#tutor: you make me yearn for it and then you leave

[color-beyond-lines]

I’m watching Why R U? (Thai) for the first time and ep 10 FighterTutor was life-changing! omg why has it taken me so long to watch this show??

The yearning, the desire, the need?! Incredible work.

The way Tutor’s gaze locks onto Fighter because he’s not letting him back down this time.

The way Fighter so desperately wants to give into his feelings, afraid to see what will happen if he does.

The intensity of their emotions and also the tenderness of how they care for each other.

10/10 no notes.

[anantaru]

synopsis. you got alhaitham to tutor you, although he uses a method you weren't quite expecting, ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ cw, fingering, soft dom alhaitham, petnames used: good girl, fem! reader ᰔ

"repeat that paragraph, that one, read it to me," shuddered and twisted, you weakly nod back at alhaitham's words, the veil of lust drawing across his face.

you admire his honed jaw and poised tone, the perfect shade of red on his cheeks, no trace of imperfections except a lustre ignite of fire shaped inside the yearning in his eyes.

for now, you were only capable to re-read half of the paragraph as he digs the finger deeper inside before curling it, curling it hard, nudging your puffy cunt as you close your eyes at the impact, alternating between squeezing his hand with your thighs and parting your legs in obvious invitation.

alhaitham continues to lightly stroke over your searing walls, tracing his way further until you squirm at the mind-altering press on your cunt, your hole clenching around the digit, holding the finger in for him to never leave you, "yeah, good girl— ugh, but what else? that's not all," he grins as you sneakily ride his hand, his cock hardening inside his pants.

you rest your head on his shoulder, your focus forced on holding onto the book as good as you could.

you attempt to continue, founding it to be futile when he fucks you with a precision that quickened your blood.

"what else do you got for me?" he repeats.

"c-can we just forget about studying already?" you attempt to reason, stuttering over your words, "you know i can't— i want more," as you cough out and squirm, your hips shifting forward so your clit could grind against the heel of his hand ever so often, "i can't focus like this,"

you were correct, in fact, you were certain no one in all of sumeru could ever focus on a single task when a man such as alhaitham himself, no matter how aggravating at times, would look at someone with such hunger in his eyes, a gaze filled to perpetual sharpness.

you do not want him to stop, you want him to do more.

"you seem to enjoy it," the confidence in his tone could not be any clearer, "very much."

he tilts his head to look at you, the brush of his lips against your cheek making you whimper, the following scrape of his teeth hovering against your jawline tempting out a shiver after such tenderness.

a sensual thrust of his hand repeatedly curls and digs into you, knocking the air from your lungs as you clench as strongly as you could around a single digit, his finger rubbing just so against the furthest, most delicious spots of your walls that it increased the force and pressure on your tight belly from the inside.

how long until you break?

his finger wiggles inside, the touch exquisitely precise, awfully confident, and you found yourself in an inescapable position, impossible to hold yourself back from sinking into the sensation of feeling him. just having him touch you.

"you want me to put another finger?" he kisses your cheek tenderly.

your skin holds against sweat and desperation, tickling the hairs on your skin as a satisfactory pleasure could be felt ebbing and flowing through the entirety of your body.

"yes, please another," you breathe, greeting the scribe with a little more than soft excitement in your voice— but you sounded so angelic to him, your voice silk alike, drowning in a river of solace.

shameless in his doings, alhaitham smirks against you, his lips a hairbreadth away from your ear, "really? you think you got that?"

you nod in certain ecstasy, keeping one hand wrapped around his wrist as he pleasures you, stretching and burning into your hole.

the scribe remains confident in wanting to embed his touch, all of it, on you— not only that but his scent too, he needs your body to pick it up until his aura webs all over your most delicate spots naturally, nothing comparing to the feeling of fullness he gives you.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[sweeterthanficstion]

— take me back to eden || l.s.k

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader --- fem pronouns are not used, but written with fem!reader in mind. reader is afab

tags: high school au, college au, re2r leon -> re4r leon pipeline, childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, smut, a fuck ton of yearning MDNI 18+, male masturbation, p in v, unprotected sex (don't be silly, guys), loss of virginity, hand job, cunnilingus sort of, creampie, praise kink, breeding kink if you squint (sorry...) porn with plot, porn with feelings (like. too many feelings it's sort of gross)

summary: You try to desperately reignite an old friendship with Leon before high school wraps up. What starts out as a simple effort to mend things blossoms into something you couldn't have anticipated. But as summer ends, Leon’s moving away for College, leaving you in Raccoon City. Or so you thought.

