freedom when no one else did.”

Silence. Then someone shouted, “Even if it’s true— who’s to say he won’t come for us next?”

Naoya turned, voice rising with mock-heroism. “The time for talk is over. The creature threatens our home, our children, our future. If no one else will act—”

He raised his musket.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

They moved like floodwater.

Torches lit. Guns drawn. Blades rattling against pitchforks. You tried to fight your way back, tried to shout above the roar— but Naoya had planned this too well. You were grabbed, shoved, dragged toward the same cage your father had escaped from only minutes before.

“Lock them both up,” Naoya growled. “They can watch the castle burn.”

And as the mob marched toward the mountains, you kicked against the bars and screamed his name.

But the wind stole it from your lips.

⋆｡°✩

The castle saw them coming.

Long before the first torch lit the cliffside, before the wheels of the cart screeched against the stone, before the mob had even reached the gates— the castle knew. You could feel it in the air. The torches inside flickered low. The mirrors dimmed. The wind outside rose like a warning.

And the servants prepared for war.

Gojo lit every candelabra in the main hall like it was a funeral pyre. Geto barked orders no one listened to. Kaori shoved Yuuji into a cupboard and told him not to come out no matter what. Shoko, brush raised like a spear, muttered something about having waited centuries for a good excuse to stab someone.

And through it all, Sukuna stood on the highest balcony, silent.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the torches approaching like they were stars fallen from the sky.

“He’s not coming back,” he said, to no one.

No one corrected him.

⋆｡°✩

You had never run so fast in your life.

Your father limped behind you, breath ragged, hand clutched tight in yours. You didn’t know how long the gate would hold. Didn’t care. The mountain path blurred beneath your boots, the wind howling past your ears, your lungs burning.

You saw the smoke before you saw the fire.

And then— through the trees— the castle.

And Naoya, musket raised, climbing the stairs.

⋆｡°✩

The servants fought like chaos incarnate.

Kaori tripped one man with a swinging teacart. Geto lobbed vases from the top floor with mechanical precision. Gojo lit half the mob’s torches out of spite. But it wasn’t enough. The villagers kept coming. Loud. Angry. Terrified of what they didn’t understand.

Sukuna met Naoya on the roof.

There were no words. Just a flash of steel, a snarl, the clash of teeth and blade. Sukuna didn’t hold back. But he didn’t kill him either. He let him fall once. Let him scramble back to his feet. Let him swing again.

He turned away.

And Naoya fired.

⋆｡°✩

The shot rang out sharp against the storm.

You saw it hit— watched Sukuna stagger, one knee dropping, blood already soaking through the silk. You screamed his name. But the castle was too high. The bridge too narrow. You couldn’t reach him.

Naoya raised the gun again.

But this time, the ledge gave way.

He didn’t have time to scream.

⋆｡°✩

You reached Sukuna just as he collapsed.

He was so heavy. So warm. You dropped to your knees and caught his face in your hands, blood slick beneath your fingers. His eyes fluttered open— unfocused, glassy, still watching you.

“You came back,” he rasped.

“Of course I did.”

“You… idiot.”

You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You’re not allowed to die. Not like this.”

“It’s too late.”

“No—”

“The rose…”

You looked over your shoulder.

The last petal falls.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t feel the petals hit the ground.

You only felt his hand in yours— colder now, less steady. The weight of his body against your knees. The way his chest rose slower with each breath.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Sukuna, please.”

One eye opened. Barely. The glow had faded. The strength was gone. But he was still here. Just barely.

“I’m not ready to lose you,” you said. “I didn’t come back to watch you die.”

“You came back because you’re good,” he murmured. “You always were.”

“I came back because I love you.”

That stilled him.

Completely.

The breath in his lungs caught. His jaw twitched. You saw the disbelief flood his face like something painful. Like something he hadn’t let himself imagine.

“I see you,” you said. “I always have. You’re not a monster. You never were.”

He blinked.

Once.

Then the light left his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The stillness that followed wasn’t real silence— it was a grief so sharp the world seemed to hold its breath. The castle groaned beneath you. The wind outside died. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.

You didn’t let go of him.

You bowed your head, forehead pressed to his. Your voice was too quiet to echo.

“Come back.”

Nothing moved.

“Come back to me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’m not done loving you yet.”

⋆｡°✩

The magic cracked like thunder.

It didn’t explode— it bloomed.

Light poured from the wound on his chest, golden and blinding. His body lifted, spine arched, arms outstretched as if something ancient had taken hold of him. You stumbled back— not out of fear, but awe— and watched as the lines on his skin unraveled. The ink melted. The horns splintered to dust.

He dropped to the floor— whole.

Still.

Then his chest rose.

He gasped like someone drowning.

And when his eyes opened, they were still him.

Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not a Beast. Not a curse.

