#instead of having to still learn from scratch

[oaksgrove]

Hello!! I just read your “Till Death Do Us Part”. And it was so cute and so lovely!! I followed and it was too cute! I was wondering, feel free to ignore. But, what would Simon do if his wife got cute aggression? Would he just let her love on him and kiss him all over and smoosh his cheeks together? Or would he be shocked and didn’t know what to do? I think it’d be such a cute idea!

Love bites.

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: Simon Riley never imagined softness for himself—let alone a future with lazy Sundays, neck kisses, and a spouse with the energy of a feral cat in love.

Warnings: Mild suggestive content, playful roughhousing, biting and scratching used as affection, fluff, 141 banter, domestic Ghost, found family.

Simon Riley had never expected his life to look like this.

He’d imagined a thousand endings for himself. Most of them quiet, none of them soft. He was the man who walked into fire and didn’t look back. The man who expected loss like gravity. Ghosts weren’t meant to have houses, or couches, or warm Sunday mornings with someone curled into them like home.

But then came you.

You had never treated him like he was fragile. You never coddled the grief in his bones or made a ceremony out of his scars. You just loved him, the way you loved everything else: wholly, loudly, and with a kind of chaos that made him feel something in his chest instead of nothing.

At first, back when things were new and uncertain, when he still flinched at raised voices and had to learn how to share space with another human being, your affection startled him.

Your laugh cracked open something in him, your touch rewired his heart, loud and fierce and impossible to ignore. You didn’t say you loved him first. You bit his arm in the grocery line when he looked too good in a plain black shirt. You kissed his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark after he got back from deployment. You smooshed his cheeks with your hands when he was brooding, kissed the tip of his nose like you were some kind of feral little gremlin, and you meant it all.

It was your language — all that warmth and wildness, a kind of affection so big it barely fit in your body. You loved with your whole soul, and Simon, for the first time in his life, was safe enough to let it happen.

The first time it happened — that unexpected nip at his bicep while he stood in the kitchen making tea — he had jerked so hard, nearly spilled the kettle. Whipped around with a stunned look on his face like you’d just thrown a grenade at him.

“Did you just… bit me?”

You’d grinned, smug and shameless. “You looked too good to not taste. It’s your fault, really.”

He hadn’t known what to say to that. Not really. He was a man built of silence, of walls and masks. But you weren’t afraid of any of it.

You’d wiggled your brows at him. “Tell me you didn’t like it.”

And Simon had been baffled by you.

You would bite his shoulder in the kitchen while he was slicing bread and then act like it was perfectly normal. Smoosh his cheeks between your hands and call him your “grumpy man.” Plant yourself in his lap like a cat with a vendetta and kiss his neck hard enough to leave a mark — not because you wanted to, but because you had to.

Now, years later, he didn’t even flinch.

Because now, it was different.

You were married.

You were straddling his lap, football on the telly almost forgotten, your lips dragging over the line of his throat with purpose.

“Oi,” he rumbled, not even looking away from the screen, one arm automatically lifting to wrap around you. “Football’s on.”

“I know,” you said sweetly, and then proceeded to bite his neck — not hard, but firm enough to make him grunt.

“Jesus Christ, woman.” He snorted, hand sliding down to your hip like it was instinct. “You’re gonna bruise me.”

“Can’t help it,” you mumbled against his skin, kisses turning into a trail of slightly-too-hard pecks up the side of his throat. “You’re too handsome for your own good.”

“You married it, love,” he reminded you dryly, but his other hand came up to rest over your spine, slow and soothing.

His lips twitched. He should’ve been used to it by now — the gnawing, the cuddles that turned into full-on possession, the sudden kisses while he was trying to concentrate on mundane tasks. But somehow, it still warmed something in his chest every time.

He grunted, the hint of a smile pulling at his mouth, and leaned his head back against the couch. You nuzzled his neck, trailing kisses up to his jaw, then squished his cheeks together in your palms.

“Love you,” you whispered, mock serious, your nose almost touching his. “Love you so much I wanna punch you in the ribs.”

Simon chuffed out a small, genuine laugh. Not many people in the world got to hear that sound.

“You’ve got a violent heart, love.”

“Only for you.”

He looked at you then, properly. In the late morning light filtering through the curtains, you looked like something holy. A little ridiculous, maybe, bedhead in all directions, sleeves too big, your socks mismatched, but to him? You were perfect. Every last unfiltered inch of you.

And it hit him again, like it always did: you stayed.

You loved him. You accepted him, darkness and all. Even on the days when he didn’t say it back— not because he didn’t want to, but because the words were still learning how to sit in his mouth— you knew. You always knew.

He reached up, callused thumb brushing your cheekbone, gentle like he thought you might disappear.

“I love you,” he said, quiet, like it was a confession.

You blinked. Your smile didn’t disappear—but it softened. Melted into something gentler. Less playful.

“I know,” you murmured. “I see it. Every day. Even when you don’t say it.”

He nodded once, throat tight.

You leaned down and kissed him then—no teeth, no jokes. Just the kind of kiss that said I see you and I love you anyway.

When you pulled back, you flopped dramatically against his chest with a sigh.

“Alright, enough sappiness. You still owe me a neck to bite and a football match to ruin.” And then buried your face in his neck again, muttering how much you loved him while pretending to gnaw on his collarbone, Simon just chuckled and tightened his hold around your waist.

“You’re mad,” he said, lips brushing your temple.

“You love it.”

“…Yeah,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, love. But I’d let you bite me every day for the rest of my life if it means you stay.”

You didn’t respond right away — just snuggled in closer, your nose cold against his collarbone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

He snorted, tugging a blanket over the both of you and pulling you tight against his chest.

“Bite away, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m all yours.”

You sighed contentedly, legs tangled with his, your heartbeat steady against his ribs.

In the next morning, the sparring session started like any other, rough, fast, full of grunts and bruises that’ll bloom purple by next morning.

Simon stands tall in the middle of the sparring room, sleeves rolled up, shirt clinging to him with sweat. He’s been tossing Gaz around like a rag doll, but now it’s Johnny who steps up, grinning like a cat who’s seen the cream.

“Alright, big man,” Soap says, bouncing on his feet. “Let’s see if your arms are still workin’ after whatever you’ve been wrestlin’ at home.”

Simon grunts, adjusting his stance. “You talking or fighting?”

But then Johnny squints—zeroes in on the pale stretch of Simon’s collarbone where a red bite mark peeks above the edge of his shirt. A few scratches along his forearm too, faint but very present.

Soap freezes.

Then grins wide.

“Well now, what is this?” he crows, pointing. “You’ve been brawlin’ with a damn raccoon or gettin’ frisky with your missus?”

Gaz, from the bench, snorts. “Looks like someone lost a fight with a set of nails.”

“Or teeth,” Johnny adds, absolutely gleeful. “Tell me you at least won, Ghost. Can’t have our terrifying lieutenant gettin’ dominated at home.”

Simon’s eye twitches. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

“Oh, so it’s true!”

Price walks in mid-sentence, glancing between them. “What’s true?”

Gaz leans over. “Ghost’s covered in love bites.”

Price stops. Blinks once. “…Good for him.”

Soap’s practically doubling over. “Good for him, he says—bloody hell, what happened to keeping your private life private, mate?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Simon growls, reaching for a towel. “You lot just have too much time on your hands.”

Johnny still isn’t done. “Bet she bites when she’s happy, huh?”

Simon glares. “And I bet you talk this much because no one’s biting you.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[lex-artis-studios]

I don't think it does, but I also think it is definitely not taught in a way that most people can understand it. The biggest problem for me, personally, was that I was never, at any point, made aware that different kinds of math were, in fact, totally different things. For my entire school career I thought all math was just on a continuum of the same type of math. But no, different maths are like different types of sciences. Like how geology and chemistry are both sciences and yeah they do share some things, and you can (and do) use knowledge from one to inform the other, but in the end they're still different subjects and if you go into chemistry expecting that everything you're being taught is supposed to relate to plate tectonics, you're going to have a hard time.

I can pinpoint exactly where I started having trouble in math, and that's when my math classes stopped being 'different applications of algebra'. Because nobody told me trig and calc were not just super-advanced algebra. I struggled for almost my entire high school and college years because I kept treating trig and calc like algebra. I honestly believe that if someone had outright said "You are starting from scratch with this new math," I would have had more realistic expectations of what I was dealing with. Instead, I only learned within the past few years that different maths are, indeed, different.

reblog if you think math doesn't deserve all that hate

[nottellingofname]

Suguru Geto Tries Not To Die

Reason 3 - Baking ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Y/N showed up by Suguru’s room late in the afternoon the following Monday after school ended. He hadn’t expected to see you, but he wasn’t surprised, either.

“Y/N’s here again,” Satoru announced, barging into his room uninvited. He tried his best to sound casual, but the shock in his voice was barely concealed. Suguru rarely had visitors—aside from Satoru himself and the occasional check-in from Shoko.

Suguru’s eyes locked with yours as you offered him a soft smile. “We go dancing together,” you said simply.

“Oh,” Satoru smiled back at you. “It’s nice to see you with a hobby, Suguru.”

“We aren’t necessarily—” Suguru started, but you cut in smoothly.

“If you don’t mind, Gojo-san,” you said, your voice polite and sickeningly sweet, “I’d like to steal Suguru from you for an hour or two.”

Satoru nodded immediately, giving Suguru a solid pat on the back.

“He’s all yours,” Satoru said with a grin. “Suguru barely ever leaves this room unless he’s being forced to for a mission.”

You beamed. “I’ll take good care of him.”

With that, Suguru reluctantly followed you out. Behind him, Satoru shut the door, and Suguru gave you a skeptical look. “Where are you taking me today?” he asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.

You didn’t dignify it with a reply. Instead, you motioned to your bicycle.

“I’m taking you to Nanami’s favorite bakery.”

Suguru frowned. “What are we going to do at a bakery?”