word count: 10k ish

a/n: gosh, hi, it's been a while!! i've been fighting writer's block for nearly a year, and it definitely was NOT part of my plan to post leon smut before the knight fic, but cough ovulation week cough and uh.. this happened? big thanks to cressie for feeding the brainworms, and vivi for cheering me on, and of course eva for encouraging me to write again <33

also for the sake of my own sanity we're gonna pretend kairo was released in the 1990s because i just REALLY wanted them to watch kairo. and if you can catch all the song/movie references i make throughout this you'll get a gold star, anyway, enjoy! <3

playlist ⭑ masterlist ⭑AO3

If someone offered Leon a thousand dollars to pinpoint exactly where in the timeline of your friendship you’d grown apart, he wouldn’t be able to. Maybe it was just fate taking her course, friends growing apart. He’s tried to make peace with it, chalking it up to the inevitability of growing apart, another lesson in the long list of things he’s had to learn to accept.

But it doesn’t stop him from missing you. More than he’s willing to admit, even to himself.

Between college applications and finals, Leon’s life is already at full capacity, he’s fast-tracking, tunnel vision set on finishing senior year and getting into Stanford so he can get the hell out of Raccoon City. And he’s got it, he’s got this.

But then there you are, barrelling back into his life with all the force of something impossible to ignore, as if you’d never really left his orbit, as if the universe decided it wasn’t quite done with the two of you yet. Your smile hasn’t changed, still sweet and sticky like molasses. It’s disarming when  you ask if he can tutor you, voice light and breezy, as if no time has passed between you at all— just a few sessions here and there! You tell him, just to save you from failing another semester of chemistry.

He agrees nearly blindly, the words out of his mouth before he has time to think them through.

It has been so long since you’d even talked to him properly, anything other than a ‘hi’ or a ‘bye’ muttered in the school hallways before you’re whisked away by your friends. He’s honestly elated you’d approached him at all—he tried not to show it, though.

And he did great the first few sessions. Sure, it was more than awkward at first—but Leon was partly thankful for it. It left little room for him to entertain the idea of staying friends with you again for long. You’d create a simple routine together wherein you’d come over to his place, he’d teach you everything from organic to physical chemistry, then you’d bid him goodnight and leave. Simple. Predictable. Routine.

But then you started to break that routine, a variable that he hadn’t accounted for. You’d kick his foot under the dining table while you worked on homework together, laugh at his jokes even when they’re painfully bad because you think it’s cute. Then when you have to migrate upstairs after his parents come home from work, you’d settle onto his bed, glancing around his room and teasing him about how little he’d changed—still the same movie posters, still the same boy you once knew. 

You tell him about your day, he tells you about his, then you’ll go as far as to stay a little longer some nights, both of you acutely aware of the time but not doing a thing about it. 

He finds with time, he’s learnt to enjoy your company again. It isn’t so tense, no longer like walking on the glass shards of your previously shattered relationship. It’s easier now, as if none of the vast ocean separating you was ever there to begin with. He tries not to dwell on the fact that this newfound relationship is built entirely on the twenty dollar bill you hand him each night.

Then one night Leon’s mother invites you to stay for dinner, he expects you to politely decline, hand him the twenty dollar bill for the tuition, and leave. 

But much to Leon’s surprise, you don’t.

It’s catalytic, like a domino effect that he’s helpless against stopping. It gets so much worse when you offer to stay behind to help clean up. All but glowing as you strike up casual conversation with his mother, as if you’d never stopped visiting over the past six years. You’re a sweet talker, always have been, you compliment his mother on her cooking, ask her for the recipe, she tells you you’ll just have to come over and help her make it one night. You laugh, meeting Leon’s gaze as you tell her you just might have to.

God, Leon’s so fucked.

Absolutely fucked when he catches himself thinking about you in the middle of class, eyes trained like a hawk on the door to the classroom, waiting to see if you’ll show or not. You don’t. He’s not really surprised. He finds he doesn’t exactly mind though. Frankly, it’s none of his business whether you show or not, and a part of him likes the extra attention he gets out of it when you ask him all the questions you’d know if you did show up to classes while he’s tutoring you.