“...You stayed,” he whispered.

You launched into his arms before he could say anything else.

Later— after the villagers’ memories returned, after Kaori wept openly in the kitchen, after Gojo danced with the mirror for no reason at all— you stood beside him in the ballroom, chest pressed to his as the music rose. His hand in yours was solid. Strong. Warm.

You wore your best shirt. He still wouldn’t put on a crown.

You looked up at him.

“I still hate you a little,” you said.

He smiled, just slightly.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

⋆｡°✩

The castle bloomed again, slowly.

The halls brightened. The ivy peeled back from the windows. Rooms you hadn’t dared open now welcomed you with soft lamplight and warm air. The gardens thawed first— roses blooming in defiance of the season, red and gold and white, petals trembling in the breeze.

The servants were alive again. Whole again. Gojo wouldn’t shut up for three days. Geto complained about everything and still offered you tea every morning. Shoko took up smoking and refused to explain why.

You didn’t need a title. You didn’t ask for one. But the people came anyway— not to see a fairytale, but to see the man who’d saved their prince. Who’d kissed the curse out of a beast’s broken body and asked for nothing in return.

You stayed.

And he did, too.

⋆｡°✩

The night was warm. Summer had finally found the mountain. Fireflies gathered in the rose garden like floating lanterns. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, bare feet on cold stone, the wind brushing through your hair.

Sukuna stepped behind you.

His arms came around your waist, steady and slow.

You let your body melt back against his. His touch was different now— less cautious, more certain— but never greedy. He held you like you were something fragile only because he knew how hard the world had been to you.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.

You smiled. “That obvious?”

“Always.”

You turned in his arms.

Looked up at him.

“Do you still have nightmares?” you asked.

“Not when you’re here.”

You kissed him then— slow, sure, like you had nothing left to prove.

And when the stars came out, you were still there, tucked against him. Safe. Wanted. Home.

⋆｡°✩

The castle slept.

The rose never bloomed again.

It didn’t need to.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[swtheartz]

sinister mark who lost his version of you in his world, so when he makes his deal with angstrom, his ultimate goal is you. don’t let him catch you because he won’t even wait until he’s back in his own dimension, he’s got you in a mating press while he’s SUPPOSED to be wreaking havoc.

[dukestags]

Flirty annoying British man

Lucifer Morningstar x ftm reader.

The moment you stepped into Chloe’s apartment, carrying a stuffed unicorn under one arm and a bag of cookies under the other, you knew you were in trouble.

Not because of Chloe. She gave you a smile and a quick hug, relieved to have a break while you took over as “Uncle Duty” for the afternoon.

Not even because of Trixie, who was already pulling you toward the couch, talking a mile a minute about school, monsters, and her latest favorite comic book hero.

No, the trouble started—again—with the man lounging dramatically on the kitchen counter, sipping a glass of something far too fancy for a weekday afternoon.

“Ah,” Lucifer said smoothly, sitting up straighter. “If it isn’t my favorite Decker sibling.”

You sighed, already regretting not texting Chloe to ask if he’d be there.

“I’m your only Decker sibling,” you muttered, setting the cookies on the counter and pointedly not looking at him.

“And yet, still my favorite,” he replied, eyes raking over you in that way that always made you question every article of clothing you wore. “Tell me, did it hurt?”

You blinked. “Did what hurt?”

“When you fell from Heaven,” Lucifer purred, grinning. “Though with that jawline and those eyes, I suspect you might’ve landed somewhere in between.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “That one was weak, even for you.”

“Was it?” he asked innocently, stepping closer, lips curled in amusement. “Perhaps I should try harder. I am the Devil, after all. Persistence is a specialty.”

“Lucifer,” Chloe warned from the hallway without even looking. “Leave my brother alone.”

“I haven’t even touched him—yet,” he called back with a smirk. Then, turning back to you: “But I could be convinced. Dinner? Drinks? Eternal damnation with a handsome face?”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. The worst part was, he was actually kind of charming. Annoying, shameless, but charming.

“Trixie,” you called over your shoulder, escaping to the couch with her. “If the tall British menace tries to follow me, throw a cookie at him.”

“Okay!” she chirped. “But only one. He likes the double chocolate ones.”

Lucifer grinned, entirely unbothered, trailing after you despite your clear disinterest. “So, what do you say, darling? Just one drink? I’ll even let you pick the bar.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t give up, do you?”

Lucifer’s expression softened—just slightly. “Not when something’s worth chasing.”

You paused for half a second, his tone catching you off-guard. There was something real behind the mischief, even if just a flicker.

Then Trixie leapt into your lap and started telling you all about her new comic series, effectively ending the conversation.

But as Lucifer watched you with her, something flickered in his eyes again.

And you had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time he tried to charm his way into more than just Chloe’s apartment