“We’re going to learn how to make triple chocolate cookies,” you replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You pulled up to a cozy bakery, well-known in the neighborhood. Suguru had only been there once before. Back then, Satoru, Shoko, Nanami, and Haibara had brought him for his birthday and told him to pick any cake he wanted. Naturally, he chose the most chocolate-laden monstrosity they had. He even remembered the sly grin the baker had given him when he made his choice.

“Y/N!” A man with flour-covered hands greeted enthusiastically. “Good to see you, girl!”

“Nice to see you too, Uncle,” you chirped, pulling Suguru forward by the wrist. “This is Suguru Geto. He’s one of my friends.”

The baker raised an eyebrow and gave you a look that could only be described as suggestive. “Are you sure the two of you aren’t more than that?”

Suguru’s eyes widened. You turned beet red beside him.

“Yes, I’m sure, Mr. Baker,” you hissed through your teeth. “Did you get the ingredients ready for the cookies?”

“Of course I did,” Frank smirked. “Your parents even called to make sure the date was perfect. They were starting to get worried you were turning lesbian since you’ve never been on a proper date.”

Suguru coughed, barely smothering a laugh. You looked like you were one second away from combusting.

Grabbing Suguru by the wrist, you marched him toward the kitchen. “Let’s go, Suguru,” you muttered, clearly mortified.

Inside the kitchen, you sighed and asked, “Have you ever baked before?”

Suguru shook his head. “Nanami does the baking if we ask really nicely and he’s in a decent mood.”

You chuckled. “I’ve never baked either. I usually ask Ijichi. So I guess we’re starting from scratch.”

Suguru gave a sly smile. “Great. So we start with the dough, right?”

You stared at the ingredients in confusion. “Right,” you echoed questionably. You grabbed a few eggs from the fridge. “Let’s start by cracking these.”

You both got to work, cracking eggs into a bowl—occasionally with a bit of shell for texture. As Suguru began whisking, adding sugar and salt, you wrestled with a stubborn bag of flour.

“Do we have any scissors?” you asked, trying to rip the seal open. Just as Suguru reached to hand them to you, the bag burst, showering your face in a white cloud of powder.

You blinked through the mess, your entire face dusted like a powdered donut.

Suguru bit back a laugh and handed you the scissors. “Still need them?”

You stood tall, flour dripping onto your shirt. “You think this is funny?” you asked, lifting a white eyebrow.

Suguru smirked—right until you opened your arms wide and charged. “Wait, what are you—”

You crushed him in a hug, smearing your flour-covered face into his shoulder. He coughed from the powder and shoved you away gently.

When he pulled back, flour clung to his hair and clothes. He scowled, picking up an egg. “You’re going to regret that, Y/N.”

The egg landed with a splat on your chest. You gasped. Without missing a beat, you grabbed a handful of baking powder and flung it at him, covering him in more white dust.

He glared.

This meant war.

Within minutes, the two of you were completely covered in baking ingredients, head to toe. You looked like two pastry disasters in human form.

The baker poked his head in. “How are the cookies go—OH MY LORD!”

Suguru bit his lip, trying to hide his guilt. “I—I’ll clean it up—”

“Kid, I’m not blaming you,” the baker said. “I’m blaming Y/N here. How do you egg a boy on your first date?!”

You turned toward Suguru, mischief lighting up your eyes as a grin slowly spread across your face.

“Reason number three, Sugar-u. Baking. We should definitely bake more often.”

“Not in my kitchen!” the baker shouted.

Save Suguru Geto?

[baekuras]

I literally decided to learn like the very basics of python today which apparently awoke my brain so now it wants to do EVERY.SINGLE.THING i haven't done these past last //waves incoherently-time....at once

this is good on one hand because yay motivation really bad on the other because if I don't tread carefully i will loose motivation for all those things because idk choice paralysis or whatever it's called

too many things, too little time

[aroacettorney]

tbh i wish aup had more reps for characters who achieve greatness purely through hard work and effort. the emphasis on genius/being special is mayhaps way too much to the point that it feels kinda damn depressing for those who aint born as one.

[woodfrogs]

when you make a decision to change something for the better in your life but you still have to keep living as is for a bit 💥💥💥💥💥💥

[inkskinned]

it is november, and yesterday it felt like it was supposed to be snowing. in boston, november used a winter month, not a fall month. it is supposed to be chilly; rarely capping over 45F. it is a sweater-and-jacket month. it is a "maybe a scarf too" month. in my childhood, november meant blizzards and sleet.

it did not snow. tomorrow the weather predicts a high of 76.

i have spent so many years of my life studying the longterm possibilities of climate change - the culmination of capitalism wreaking havoc on the bodies of people, animals, plants - but every so often i am still shocked by something small and personal.

in a hundred years, when someone goes outside in boston - will they know the feeling of "snow in the air"?

i know it's a learned feeling, a sensation that maybe only longterm experience can teach. a few years ago, i was walking with my friend who had just moved up from the south. i said it smells like snow and she gave me this look like - what the fuck. i said it feels like snow too, which didn't help. she looked up to the bright blue sky and then back at me and then back at the sky. 12 hours later, we had 3 inches. you can just tell if it's going to snow.

except i can't tell, anymore. i stand outside in a tee shirt and watch my dog dance around a lake. we're in a drought and the skin of the water has peeled back twenty meters. the lake is tamed, quiet, puddlelike and sour. my pokemon go app warns there's a weather condition in my area.

my dog gets too hot from running and sits in the water and i want to laugh about his long frame and how awkwardly he sits - and i can't. some simian part of my brain is scratching the walls. it was supposed to snow. it was supposed to snow, but now it's warm instead.

during the last full solar eclipse, the dogs and the birds and the crickets went crazy under utter darkness. we laughed at them then, promising it will all be okay in a moment. but some part of me is still locked in that long night: some animal sensation.

something is wrong, my body says. i can't afford eggs or rent. i go outside to watch a sunset and listen to birdsong. i don't bring a jacket. allergies are killing me this season, allergies i didn't have as a kid. everyone comments that halloween has started to feel strange, offkilter. that it's hard having "holiday cheer." my body thinks it's april, and then it thinks we're in september, and then june.

something is terribly wrong, she whispers. go outside. it is supposed to be snowing.

[malachitezmeyka]

Relearning a poem I memorized for school about a year ago because my school administrator won't let anyone have any peace and decided to host a fucking Pushkin's poetry battle, and let me tell you, love poems were a lot easier to learn when I wasn't aroace

[readwritealldayallnight]

(part of the Wife at First Sight series)

In Ghost’s eyes, the first time you smiled up at him was the moment you became his and his alone.

So what if everyone apart from you knew it?

Didn’t make it any less of a fact, as far as he was concerned.

Still though, he wanted to learn more about just who his pretty little wife was, including anything that might make letting you know about your marriage a little easier. And so like the good soldier he is, he goes about it as though it were a reconnaissance mission.

He asks you how you take your coffees and teas, holding his breath as he watches you take the first sip of whichever drink he’s made you that day, pride swelling in his chest when you tell him it’s perfect, even better than when you make it.

The first time he’d done so, your eyes widened in surprise when he put his large, gloved hands over yours where they were wrapped around the mug, leaning forward and bringing the rim to his lips where he took a sip for himself, eyes locked with yours. You were unsure of what to think or say, but he apparently decided for you that this was okay, returning the warm drink to your mouth where he encouraged you to take another sip.

You figured that it was alright, he did make the tea for you after all, right?

You even laughed when he started only serving you in a mug with ‘Mrs.’ printed across the side, certain that it hadn’t been in any of the common room’s cupboards before.

He eyes the book peeking out of your bag one morning as you tuck it away, purchasing his own copy the very same day, curious to know what you like reading. You’re pleasantly surprised, if not a tad confused, when you find the next two books in the trilogy sat atop your desk soon after, a small note written in chicken scratch lain on top reads ‘To : Wife’. He’ll make a point of commenting on the novel if he sees you holding it, slipping in tid bits of information to impress you show he’s read it as well, likes the same things you like.

He’ll joke about how the food on the dining hall is always subpar, trying to casually find out what you like eating, subtly pulling out his phone and typing anything new into his notes app where he’s been keeping track of all your likes and dislikes. He just wants to get things right with you, be good for you, prove he can be the husband you need. You’re already perfect in his eyes, his sweet little soulmate who just doesn’t know it yet.

Though this was the first military base you’d ever worked on, you couldn’t recall anyone having ever warned you about the way Lieutenants apparently like to haze the new hires, never mind the fact that everyone else was apparently in on it.

No one bats an eye when you go to take the empty seat next to him in a briefing, and he wraps his strong arms around you to instead plop you down onto his muscular thighs, carrying on with the task at hand as though this is perfectly normal and professional. Even the Captain hardly glances at the interaction, so you figure it’s okay, some strange form of team bonding?

Not a soul comments on the way the Lieutenant insists on being the one to cut up your food and feed you bites during meals in the dining hall, pretending as though they don’t hear him telling you about how “my wife works hard enough, don’t need to be liftin’ a finger wit’ me around, love.”

They know to move out of the way if you’re approaching a closed door, knowing if the Lieutenant is anywhere near, he’ll be rushing to open the door for you before you can even attempt to do it yourself.

Even Soap has stopped complaining aloud and only rolls his eyes when Ghost drops anything and everything he’s doing- whether it’s spotting the Sergeant in the gym, being out on a morning run, hell even being in the middle of a shower- to send you a good morning text at six o clock on the dot. Every. Single. Morning.

No, you never exactly anticipated this sort of a running gag from a hardened military base, but you’re not exactly complaining either.

Not when you find your heart fluttering every time your fake work husband dotes on you like he really would marry you at the drop of a hat.

Besides, it’s all just playful, innocent fun, right?

Especially when everyone begins to apparently forget your name and instead refers to you only as Mrs Riley.