You’ll have your pen between your teeth like you always do, run a hand through your hair as you watch him work, bat those stupidly pretty eyelashes at him when you don’t understand what he’s trying to say. 

“None of this is making sense,” You huff, shoving your head into your hands, elbows braced on his dining room table. 

You catch the glimpse of sympathy that flashes across Leon’s face when you peek at him through your fingers, and eternally cringe at how you must look.

“Just one more chapter, then we’ll be done.” He promises, tapping the eraser end of his pencil on your notebook. 

He’s got that boyish smile on his lips when you meet his gaze, his thin-framed glasses perched atop his face make him look so much cuter than you remember him being when you were kids.

Your heart constricts in the familiar way it always does nowadays. A sickening reminder that you have a secret; closely guarded in your heart, tucked away by lock and key. You’re in love with your best friend.

Well, your once best friend. The term "best friends" feels outdated, like it belongs to a version of you that no longer exists. It’s partly your fault— well, mostly your fault. The rift between you didn’t just appear; you carved it out with every sorry excuse you’d made at fourteen when you’d chosen your flashy new friends over time spent with Leon.

But what were you to do? Middle school turned to High School and you’d gone from the sad lonely girl at the back of the class to someone worth looking at. 

And Leon? Well, you convinced yourself he was only dragging you down, or that’s what you told yourself to help to ease the guilt every time you brushed him off.

Was it shitty of you to pay your way back into his life? Yeah, but you’re also sort of a coward when it comes to confrontation. There were a million better ways to try to fix what you broke, but here you are, handing Leon twenty bucks a week for a chance to be close to him again.

Either way life moves on, and you find yourself falling for him. Stupidly, helplessly, completely.

Leon finds he’s drowning just as you are.

He’s so far past the point of just fucked. He’s utterly infatuated at this point. You’re stunning, every bit as beautiful as the word allows, beautiful as he watches you across the gym at a morning assembly. You’re busy talking to one of those jocks on the football team, Calvin? Chris? He can’t remember, he doesn’t care. Or that's what he tells himself.

He cares. He cares entirely too much, especially when you curl a lock of your hair around your finger, smiling at whatever bullshit Chris must be spouting with that mouth of his. Leon sinks into his seat further, diverts his attention to the front of the auditorium, but his gaze keeps drifting back to you. He’s desperate to ignore what definitely seems like you flirting with someone who definitely isn’t himself. 

He’s not jealous though, Leon isn’t jealous. ‘Course not.

That’s what he repeats to himself later that night, alone in his bed when his hand curls around the length of his hard dick, tip weeping as he gives a pitiful tug, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. 

He tries incredibly desperately to stifle the whine that bubbles up his throat, hand moving on its own accord as his eyes flutter shut. He doesn’t even realise he’s holding his breath until he starts getting light headed, too caught up chasing his own high. He comes embarrassingly fast, one, two, three, four more pumps and he’s done for, your name the last thing on his lips.

Leon swallows thickly before the crushing reality that he’d imagined you as he came fills him with a burst of shame. He tries to push the thought aside as quickly as it comes, groaning as he moves to sit on the edge of his bed. 

Yeah. He’s fucked.

A few weeks later, Leon finds himself sitting on the bleachers after class. He wouldn’t be caught dead out here less than a few weeks ago, but you had given him such a sweet smile when you’d told him you had cheer practice, asked him if he’d be okay waiting just a little before going back to his place for tuition.

It’s not so bad, he thinks, as he flicks through the songs on his cheap mp3 player. But even with that distraction, you’re far more captivating. You're dazzling, to say the least—dress glimmering under the afternoon sun as you go through your routine. Leon watchs and tries not to stare. 

It’s when you walk up to him though, all but shimmering, glowing under golden hour, that it hits him like a freight train all at once. He’s fallen horrifically far from his pedestal, what he feels for you now is so much more than what he did for you as kids. Not just as a friend, and yet much more than a schoolboy crush. 

The next few events unfold very quickly—you sit down next to him on the bleachers, the skin of your thigh pressing to his where your dress rides up. He freezes, his own skin flushing a shade of pink that he hopes goes unnoticed. You press your ear against his headset, stick your tongue out between your lips as if you’re in dire concentration, trying to hear what’s playing.