And when the Captain tells you that your requested time off for a honeymoon has been approved, something which you definitely don’t remember requesting, well that’s all just fun too, right?

[strawberry-nugget]

You ask Katsuki to give you a massage and end up with him blowing your back out♡♡

Warnings: smut, 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, happy ending massage, p in v sex, fingering, (some light) anal fingering, oiled up sex yall #holyfuckingairball, slight!dirty talking, slow sex, biting, spitting, prone-bone position, unprotected sex, All characters are 20+

Katsuki’s hands are huge. Heavy. Warm like stones left out in the sun. His fingers are thick, bulky and chubby where his knuckles are, the pads of his thumbs are calloused and rough, freed from the texture of a print due to regular filing, and still, my god— do they feel good rubbing zig zag lines and uneven shaped circles against your sore back.

His hands settle over every curve of your back like they were made to be there. Broad palms that are quirk charged bracketing your waist, spreading heat through his thumbs over muscle and skin until you’re not sure where your body ends and his begins. The weight of them is grounding, like gravity doubled. Like exhaling for the first time in hours.

You have been sore for way too long. Debating on whether you should book an appointment for a massage or get doctor prescribed physios, but ultimately in your lack of time and indecisiveness, you’ve let the issue come to its boiling point, let your back feel sore and aching to even the touch of your nails when you scratch yourself. 

You tell yourself it surely wasn’t an excuse to make Katsuki get his hands on you like this, but then again if you were asked, you couldn’t say the opposite. The feeling of his hands on your skin is scorching every cell of your existence at all times and now— now you’re enjoying this way too much.

Naturally, your breath starts to stutter. Just a little. Shallow at first—barely-there catches of air that stalls in your chest each time his thumbs roll in deep near your spine, right where it always hurts worst. Katsuki notices. Of course he does. His hands pause for half a beat, then glide lower, smoothing the ache with a gentler pass like he’s coaxing the tension out instead of breaking it.

“Too much?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and heat and something else he doesn’t name. Something that lives between the cracks of his touch.

You shake your head into the pillow.

No. Not even close.

If anything, you feel as if you might as well melt.

The room is candlelit, filled with that slow bloom of lavender and something warmer—jasmine? Chamomile? It smells almost toasted from where his palms heat up the oil, seeping into the air like steam curling off summer pavement after rain. Soft music is playing in the background, drumming low with every single lyric the singer sings; Katsuki has gone out of his usual way to make you feel comfortable.

You’re already half-melted into the mattress by now, face buried in a pillow that still smells like his skin, the edge of your tank top pushed up to your ribs. You feel him behind you, quiet, deliberate, the bed dipping beneath his weight as his hands find the bottle of oil again.

When his hands leave your back, you’re back to feeling like hell, like all the alleviated pain just punched its way back into your rear.

To save you from this agony, Katsuki’s hands—those massive, brutish hands that have torn through half the villains in Japan, the hands that have been worked in excruciating and harsh conditions over the years—are moving over your back again like they’re made of sunlight and patience.

He presses again, harder this time. Not cruel, not rough. Just deliberate. One thumb working in a crooked elliptical circle beneath your shoulder blade while the heel of his other palm drags slow, wide strokes across your lower back. There’s no rhythm to it, no pattern. Just instinct. Just him. And maybe that’s why it feels so good. Because it’s not technique, not some learned routine from a textbook. It’s just him and the way he cares about you. Cares enough to soften his rough edges, to make his hardened palms feel incredible and soothing on your back.

Katsuki settles on either side of your legs, sitting on his knees above you as his oily thumbs hook under your bunched up shirt, coaxing you to lift only ever just a little, so he can take the article of clothing off of you.

With only a small tag, the flimsy piece of clothing is over your head, discarded onto the edge of the bed and Katsuki moves over your legs again, this time sitting low, just over the back of your knees. Rough palms that drip of fresh lavender oil feel your tummy as you stay lifted up, running up, up, up, until they slide across your breasts, thumbs softly brushing your nipples.

You moan with a rasp, at the loss of the feeling, or maybe at how hot his palms are when they engulf your shoulders and give a pinching little rub. 

You feel Katsuki press in with a slow, unyielding pressure that makes your breath hitch against the pillow. He knows exactly where to go—where you hold stress, where it bites. Right between your shoulder blades, far up on the back of your neck, low at the base of your spine, the outer edges of your hips. His thumbs circle there, digging in just enough to ache, then easing off like a tide pulling back from shore.

He tags at your pyjama shorts next, just the waistline at first, then the start of your panties, but his thumbs stain the fabric in lavender sweetness, tagging even further when he says “Off”

You lift your hips without a word. It’s not even a decision—it’s instinct. A quiet offering. A permission that’s already been granted a hundred times in your body before it ever reaches your lips.

The shorts slide down slow. The elastic tugs over the swell of your ass, catching just slightly at the curve of your thighs before easing off, guided by thumbs that are far too gentle for how rough they look. His hands are reverent, even now. Even with your bare skin revealed under the low flicker of candlelight, with the smell of lavender thick in the air, wrapping around you both like a silken ribbon.

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough to make you breathe in, hold it. You feel the weight of his gaze on your back. Feel it like a touch. Like heat.

Then his hands are on you again, and it’s almost worse than before. Better. Unbearably better.

His thumbs drag low, slow, slick with oil as they part the dip of your spine. They don’t press too hard. Just smooth you open—figuratively, literally—with strokes that make your toes curl into the sheets. His fingers knead into the meat of your hips now, heavy and full, pressing into places that ache with tiredness, places that never get touched this way unless it’s under the guise of something much filthier.

“You wait too long,” he mutters. Voice rough, low, almost annoyed—but not really. Not at you. “Could feel the knots from the second I touched you.”

You hum, something low in your throat. Almost a laugh. Almost a whimper. “Didn’t have time.”

“Make time,” he snaps, but it’s soft. Almost affectionate. His hands say more than the words ever could. They dig in again, dragging slow zigzags along the base of your spine, making your back arch and your thighs twitch. He smooths them over your ass, dragging the oil agonisingly slow over you, until his thumbs brush over the lower crevices of your bottom.

“Just ask, I’ll rub your back”

You can’t tell if it’s the oil or your own sweat making your skin slick now. Can’t tell where the ache ends and the heat begins. Can’t tell where you end and his skilled fingers begin.

All you know is that Katsuki’s hands are still on you—huge and hot and unrelenting—and that you never want them to stop.

You’re starting to forget the ache.

Not because it’s gone, but because it’s changed, morphed into something else under his hands. It’s still there, but not sharp. Not angry. Just… full. Blooming warm in your chest and pooling low in your belly like syrup, like honey slowly melting down a spoon.

You breathe again. Really breathe. And it comes out shaky, lips parted against the pillow, lashes fluttering in the candlelight.

“Fuck,” you whisper. Not directed at him. Not even really a word. Just a sound of surrender.

Katsuki shifts behind you, and you feel it—his weight bearing down gently on the back of your thighs, his thighs bracketing yours now, his body closer than it was before. Still clothed. Still in control. But not distant.

Never distant.

You feel his breath brush across the back of your neck a second before his lips do.

A soft press. Nothing more. Just warmth. Just acknowledgement.

“I know you’re tired,” he murmurs, voice low, sticky with quiet tenderness and worn-down. “But you can’t let yourself get like this.”

You nod—barely—but he sees it. He always sees you. Even when you try not to be seen.

“I’m here,” he says. “You got a boyfriend to fix your back anytime”

It’s simple. Not romantic, not flowery. Just your usual Katsuki. 

His palms flatten against your waist again, spreading out like wings, dragging slow and deliberate as they glide up your sides. They pass over the swells of your breasts without urgency this time, just pressure and heat and familiarity, before curling over your shoulders. His thumbs dip under your arms, into the softest parts of you, and rub gentle, grounding circles.

You lean into it. Into him.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” you murmur, voice hushed against the pillow. His hands still. Not gone. Just still.

You call out his name, almost sheepishly, sleep dragging a voice that’s ready to complain, in contrast to your previous statement. You pout even, “Don’t stop babe i'm sore” 

Katsuki exhales through his nose, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s lower. Thicker. Like he’s trying not to let on how fond he is of you when you get like this tired and whiny and melting beneath his hands like you were made to be touched and felt up by him.

“Yeah?” he mutters, and you hear the smirk even before you feel it. “Thought I didn’t gotta fix everything.”

You nuzzle your cheek deeper into the pillow, refusing to dignify that with an answer.

He hums. His thumbs move again, slow, small circles into the soft spot just below your shoulder blades. You sigh, finally loud and satisfied again—and he shakes his head like he’s trying to be annoyed, even as his hands keep coaxing little, blissed-out sounds from your throat.

“Back’s all locked up like you’re made of concrete. What the hell’ve you been carryin’ around?”

You shrug lazily, the motion barely registering. “Life?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Too much of it.”

He shifts again, the bed dipping as his weight adjusts. One arm slides beneath your stomach, anchoring you gently, while the other keeps working slow and steady down your spine. Every stroke is fixated to every dip of your back like he’s trying to draw something out of you. Not just the tension. The tired. The worry.

You make another soft, contented noise, and he presses his lips to the side of your neck again—no heat, no rush, just a quiet, grateful touch.

One moment you’re relaxed, open, muscles soft, the dull ache of being rubbed with such pressure weighing you down to complete relaxation and the next—Katsuki’s lips find the edge of your shoulder blade. Smooching once, twice over spots that are oiled up.

He can’t help himself.

The lavender scent. The way your ass is curved upwards, so perky. The oil makes your skin shine in the low light of the candles. The angelic way the music starts sounding as the notes hit your skin like the softest raindrops on flower leaves; He feels himself lean into the fondly softness of the moment, growing hotter by each second. His cock has already started giving him warning throbs inside his briefs.

It’s almost quite dangerous, what you do to him. The sight of you sprawling limp and sleepy and soft under just the touch of his hands. So in a bold movement he smooths his wonders once again over your ass, thumbs parting your legs from the inside of your thighs, just a little. When he pulls back to his original position, vermillion eyes flicker where your slit is, glistening softly, not throbbing quite yet.

The slow drag of his hands, smoothing lower, is parted only by a moment from the pause just above the dip of your ass, where his thumbs rest—hover—like he’s thinking something over. Like he’s holding himself back, the way he always does when he thinks this might be too much, too soon, too selfish of him.

But to assure him, it isn’t, you push your hips back, just a tiny bit. So eager for him as always, even in this vulnerable state.

“Katsuki,” you breathe through a moan slurred, not like a question, not a plea. Just his name. Like you’re granting him permission by calling it out.

It’s all he needs.

His hands firm at your waist again, grip tightening just slightly, a groan catching low in his chest as his body bows over yours. You feel the warm press of his mouth at the nape of your neck, open and slow and wet. Feel his breath, the way it shakes. The way it matches yours.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he mutters against your skin. “Lyin’ here like this. Soundin’ like that.”

You’d laugh, a soft breathy chuckle, but it comes out like a whimper when his thumbs knead into the meat of your thighs and spread you gently apart. Lavender clings to everything. Your skin, your breath, the air—but now it’s mixed with eerie desire, like it wouldn’t turn out exactly like this when you asked him to rub your back.

His hands don’t rush, like they usually do when his chest is so tight with desire, arousal. They drag over your hips, your waist, until his fingers slide down the sides of your belly and find the edge of your hips again. This time, when he tugs your love handles, doughing them into the pads of his palms, there’s no hesitation. Just soft skin and warm oil peeling away from your skin, pooling on the sheets behind you.

You’re bare. Completely. The candlelight flickers, catching the sheen of sweat and oil across your back, your thighs. Katsuki pours more oil on his palms. You feel it trickle down your spine, between your legs. You feel him there too, kneeling behind you, hovering over you like heat itself.

And when his hands return, when his fingers slide between your thighs and find you already wet, already open—his breath punches out in one low, reverent curse, like he doesn’t remember seeing the way you were glistening when he looked over a second ago.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands slowly opening your ass cheeks “Look at you.”

You press your face harder into the pillow, hips tilting, thighs spreading wider in a silent invitation you’ve never needed to say aloud with him.

He slides one thick finger through your slick and groans, low and guttural like it hurts. Like he’s the one unraveling.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he says, voice rough, dazed, groaning out his words “fuckin’ dripping…”

The first push of his fingers is slow, deliberate—just one at first, thick and sure. Dragging the edge of the knuckle softly against your clit. Your back arches. Your mouth falls open. His other hand braces at your hip, grounding you, owning you.

Then another finger joins the first.

And god, his fingers are just as big as his hands, and you swear they’re made for this. Not gentle, but not rough either. Just pressure. Heat. Depth. The kind of stretch that makes your legs tremble, your body pulse with something deeper than need.

You sob into the pillow, and he shushes you softly—lips at your shoulder, tongue dragging the edge of your skin, teeth sinking in.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he breathes in your ear. “Let me make you feel good.”

You shiver when the pads of his thumbs push on the outter lips of your pussy, spreading you wider for him with that same careful control he uses in a fight—like he knows exactly how much force to use, how far to take it before it ruins you. And maybe you want to be ruined a little.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Katsuki murmurs, voice nearly gone, wrecked from how hard he’s breathing. His thumbs hold you open while his fingers curl slow, deep—dragging against that spot, under the hood of your clit that makes your thighs jolt, makes your chest squeeze tight. He watches you clench around him, watches the oil and slick mix and drip down to the crease of your thighs. Watches everything with that starved kind of look on his face, biting his lips and scrunching his nose, eyes blown wide like he’s being allowed to witness something sacred.

And he can’t help himself, once again, not to drag his left thumb over your entrance, circling softly, to gather some slick before his finger taps at your other puckered hole, rubbing once, twice, before slowly sinking in.

At the same time, almost, his right pointer finger enters your pussy, the thumb never leaving your clit, always circling it lazily, elliptical.

You both hiss, you at the feeling of both of your holes being entered, him at the feeling of how tightly you clamp around just his fingers.

His cock is furious inside his pants now. Angry at the top and leaking over the spot the tip has settled at.

“Fuuuuck,” he whispers again, this time quieter. Like it’s just for himself. Like he can’t believe how good you feel, how warm and wet and tight you are, clenching down on both fingers like your body’s trying to drag him in deeper.

And he feels like he might as well go insane.

Because it’s not just the way your body reacts to him, not just the way you sob and tremble and push back against his hand like you can’t get enough, though all of that drives him crazy. It’s that you let him see it. Let him touch you here, like this, in this kind of quiet, candlelit intimacy where everything is soft and raw and slow.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath catches.

It’s too much and at the same time, not enough.

His left hand, still slick and strong, adjusts where it holds you open. That finger still lazily and slowly pumping —almost still of movement— in the hole of your ass, teasing in slow, subtle pushes that make your whole spine tense, makes your toes curl into the sheets. And all the while, his right hand works in tandem; pointer finger deep inside your pussy, thumb lazy and steady on your clit like he’s marking time. Like he knows just how fast to take you, just how slow to pull you apart.

You whimper, shamefully loud. 

It’s the kind of sound you’d usually try to bite back, bury into your wrist or his bicep, but Katsuki doesn’t let you this time. He growls at it, low, like a threat, pushes in just a bit deeper, rubbing the pad of his thumb in slow, wet circles against your clit until your hips twitch again.

“There you go,” he mutters. “That’s it. Let me hear it, baby.”

You do. Because you can’t not.

As you carefully wiggle your hips just a little more upwards, you yelp, feeling just a little pain from the thick finger in your ass and it takes all of Katsuki’s humility to gather a ball of spit in his mouth and let it go off, past his raspberry blown lips and onto the slit of your ass. 

His finger exits so, so, so slowly, still you groan at the slight discomfort due to it, making his chest swell, and he catches some of his spit with his finger and enters you again.

Every nerve in your body is lit, every edge of you aching and raw. Katsuki doesn’t let up and with his chest bearing all this excitement and humility that makes his ears red and tingly from seeing you so spread open like this, he doesn’t stop. Just holds you open like you’re something precious and obscene all at once, his fingers working slow and deep until you’re shaking under him, toes curling, face buried in the pillow to keep from sobbing his name.

Suddenly, the bed creaks under his knees as he leans down, dwelling chest brushing your back, breath hot on your neck. His fingers never stop working—sliding deeper, curling, then scissoring your pussy open just slightly as if to test how ready you are for what comes next. He simply rasps at how wet you are, but it’s swallowed under the silky sounds of your squelching.

You feel open, loose, hot to the touch and unable to move, like your lower half has been lost in a cloud of overbearing pleasure.

Then, like you're kicked to the gut and jolted out of your pleasure cloud nine— you feel it. The weight of it.

Katsuki’s cock, hard and heavy, presses against the swell of your ass, sizzling hot even through the thin cotton of his boxers, begging to be set free.

You feel yourself leak, a beady drop of sticky sleek that trails down the lips of your pussy and onto his thumb. He presses down on your clit like it’s a button, squeezing just enough before flicking it, left then right, up then down and all over again until you’re screaming into the pillow.

Your pussy feels like it’s on fire and for once, the finger in your ass is starting to feel way more pleasing than it’s ever felt in the few times you two have tried this.

You feel the steady pulse of his throbbing mushroom tip beneath your skin, a weight that drags and shifts with every careful motion of his hips, like he’s tracing the shape of you without needing to see. Every inch memorized in the heat of this moment.

Slowly and so deliberately, his hands exit out of you with a pop and a treacherous whine from the depths of your chest that drips on your lips and slip to the waistband of his briefs, fingers rough only to himself as they peel the fabric down his thighs, releasing the tight hold. The cool air hits the bare skin of his cock, already glistening with heat and promise, and your breath catches at the sound of his dick hitting his abdomen.

Katsuki shifts closer, lips trailing a feather-light kiss along your shoulder, warm and urgent, grounding and electric all at once. His fingers slip free from where they held you open just moments ago, replaced by the thick, slick head of him pressing between your folds, nestling there like he’s already part of you.

His cockhead on your clit feels like heaven. Everything nice. Big and bulky and heavier than his thumb, it glides over a few, agonisingly slow times, before his voice breaks into speech. 

He finds your clit again, traps it between flesh and fingertip, giving a small, delicious pinch that makes you shiver and arch against him.

“Y’gonna let me in, baby?” he whispers, lips dragging over your shoulder as his fingers slip free, replaced by the thick head of him nestling between your folds again.

You’re going crazy. Aching at the loss of his tip on your entrance. Drool catches at the side of your mouth and spills over the pillow, walls clamping down around thin air. You need him inside you right now or else you’ll combust. You’ve been spread out and toyed with for oh so long.

“Y-yes, please baby, put it in”

His breath fans across your skin, hot and ragged, as he shifts the last bit of distance between you. The head of him presses deeper, teasing the wet, swollen gate of your slit, just at the edge of full surrender. Your body tightens, trembling with the delicious agony of waiting.

Then, painfully slow, he pushes inside you, past the tight rim of your entrance—inch by inch, and so deliberate, a tender invasion that makes your chest rise and fall in ragged gasps. The heat of him floods you, filling every ache and hollow with only his tip that's pouring clear precum like a river. A vein on his cock throbs, catches close to your g-spot and you moan at the feeling, your clit throbbing like its on fire, by the action.

Katsuki’s hot hands slide down your hips, gripping firm enough to anchor you but gentle enough to let you melt beneath him. His lips find the curve of your neck, pressing soft, chaste kisses that trail lower—each one a quiet confession, a promise stitched into flesh. He bucks into you again, broken breath and a rhythm to match it, hips far from even stuttering against you.