“What’re you listening to?” You ask when you pull away, pushing the headset off his head before you slide them over your own ears. 

You light up at what you hear, “The Smiths? Seriously, Leon, you have not changed.”

He rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair to fix it from where your hands had mused it. “They’re good,” His voice is soft despite the protest in his tone. It’s then, you realise, that he’s blushing. 

Cute, cute, cute, you think. There is a particular warmth that blossoms in your chest seeing him like this, one that only Leon can really elicit.

You smile brighter,  “Yeah, I know. I love The Smiths.”

Leon looks starstruck. Of course you do. 

It doesn’t stop there, much to Leon’s own disappointment. He’d hoped after the school year was over you’d go back to not talking to him, and he could move past this and never think about it again (yeah, as if). 

But you don’t. At this point he should just stop wishing for anything at all. Clearly the universe is working against him in the fickle way it always has.

You call him every few nights, ask how he is, what he’s doing, if he’s busy. Things friends would ask each other. Do you count as friends? Leon would like to think so. But then again, he probably shouldn’t be picturing a friend’s face when he’s tugging at his own dick.

You should come over sometime. You say over the phone one night, voice sweet even over the shitty receptor of his home landline. His back straightens a little at your words, the lilt in your voice, as he leans against the counter in his kitchen.

He imagines you lying on your bed, feet kicked up as you hold your flashy new flip-phone between your shoulder and your ear. He wonders what you’re wearing. 

Hello? Your voice crackles, and he’s immediately pulled from his thoughts. C’mon, it’s not that bad of an idea. You laugh on the other end.

He hesitates. Yes, yes, yes, his mind screams at him. Well, I mean… what for?

Lame fucking answer.

Do I need a reason to invite my friend over?

He goes a little rigid at that, mulling over his next words as he feels heat climb up his neck. So we’re friends again now?

The line goes quiet for so long he’s sure you’ve abandoned your phone and left the line open. He nearly hangs up, letting out a sigh as he goes to rehook the landline back on the wall before your voice filters through at the last minute.

Of course we are, silly! Well, I mean— I know the secret Kennedy pasta recipe now.

He smiles then. That you do.

When Leon gets to your place, the cold Summer night air is sharp against his skin. He’s barely touched the doorbell when the front door swings open, the wide smile on your face is contagious—a spontaneous reaction sets off in his heart. 

“Hi,” You grin.

“Hey,” He greets, albeit a little awkwardly. 

You’re endeared, to say the least.

You lead him through the familiar hallways of your home, past family photos he’s seen countless times before, into the family media room, tucked away at the back of the house. It hasn’t changed much from the last time he was here—God, what was that? Six, eight years ago?—he recalls fond memories of escaping your parent’s annual Christmas parties to watch Christmas Mountain while snuggled up on the couch together instead.

“What about that one?” You hum, legs pulled up onto the large plush sofa in your media room, tucking your knees under your chin as you wave a hand at one of the titles in the box of your father’s old DVDs.

“You wanna watch Kairo?” Leon sounds amused, pulling the title out of the box before handing it to you.

You shrug, flipping the case over in your hand, honestly having no idea what the movie is about or what you’re getting yourself into. You just want him to pick a damn movie and get on with it. He’s always been like this, indecisive and hesitant about most things—you’ve always been the opposite, headstrong and impulsive. Yet, the two of you have always been tied together with a gold thread of string, your mother likes to say so, anyway.

You and Leon. Leon and You. An apple and an orange, not the same yet still belonging side by side.

It’s Leon’s voice that pulls you back to the present, taking the case from your hands before he cracks it open and insert the disc it into the silver DVD player. The screen flickers to life, and you quit chasing the DVD logo with your gaze as it bounces across the screen to fish for the TV remote as Leon joins you on the couch. 

He sits at the opposite end, and you’re acutely aware of the distance he’s put between the both of you. You’re not surprised at how your heart sinks at the implications of his actions.

Leon finds the remote before you do, silence settling over the room like thick fog as he flicks through the DVD menu. You will yourself not to get too freaked out by the eerie music or the haunting silhouette of the girl pressed against the screen.

“I didn’t think you liked horror movies,” Leon muses, not really meeting your gaze as he flicks through to press play. “Most people I know say it’s not all that great but—” And he rambles. God, he rambles and you want to kiss his stupid mouth shut.