All Katsuki can think right now as he looks down at his hands on your plush skin is that he loves you. All blown out and barely spread open as he pushes your ass close, chanting his name as he feels you trap his veiny cock inside your walls. He couldn’t keep his hands off you for a second and it’s like a blessing that you asked him to massage you. A curse too, because he knew he wouldn’t hold back from turning it into sex even if he tried.

With every -barely- measured thrust, you feel his chest swell against your back, pounding with something more than desire—a love so raw and fierce it almost hurts. His cock drags deep inside you, the slow rhythm setting fire to every nerve, every whisper of skin-on-skin.

He buries his face into your shoulder, breath hitching, biting onto your earlobe and sucking before he speaks, voice thick and vulnerable at once. “Love you babe.”

Your body trembles, caught between the sweet sting of pleasure and the weight of his words. You press back into him, aching to close the distance, to be lost in the overwhelming pull of this moment—where every touch, every breath, every heartbeat says you.

“Love you too” you whisper, finally.

You gasp when he grinds deeper, and he groans like he’s hurting, like it physically aches how much he wants to make this last.

And then he starts kissing you. Everywhere.

“I gotchu babe, let go” he whimpers “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes. “Feels so good—I just wanna stay here, baby, please—lemme just…”

His hips stutter and you feel him shake into your sore neck, just a little—and his lips press harder, tighter, to your shoulder as he groans your name into your skin like a vow. Like he’s praying and you're his only god.

Your hand reaches back blindly, desperate to touch him, to grab at something real, with your face still squished into the pillow and he catches the movement, brings one of his hands to match yours and threads your fingers together without a second of hesitation. His hand tangles with yours above the pillow. Fingers sticky with lavender oil and need, pressing into yours like he needs the anchor. The other stays at your hip, guiding you back into him with the same rhythm he holds in battle—steady, devastating.

You can feel the way his heart beats against your back when he leans in close. Can hear the way his breath hitches when you let out a soft moan into the pillow, hips pushing back into his, seeking more.

His grip is tight, grounding. A promise made in the trembling space between sweating and hot skin.

You feel every inch of him, not just inside you, in the squelching in and out and the sound of skin slapping, but around you, covering you, his chest flush and hot on your back, the way his arm tighten around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you close enough.

With every thrust, he leans in, chest brushing your back, lips dragging kisses along the curve of your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear. His breath is warm and ragged, but his mouth is gentle. If saying ‘I love you’ wasn’t enough, his cock spells it out inside you, like he can’t stop saying the phrase without saying it out loud.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, kissing the nape of your neck, voice breaking against your skin. “Don’t even know what you do to me.”

Katsuki’s hips roll again, and you gasp more from the emotion than the sensation. You’re so full, he’s so deep in it almost hurts. But he’s so tender with it. You feel him kiss your shoulder again, then the spot just underneath your ear. You shiver under the weight of it, under the heat of his breath.

“Can’t get close enough to you,” he mutters, almost like he’s mad at himself for trying. “You’re all I fuckin’ think about.”

You reach for him with your other hand as well, fingers searching behind you until your hand finds his forearm. Taut, huge as always and trembling from the control he’s holding. You clutch him there, and he groans at the contact, your nails dig in and he’s thrusting just a little deeper, a little slower.

Each time his hips meet yours, your breath stutters, your throat tight with the aching swell of something bigger than arousal. It’s overwhelming—the way he fills you, how soft he’s being, how quiet and gentle he is when usually he’s all noise and heat and thunder. But now? There’s no room for temper now. And if he’s always just slightly embarrassed and aroused by that feeling in the bedroom, this time, it’s becoming something worse. His belly tightens, stomach tight and numb and falling like he’s been punched.

That bubbling feeling is travelling straight to his cock, making him impossibly hard, letting the start of an orgasm shimmer, his balls tightening so much he can feel it.

You can feel it where his hard abs brush your back, where his nose presses into your shoulder blade, where his hips move with more emotion than rhythm. His voice is cracking, his fingers are squeezing yours for dear life.

But the way he is fucking into you, is not rough, nor fast. It’s worship. Slow and delicious.

Every inch of his body sings with it, matching the soft song in the background. Every part of him is working to memorize a body he already knows like the back of his hand—not just how you feel around him, but the sound of your voice when you gasp, the way your hand tightens in his when the pleasure crests too high, the way your breath stutters when he kisses the back of your neck like he’s saying sorry for every time he ever doubted he’d deserve this.

He doesn’t even know what’s gotten into him right now.

It’s probably that he only feels safe when you touch him, when he touches you. It’s probably that the feeling of your skin on his is unlike any touch that he despises in this world. The hand you're digging your nails in is scarred, littered with skin tissue that’s newer, tissue that isn't going to match his old skin no matter how many years pass. And even though he hates looking at it, his cock throbs inside you at the sight of your bodies connecting there.

And it’s in every groan that leaves his lips, every kiss he drags across your spine, every tremble in his arms as he pulls you impossibly closer, like he needs your bodies fuse when he fucks you fron the back like a sin. Slowly, never picking up pace, likes he’s fucking you through it instead of towards it.

Your stomach feels likes it’s dropping, adorned in adoration, his love laced rhythm, that slow-motion hammering way he’s fucking you with is messing with your mind and body in delicious ways.

You’re almost at your breaking point.

Your breath catches again, again as the tension rises unbearably, a string pulled tighter and tighter through every snug and wet thrust, every kiss he plants tenderly, along your back 

Katsuki’s forehead falls to your shoulder. He’s barely trembling by an inch but you feel it. Not from strain, not from fatigue, but from the way this is undoing him. And fucking hell if this isnt the hottest sex youve had in a while.

There’s no fight for dominance, no cockiness, just tenderness. Him not being close to you enough, you not being close to him enough either.

He desperately wants you two to merge into one.

You can hear it in his voice when he speaks next. Not a growl, not a command. Just a whisper. Frayed, cracked, raw.

“Can’t—can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

The words split you open somewhere deeper than sore muscle. Because it’s not just the way he’s moving inside you, it’s the way his heart feels like it’s pulsing against your spine, the way he’s holding you like you’re both breakable.

You're scared for a second, that he's going to get irregular heart palpitations again, but the thought is pushed away when his lips brush your ear. “Your pussy 's so tight. Fuck...I’m not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like that.”

But he doesn’t make a move to pull away despite his words. Doesn’t even speed up. If anything, he presses in closer. Slower. Like he’s trying to memorize this exact second—the shape of your back under his chest, the soft pull of your fingers on his scarred forearm, the hitch in your breath that comes every time his hips roll forward.

You can feel the tremble in his thighs now. The catch in his rhythm. You’re so close, just on the edge, and he knows it. You know he is too. But he’s holding it back like he’s trying to stretch this moment out forever, like climaxing would mean letting go and he doesn’t want to let go.

But oh—you can feel it coming, like thunder on the horizon.

It coils in your belly, winds tighter with every breathless thrust. Slow, grounding, devastating in its tenderness. Katsuki’s mouth is at your shoulder again, dragging crazed open-mouthed kisses along your skin, the base of your hair, drunk on the scent of lavender and your skin like it’s an aphrodisiac.

You think you hear him whisper your name. Just your name. Not even his usual ‘babe’ like it’s the only word he remembers how to say, but it’s so cracked and under his breath you can’t pinpoint it over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

His cock pulses deep inside you, catching the perfect angle of your g-spot and it’s so hard now it aches, dragging against every place that makes you cry out, stretch, tremble. He’s still slow. Still careful. Always clinging to you like the act of letting go might mean waking up from this.

His arms wrap tighter around you. His scarred hand finds your chest from underneath you , just above your heart, and stays there, pressing down like he needs to feel every beat. His other is tangled over yours, fingers still locked tight, sweaty and trembling and unrelenting.

“Katsuki—” you choke, and he moans like your voice alone just finished him. A total fatality.

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know—‘m right here, come f—ah— for me. Let me fucking feel you. Say it babe, say you wanna come and I’ll —fuck, I’ll get you there”

“Wanna come on your cock Katsuki, feels s’good”

“Let go babe, ‘m here, I got ya” he whispers against your ear.

“Please… please, mhmm”

You shudder under him, your legs trembling as you reach that edge and go right over, your whole body clenching, fluttering around him, pulling him deeper as everything breaks open inside you. Your cry is caught in the pillow, but he feels it. Feels you squeeze, feels your hips arch, your back press flush against him, feels your ass fill out the space on his v-line.

And then he loses it. Sweat drips from his forehead and it takes all of his restraint to not let anything in his body ignite his quirk right now. You feel so good, so wet, so hot around him. 

He sinks as deep as he can go and stays there, buried, kissing your cervix with his leaky tip, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, one long broken sound leaving his chest as his body jolts once, twice, into yours.

You feel him come inside you. Hot. Filling out every tight spot his cock doesn’t kiss in you. And still, he doesn’t stop holding you.

His breath is a mess against your skin. Lips still find you in the aftermath—your shoulder, the side of your neck, the shell of your ear. Your cheek. His arms won’t stop shaking. Neither will yours.

But he doesn’t move. He goes still. Stiff like his whole body is cramping.

Minutes pass like this. Breathing each other in. Skin to skin. Not a single space left between you as he pushes you with his hand from underneath you, into his chest.

You shift your head, enough to reach for him with your mouth, just barely brushing your lips to his knuckles where your fingers are still laced together.

“Babe—Kats,” you breathe, lunges closing in, a hint of guilt closing in as you know he has no other way to make you feel he means it when he says he loves you “I love you so much but I’ll pass out”

“Yeah, yeah, just let me—” he shifts a little, just to pull out, dragging his hand just enough to flip you over as he lays on the bed “all good now. Love you”

Katsuki catches your cheeks and presses a tiny kiss to the apples of both your squished cheeks. He flattens you against his chest with that same arm—the one that pulled you through it all. His hand is spread wide over your back like he’s trying to cover every inch of you.

Your cheek rests against his collarbone, lips parted, lashes damp. You feel the flutter of his pulse against your mouth, a part of you, the one that’s worried about his heart, tries to count how many times his heart beats in sixty seconds.

“I can’t feel my thighs,” you murmur, the words slurred, not really a complaint, when you decide his heart is pumping just fine.

“Shut up,” he says, but it’s all rasp, no bite. His lips press to your sticky forehead like punctuation.

You hum a soft laugh against his chest, then pout as you hold and squeeze onto his peck, kissing the outer rim of his scar over and over again. “No, really. I think I forgot how to walk, you’re gonna have to massage me all oooover again”

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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[wiishopwednesday]

longing for something you can never return to

[ID: a collection of images relating to nostalgia. the first image is a genius screenshot of the lyrics to car seat headrest's "famous prophets (stars)." the screenshot reads "We gotta go back/We gotta go back/We gotta go back/We gotta go back." the second image is the "we got the torture labyrinth tomorrow" meme template, edited to instead say "We got missing what we can never return to tomorrow/What?/We got the beginning of the rest of our lives tomorrow/Ohhhh/Okay." the third image is a discord screenshot, with the user's username and icon cropped out so that only the text is visible, and reads "Duuudeee you missed out on those 7 days where god created earth you are fucked LOL." the fourth image is a screenshot of a piece of text, which reads in bolder font "You can never leave home." underneath it, in normal text, it reads "You take it with you no matter where you go. Home is between your teeth, under your fingernails, in the hair follicles, in your smile, in the ride of your hips, in the passage of your breasts." the fifth image is a screenshot of a post made by tumblr user ryebreadgf, which reads "YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN BITE AND SCRATCH AND BEG BUT YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK!" the sixth image is a screenshot of a piece of text that reads, "YOU KILL YOURSELF AND IMMEDIATELY WAKE UP AS A CHILD ON YOUR PARENTS BED. YOU'VE BEEN ASLEEP FOR HALF AN HOUR. THE SUN IS SHINING." the seventh image is a picture of two uneven dark yellow boxed next to each other on a off-white background. the first box reads, in handwriting, "I'm terrified of change." the second box reads, "I'm terrified of staying this way forever." the eighth image is a screenshot of a post made by tumblr user dakotajohnsongf, which reads "women be looking at pictures of their childhood selves and trying to find a way back to them." the ninth image is a screenshot of a post made by tumblr user bestofgentleearth, containing a screenshot from a forum of some kind. a line of text reads "(16 hours ago) butterfly said:" underneath, an indented section of text reads "today, the world looked beautiful again. i'm starting to remember what kept me alive last summer." the tenth image is another tumblr post by user cursedsuggestion, which reads "the friend you miss comes home for good. you never see another mirror. it's summer forever and that terrible thought you keep having finally disappears." the eleventh image is a screenshot of a reddit post, with the original poster's username and icon cropped out so only the text is visible. it reads "I'm not sure how to word this, but I constantly go through this deep sense of loss. I feel like I terribly miss something I love from the bottom of my heart, but I don't know what it is, exactly. Nothing in life satisfies me, nothing makes me content, but l wouldn't say I'm depressed either. There's just this endless search for something, and at times I feel I can catch a glimpse of it - different sceneries pop into my head at times, like of a particular beach at night, and I'm moved to tears. Or I remember a dream and all the feelings that were stirring while I saw that dream, and feel entirely connected to them." the twelfth image is a screenshot of a tumblr post, but the original poster is cropped out so only the text is visible, which reads "wait i wasn't ready. i never finished that game of tag. i still need to learn how to do a cartwheel. my friends and i never finished making that bridge over the creek. i want to go back. can you carry me to bed one last time? and maybe i'll wake up tomorrow in my childhood room with my pink walls and we'll laugh over this dream at breakfast." the thirteenth image is another tumblr screenshot of a post by user heavensghost, which reads "uhhh yh sure u can go back but no one will be waiting for you there."

the fourteenth image is a screenshot of a reddit comment, with the user's information cropped out so that only the text is visible, which reads "HIRAETH (heer-eye-th) 'A deep homesickness; an intense form of longing or nostalgia for a place long gone, or even an unaccountable homesickness for a place you have never visited. A pull on the heart that conveys a distinct feeling of missing something irretrievably lost.'" the fifteenth image is a collection of 3 rows of black boxes, with 3 boxes in each row. the first box has a white, vague form of a human. the second box pictures the human form stretching its arms and legs out. from the third box onward, the human figure starts to dissipate into white dots until it has completely disappeared and only dots remain. the sixteenth image is a tumblr post by user n1ntendos, which reads "I AM HAUNTED BY A PAST I CANNOT GO BACK TO !!!!!!! anyways." the seventeenth image is a screenshot of text that reads "I cling to everything - CDs that skip, rings that turn my fingers green, the dead ends of my hair, old love notes that turn my stomach over and over. And I'm not proud but there are still boxes under my bed. And I'm not proud but my closet is still running out of space. And nostalgia is a fucking waste of time but my heart is full with it. Tell me I won't hold this forever. Tell me there will be a day where I let gloriously go." the eighteenth image is an image of larger text that reads "It's a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world." the nineteenth image is a photograph of a large white dog standing in a dark, flowing river surrounded by a dark forest and green trees. the dog is facing away from the viewer with its mouth open. the dog appears to be glowing, likely due to a lens flare of some kind. the entire picture feels very melancholy and nostalgic. the twentieth image is larger text that reads "Nostalgia is the aching realization that you can't go back again. The longing, no matter how intense, can never be met." the twenty-first image is a screenshot of an instagram dm, with the user's username and icon cropped out so that only the text is visible, and it reads "well the time passes anyway so I have to." the twenty-second image is a screenshot of the spotify lyrics for gerard way's song "action cat." the lyrics read "Hey/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you/Do you miss me?/'Cause I miss you too." the twenty-third image is a screenshot of text that reads "YOUR CHILDHOOD DOG IS ALIVE. YOUR DEAD BEST FRIEND WANTS TO GET COFFEE. YOU HAVE BEEN KIND AND GOOD. THERE IS NOTHING CHASING YOU. YOU CAN SLEEP. WHAT DO YOU DO?" the twenty-fourth image is a continuation of the lyrics from car seat headrest's "famous prophets (stars)" that were pictured in the first image. these lyrics read "We've gotta go back/We've gotta go back/We've gotta go back/(Don't spend too much time on it)." end ID.]

[xichilie]

Phainon x (fem)reader x Mydei

Phainon’s Purr-dicament

This was not how today was supposed to go.

One minute, Phainon had been grinning like usual, confidently leading their little trio through the ruins as he boasted about how clearly he was the most capable one here. The next? A blinding flash from the relic they were investigating—then darkness.

And now?

Now he was a tiny, fluffy, white cat.

He sat there, tail flicking in irritation, staring up at Mydei and Y/N in absolute disbelief.

“…You have got to be kidding me,” Mydei muttered, rubbing his temples.

“Wait—” Y/N gasped, kneeling down. “Where’s Phainon?”

I’M RIGHT HERE! Phainon tried to shout. But all that came out was—

"Meow."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Mydei sighed. Deeply.

Phainon quickly realized two things.

One: He couldn’t talk, which meant he couldn’t properly yell at Mydei or brag about how technically this wasn’t his fault.

Two: Y/N was obsessed with him like this.

“Oh, look at you,” she gushed, scooping him up into her arms. “You’re adorable!”

Phainon froze.

This… this was nice. Very nice. Y/N was cradling him close, her hands stroking through his fur, her voice soft and affectionate. He was practically melting. And the best part?

Mydei looked annoyed.

“Ugh.” Mydei crossed his arms. “Are we seriously stopping everything because Phainon turned into a walking puffball?”

Y/N ignored him, holding Phainon up so they were eye-to-eye. “Don’t listen to him. You’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

If Phainon could smirk, he would. Instead, he smugly flicked his tail.

Mydei glared. “Oh, you are way too happy about this.”

Phainon, completely unbothered, stretched lazily in Y/N’s arms, his fluffy little paws resting against her chest.

“Oh, and he’s so soft,” Y/N continued, now scratching gently under his chin.

Phainon had never been this close to her before. And it was glorious.

Mydei was officially done. “Okay. That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not,” Y/N argued, still completely absorbed in Phainon. “Look at him. He’s purring!”

Indeed, Phainon was purring like his life depended on it.

Mydei exhaled sharply. “Unbelievable.”

Phainon flicked an ear, sending Mydei a look that very clearly said: Sucks to be you, huh?

Mydei twitched. “You better hope we don’t figure out how to turn you back too fast, because the moment you have hands again, I will make you regret this.”

Phainon just yawned. Dramatically.

Y/N smiled. “Don’t worry, Phai, we’ll fix this soon.”

Take your time, Phainon thought, settling comfortably in her arms.

He could get used to this.

After what felt like an eternity of Y/N showering Phainon with affection (not that he was complaining), Mydei finally groaned. “Alright, we do have an actual mission, remember?”

Y/N, still holding Phainon close, tilted her head. “Right… but we also have a tiny problem.” She glanced down at the fluffy cat in her arms, who blinked up at her innocently. “We can’t just leave Phai like this.”

Phainon gave her a slow blink—something he had learned cats did when they liked someone.

Y/N’s heart melted. “Aww, Mydei, did you see that? He trusts me.”

Mydei pinched the bridge of his nose. “He is him but smaller and with fur. Don’t fall for his act.”

Phainon stretched, his little paws pressing against Y/N’s chest again as he nestled in closer.

Mydei’s eye twitched. “Oh, he is enjoying this.”

Y/N giggled. “Of course he is! He’s getting spoiled.”

Phainon was getting spoiled, and he absolutely loved it. Not only was Y/N practically glued to him, but Mydei’s growing frustration was delicious.

“Alright,” Mydei sighed, crossing his arms. “How do we fix him?”

Y/N hummed. “We could go back to Okhama and ask the scholars. Maybe they know something about this relic.”

Phainon flicked his tail. That… sounded like a lot of effort. And possibly a lot of boring lectures.

Mydei nodded. “Yeah, that’s probably the best option. Unless you’d rather stay a house cat for the rest of your life.”

Phainon’s tail lashed. Don’t test me.

Y/N gasped dramatically. “Oh, but imagine if we can’t fix him! I’d have to keep him as a pet.”

Phainon’s ears perked up. That doesn’t sound so bad…

“I’d have to take him everywhere with me,” Y/N continued, clearly enjoying the idea. “I’d get him a little collar, maybe a tiny cape—”

Phainon beamed internally. Yes. Yes, tell me more.

Mydei looked horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N pouted. “Why not? He’d be so cute.”

“Because the moment he’s human again, we’d never hear the end of it!” Mydei pointed accusingly at the cat in question. “He’d bring it up every day!”

Phainon simply curled up smugly in Y/N’s arms, tail wrapping around himself like a little prince.

Y/N giggled. “Okay, okay. Let’s get going.”

Back at Okhema…

By the time they arrived, word had already spread that Y/N was carrying around an unusually friendly, fluffy white cat. People kept stopping her, cooing over “such a beautiful little thing.”

Phainon, of course, lapped up every ounce of attention.

Y/N, beaming, let a group of kids pet him while Mydei stood nearby looking deeply unimpressed.

“Look at him,” Mydei muttered. “He’s supposed to be suffering, and instead he’s being pampered like some divine beast.”

Y/N giggled as Phainon purred louder, snuggling against her. “Oh, don’t be jealous.”

Mydei scoffed. “I am not jealous.”

At that moment, an older merchant lady stopped to admire Phainon. “Such a sweet little kitty!” She gave him a few head scritches before glancing at Y/N. “Is he yours?”

Y/N hesitated. “Oh, well, not exactly—”

“No,” Mydei interrupted flatly. “No, he’s a stray from the dumpster.”

Phainon glared.

The merchant chuckled. “He’s clearly attached to you.”

Phainon smugly flicked his tail. That’s right. I am.

Y/N smiled. “He really is.”

Mydei groaned.

After a long and extremely smug walk through the city, they finally arrived at the scholar’s hall. An elder scholar examined the relic, nodding sagely.

“Ah, this is a transformation artifact. Ancient magic, quite powerful. Thankfully, the effect is temporary.”

Phainon’s ears perked up. Oh?

“How temporary?” Mydei asked.

“A day, at most,” the scholar said. “Possibly a few more hours.”

Y/N pouted. “Oh. I was starting to like having him as a little cat.”

Phainon was about to agree—until he noticed Mydei smirking.

“Oh, fantastic,” Mydei said, tone dripping with satisfaction. “Because the moment you’re back to normal, Phainon, you and I are having a very long conversation about this entire day.”

Phainon suddenly wasn’t in such a hurry to be human again.

True to the scholar’s word, Phainon eventually started glowing.

Y/N placed him gently on the ground, stepping back as the golden light enveloped him.

When it faded—there he was. Back in his full, human glory.

Grinning, Phainon stretched. “Oh, it’s so good to have hands again.”

Y/N chuckled. “Welcome back.”

And then—before he could do anything else—Mydei grabbed the collar of his coat.

Phainon barely had time to react before Mydei dragged him outside.

“Alright,” Mydei said, voice too calm. “You had way too much fun today.”

Phainon smirked. “Oh, did I?”

Mydei’s eye twitched. “You purring? Absolutely disgusting.”

Phainon grinned wider. “Jealous?”

Mydei groaned.

Y/N, still inside, watched them go with an amused smile.

Honestly? She had kind of enjoyed Phainon’s Purr-dicament.

And something told her he had too.

[neigepomme]

cw // NSFW. virginity loss with X-02 / some spoilers for caleb's myth

thinking about the first time with caleb as X-02. buried deep within his memories is this desire to touch you, to experience your warmth, and to find out how you feel wrapped around him — to learn what faces and sounds you make when you eventually fall victim to the overwhelming pleasure.

caleb would take his time, push away all of the thoughts telling him to thrust into you harder and harder in order to satisfy his own wants. instead, he prioritizes you, just like he's always done. he taught you about the warmth of one another, showed you what happiness feels like, and made you feel alive.

he would be the first to teach you what euphoria feels like, and he'd be so sweet — but not too soft. caleb knows what's best for you, but his heart still clenches when he sees you grimace in discomfort at first. your pain receptors may have been dulled by the researchers at OTHAN, but you're still capable of knowing what pain is, and despite your body having experienced numerous wounds in battle, adjusting to caleb's size is still a challenge.

just like the first time when he exchanged energy with you, a wave of cold discomfort washes over you, but his arms embrace your body, keeping you in place while you gasp and clench around him in order to get used to that feeling of fullness. caleb knows what's good for you, and letting you squirm and run away from him isn't a good thing. so he kisses your face softly, starting with your forehead, then your eyes, cheeks, and finally, your lips — the tenderness of it all a stark contrast from the bruising grip he has on your hips as he bottoms out into you.

eventually, the discomfort subsides, and you see your expression reflected in caleb's eyes. your flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, the quiet whimpers and moans falling from your lips. in between pants, you speak softly and wrap your arms around his neck.

"is this.. euphoria?"

your tone and curiosity, carrying hints of longing and hidden desires, act like aphrodisiacs for caleb. in your field of vision, you see drops of sweat trickle down his forehead, and he's mirroring your red cheeks — his dazed expression, full of adoration amplifying the strange tightening sensation you feel in your lower stomach. he just smiles at you before nodding, pressing another delicate kiss to your lips before moving his mouth on your neck, suckling purple bruises near your pulse point.

without your exoskeletons on, you can feel his warmth, and it's like you've uncovered the taste of the forbidden fruit. greedily, your hands shift from his neck to his back, and you try to move your hips in an attempt to meet his thrusts, seeking out more of this warmth, more of this feeling — trying to release the tight coil in your stomach.

"do you feel good?"

it's caleb's turn to ask a question, and in response, all you can do is moan and drag your nails softly down his back, careful not to scratch him too hard. you shake your head yes, and it's so hard to formulate sentences, when all you can think of is caleb. his name repeats like a mantra in your mind before making its way to your lips. you call for him, unaware of what you're even seeking. that is until it clicks for you, spoken through your body like a fact that the universe itself decreed.

you're seeking caleb out.

"wanna feel more warmth, wanna feel you more — wanna be one with you, caleb."

in response, caleb's eyes widen, and he moans, pressing himself against your body more, his hips driving into you harder than before. his restraints slowly die down as he observes your mannerisms when you get closer and closer to your release — mesmerized by the way you clench down on him involuntarily, the way you arch your back to meet his chest. his hand moves down to rub tight circles against your clit, making the volume of your cries for him increase tenfold.

when you inevitably reach your high, all you can do is babble caleb's name repeatedly, as you cup his cheeks, your foreheads pressed together. you can practically feel caleb's heart beating against yours, syncing up as the speed of his thrusts increases. you look down to where the two of you are joined, and the visual stimuli of his cock sliding in and out of you, covered in your slick and his pre-cum sends your mind and body into overdrive, moaning harder and harder as caleb's motions grow more frantic, desperate. eventually, the pace between his thrusts becomes uneven, and you feel his warm release shoot into your womb. his voice rougher yet laced with devotion as he comes, and the weight of his words reach your hazy mind.

"i love you i love you i love you — fuck, i love you so much."

breathing hard, he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you under his weight. both of your bodies spent, yet feeling so fulfilled. stroking his hair softly, the way he did with you, you repeat his words to him, and although you don't quite understand them, they feel right. he feels right, and you wouldn't trade this unknown feeling for anything in the world.

"i love you, caleb."

🍎 pomme's notes — clang clang clang clang (usb connect disconnect sound x81981789) . erm . Ya !

[quirkycritters]

Game Night: CHAIN ATTACK!!!

i am,,, withering away but ITS DONE ITS DONE IM FREE FROM THE CURSE (<<< still haunted by wips) clocking in at 32+ hours, this sucker has been getting pushed around for 10 months-

while theres some things i would have done differently if i could redo this from scratch, i still had a BLAST cramming in as much detail as i could tolerate >:) some highlights / cut ideas / ramblings are below the cut, but please zoom for details! (if tumblr doesnt shred it to bits)

gonna be real i locked so hard onto drawing ripped jeans that i forgot i could have just shoved legend into a skirt and called it a day

SOCKS. SOCKS. the amount of Joy anytime i figured out how to personalize them with game references: legend (hibiscus), twilight (ordon goats), and four (force gems)

i WAS going to put time in a turtleneck, but had an epiphany and started digging for the most obnoxious hawaiian shirts i could find,,, ft. a sea flower (wind waker) and a saturation boosted plumm (twilight princess)!

yeah so warriors got the sweater instead of the skintight shirt, sorry gang

speaking of if i ever say im going to draw a cableknit sweater again, somebody PLEASE shake some sense into me- warriors sweater was a NIGHTMARE since my art program has an astonishing lack of good brushes (and yet here i am still using it)

MOST of the text has been modified using the twilight princess cipher because yeah. i was procrastinating shading. also the other ciphers were in japanese- times shirt is cropped, but reads "its 5 oclock somewhere"

winds lobster shirt :) that is all i just think its neat

wilds jacket :) link w(ild) 2017, aka the release year of botw

jewelry! sky has the fireshield earrings, and wild has the amber earrings~ could barely squeeze the bombos and quake medallions onto legend, and wind got the joy pendant

hyrule :D embroidery on his sweatpants because i was struck by whimsy- also i 100% thought his shield was purple tinted for weeks while drawing this because the page i used as reference was set at night, and i was originally basing his sweater on his shield- scrapped the cross pattern after several failed attempts but kept the color ^^

the chips are bbq because im biased (reads "crisps" in twilight princess cipher for no real reason except whimsy)

bless my dearest homie for game reccs because the og plan was to have them all be loz games! titles include wii sports resort, elebits, super mario party, smash bros ultimate, just dance 2016 (its box art is colorful ok), and myth makers orbs of doom (I HATE THIS GAME WITH EVERY FIBER OF MY BEING, as i should, anyways i should play it again). four is suggesting orbs of doom, buddy aint even playing,,,

kinda was hoping to play around with hair colors and skin tones a bit more, but again, see the hour count- ill get em next time surely,,, also blue vs violet eyes for legend already had me in decision paralysis

the whole gang was gonna have friendship bracelets with color combos based on dynamics i found neat but oops! didnt finish the layer :')

thats a wrap! didnt yap about everything but im curious what yall catch onto- anyways surely ive learned something about biting off more than i can chew (<<< lying liar who lies)

[i-am-hungry-24-7]

Simon taking care of you when you accidentally injured yourself. Just fluff cuz I need fluff :D .

cw: pet names (princess, love etc.)

“Simon, I’m home!”

You opened the front door, only to see Simon sitting on the couch. Hearing your voice, he raised his head from the book he was infatuated with these days, and a low hum left him as a welcome.

“I’ll go shower first, the weather’s hot as hell, and I’m stink.”

You tossed the key onto the plate, nonchalantly passed your lover, but Simon could sense the difference in your movements.

“Stop.”

He stood up from the couch, and came straight towards you.

Oh no, you’re so fucked up.

“Hey, Si! I’m dirty! put me down!”

Simon ignored your yelling, scooping you up and over his shoulder.

“Don’t move.”

He demanded, and you swallowed hard when he grabbed your left ankle, and lifted the trouser legs.

“You’re hiding this from me?” His coffee-like brown eyes narrowed in disapproval, throwing you daggers while all you could do was let out a sigh.

“Sorry, Simon. Don’t want to concern you.”

Crooking his eyebrow, Simon darted his eyes back to observe the wound on your left calf. A long, deep cut went across half of your flesh, blood just managed to stop dripping, and fortunately didn’t stick your injury to the clothes.

“Where do you get this?”

“The parking lot of the market. Didn’t see a rock and stumble over it, and the pin sticking out of a wall dug into my leg when I tried to steady myself.” You shrugged.

You knew he was worried and hated to see you get hurt, that’s why you try to sneak to the bathroom and deal with it yourself. Simon’s eyes softened when he learned how you get yourself injured, but you had a feeling that he wouldn’t allow you to do things alone for at least a week.

“let’s go shower.” He picked you up swiftly as if you weighed nothing, and you just melted into his touch.

“You gonna help me?” Even though you knew the answer, you still asked when he strode to the bathroom.

“You think there’s other options?”

“... No.”

“Good Girl.” planting a kiss on your forehead, he kicked open the door.

“Close your eyes, don’t want to sting them, love.”

Your satisfied grumble when his hands attentively scratched your head made Simon chuckle. He put you in the warm bathtub, and the little chair looked comical under his bulky stature, but you didn’t laugh at him this time, instead focusing on his hands.

His hands, working magically through your hair, carefully not to tug your hair with too much strength. The hands that always protect you, the hands that are littered with scars, soaked with blood, but massage your shoulders when you are tired, shuffle your hair when you playfully argue with him, place on your belly when he hugs you from behind and whispered his affection to you.

He reserved all his tenderness to you, and you wondered why you were lucky enough to have this man as yours.

“Told you to close your eyes, love.”

You smiled when Simon finally discovered you had been staring at him from the start.

“Am I not allowed to watch my beautiful husband?”

“Don’t complain when the sud run into those pretty eyes then.” He huffed out a laugh.

When it came to you, he just couldn’t do anything but surrender to your adorable cheekiness. He thought when he couldn’t help but give your cheek a peck.

You sat on the edge of your bed now. Simon had dry your hair, and made you put on your underwear and his black shirt.

He was kneeling in front of you now, picking through the gauze and disinfectant. He seemed to find all the things he needed. Placing them aside, he took your ankle in his hand again.

“It’ll hurt a bit.”

He traced circles on your thigh to soothe the pain when he sprayed the antiseptic on your wound and waited for it to dry.

“You’re doing well, love. We’re almost finished.”

He cooed when he saw you blinked away a tear hanging on the corner of your eye.

Nodding, you watched him cover the wound with gauze and secure it.

“Thank you, Si.”

You chanted softly when his thumb caressed on the tape. Simon didn’t let go of your ankle when you thanked him, but landed a kiss beside the gauze.

“A spell for faster healing” The childish glints in his eyes were obvious when he lifted his head to meet your eyes.

“Don’t know you’re such a romantic person, baby.” You poke his cheek with a laugh.

“Guess there’s more of me yet for you to figure out.

He threw the bottles back into the medkit, and finally stood up after kneeling for ten minutes.

“Anything you want now, princess?”

“cuddle with me, Simon. The wound hurts.”

“Who’s the one trying to hide it thirty minutes ago?”

Lying on your back on the bed, his blonde hair shined under the light, but not brighter than the languid smirk he wore on his lips.

“Are you saying you don’t want to cuddle with me now?”

“Are there other options?”

“of course not, handsome.” You worm yourself into the comforter, and beckoned him to join you.

Slump down on the bed, he wiggled himself into his usual cuddling posture, arms snaked around your waist, and covered your belly with his palm.

“Anything for you, love.” You felt he kissed the shell of your ear when your eyes closed under the coziness.

[sister-lucifer]

hcs 4 toby giving bj 4 first time :3

Toby’s First Time Giving/Receiving a Blowjob Headcanons 

Ticci Toby x Gender Neutral Reader 

A/N: I know you probably meant Toby giving a blowjob for the first time but I wrote both because i can. enjoy the double feature

Genre: Smut headcanons 

Content/Warnings: Oral sex (obviously), Toby likes praise, face fucking, Toby gets a bit rough in his excitement but he doesn’t mean it, he’s just a feral, excitable horndog, scenarios for both AFAB and AMAB readers are included, use of dick, cock and cunt to describe genitalia

Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!

Also, please reblog! it’s free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out 

Feedback is encouraged and appreciated:)

Not fully proofread! Let me know if you see any errors!

Giving 

Oooohhh boy okay, listen 

He’s not exactly experienced 

Most of the people he went to high school with were incredibly put off by him and the like two who weren’t never went past making out 

He has no idea what he’s doing, you’ll have to teach him 

The good news? He’s very eager to learn 

If you have a dick he’ll try to deepthroat it IMMEDIATELY, regardless of the fact that he’ll choke like a fucking idiot, and you’ll have to practically yank him off of you 

If you have a cunt he’ll do the same thing except latching on way too fast and way too rough in a clumsy but genuine effort to pleasure you

Just hold tightly to his hair to keep him from ducking back down and gently instruct him to start slow 

You’ll have to be very detailed with your instructions, and he has no shame, so expect a lot of really specific questions 

“Should I-I keep flicking your clit with my tongue like th-that?” 

“Do you like w-when I circle your tip l-like that?” 

Etc, etc

And he’ll say it with 100% sincerity, because he really does want you to enjoy this

It takes him a minute to get the hang of it, but once he gets his rhythm he won’t stop until you’re begging him to 

It’s fun for him to watch you squirm and moan, it brings him just as much pleasure as it does you 

You can encourage him to keep going by scratching his head, running your fingers through his hair, and giving a little tug when he does something you particularly enjoy

Speaking of which, he responds very well to verbal feedback (re: praise) 

You can see his eyes light up when you call him a good boy or tell him he’s doing well 

And he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get him praise

Basically, he’s easy to train

Just keep telling him how well he’s doing, and be clear about what you enjoy 

He’s more than happy to comply 

Plus, it’s kinda hot to watch the drool and cum leak from the gash in his cheek as he eagerly laps up everything he can get from you

Receiving 

Well your first challenge will be getting him to sit still

He’s a hyperactive bastard and his excitement will manifest as restlessness 

It’s best to have him lying on his back to reduce the risk of possible injury, but he will still shake his legs and fidget with his sleeves as he watches you position yourself between his legs

He’ll try not to touch you at first because he’s not really sure what’s acceptable or not, instead opting to fumble with his fingers and gnaw on his knuckles 

He’ll be breathing heavily and mumbling to himself the whole time, before you’ve even gotten his cock out 

“I-I can’t believe you’re doing this for-for me…Y-You’re so nice to m-me…I-I don’t—fuck!—I don’t k-know what I’d do with-without you…”

And he’ll go on and on like that until you’ve sucked him so good he can’t talk 

He’ll forget his manners the closer he gets to cumming

He’ll get more and more needy and he’ll start to grab at your hair 

Unless you stop him, he’ll get rougher and rougher until he’s practically fucking your mouth, pulling and pushing your head back and forth by your hair and thrusting into your mouth 

He’ll have drool running down his chin and he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut, just completely desperate and messy

The best part is the way he’ll shamelessly beg to cum down your throat 

“Pleeeaaase, please, please, fuck—! I-It’s all I want, just let me—let me cum in your m-mouth, I need it! I-I’ve been a g-good boy, haven’t I?!”

If you don’t say yes he’ll literally cry 

But if you do, the absolute euphoria that’ll cross his face is more than worth it 

He’ll force you down on his cock as he releases down your throat, his back arching in an almost violent manner as he forces you to take everything he has to give

And he won’t let go until he’s completely done 

When you’re finally released from his death grip it’ll be because he’s gone limp, completely spent and barely conscious 

Give him a quick kiss before you go to clean up, he’ll lick your lips clean for you 

He’ll be riding that high for hours