The first thirty minutes of the movie are slow but not short of horrifying. You’re not sure if you’re thankful or frustrated when all Leon does is talk about SFX or behind the scene cuts, or how they did this and how they did that —endearingly sweet in a way that makes your heart flutter. You’re semi-grateful for the distraction.

He’s a sweetheart in every sense of the word, asking if you’re okay after you startle from a jumpscare. Partially annoyed until you realise he’s not even teasing you. You find it twice as sweet, though, when you notice him all but staring at you in your periphery.

Charming blue eyes that set you a little more on edge.

“The movie’s on the screen, not my face,” You tease, finally meeting his gaze when you glance back at him, kicking him across the couch playfully. 

He swallows, praying for the upteenth time that you don’t notice the burning of his skin he feels at getting caught, before he glances back at you.

“I mean, I think I’d much rather look at you than the movie,” He shoots back, the honesty in his voice surprising even himself.

The air leaves his lungs the moment you turn to look at him, nearly giving yourself whiplash. Leon’s sure he should find this moment awkward, scary, any number of things, but he’s too distracted. You’re so tempting, sweet doll eyes, lashes that kiss your cheeks as you smile at him, and again, he finds himself starstruck. 

Your gaze holds his for a moment longer than it should, a gentle tilt of your head and he’s done for. The teasing smile lingering on your lips slips into something softer, the room feels smaller, the space between you even more so. 

“You alright?” You hum, you’re not even sure what you’re saying, you can’t hear your own voice over the blood thrumming in your ears.

Leon doesn’t really hear you either, he tries to, he does, but then your gaze drops to his lips and— God, is this happening? He’d ask you to pinch him if his voice wasn’t stuck in his damn throat.

You search his face, trying to find any hint of jest, but all you see is the way his eyes linger on you, tracing the curves of your lips, the line of your jaw. For the first time in a long time you find yourself nervous to kiss a boy. There’s a current between you, energy fizzling in a way that pricks your skin—fireworks, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

Before you can give yourself the chance to second guess it, you close the distance, your lips brushing against his. His breath hitches, and you smile against his lips, a gentle hand cupping his jaw, curling into his soft hair. The rest of the room drowns out, all he can hear is his heart beating in his ears and all he can feel is the flush of his own skin and you. Impossibly close in a way that’s already got him hook, line and sinker.

The kiss immediately and successfully turns Leon’s brain to mush, letting out a shaky breath as you incline your head, a soft groan falling past your lips and tumbling into his. Your shoulders drop, another arm looping around his neck. It’s a lot at once, your body against his, the thrumming of his heart, the way he tries desperately not to fuck up the kiss, or give away that he hasn’t exactly had much experience in this department at all.

Leon only realises he’s still rigid when you pull away, your breath a hot puff of air against his face. He thinks you must’ve laughed, cheeks heating up, but then his eyes flutter open and you’ve got a look on your face that he can’t place. Your hand smooths down the golden locks of his hair.

“Are you nervous?” Your voice is so impossibly soft.

Leon blushes deeper. “Is it obvious?”

“A little,” You smile.

“I don’t– I haven’t–” He stutters, the words coming out a jumbled mess that makes your heart ache a little.

“Hey, no, it’s okay.” You rush to reassure when you realise what must be going through his mind. “Just… follow my lead, yeah?”

He nods, tight lipped then.

Your laugh is sticky sweet, alluring in a way that makes him feel all too light-headed. You lean in again, “Relax.”

He lets out a breath, and you take the opportunity of his parted lips to deepen the kiss properly, the muscle of your tongue flattening out against his bottom lip. Leon lets out a strangled moan—fireworks burst across your skin for the second time.

“You can hold me,” You mumble against his mouth, hands tightening in his hair. “If it’ll make you less nervous.”

Leon swallows thickly, nodding as his nose brushes against yours, lips already red and aching. One of his hands tentatively moves back into your hair, he tilts his head, trying to deepen the kiss the same way you had. His movements are albeit clumsy, uncertain; betraying his inexperience, but there’s a raw sincerity in his attempt that leaves you charmed. Slowly, he slides down against the sofa, pulling you with him, his body sinks into the cushions until he’s lying down, your body resting atop his.

You want more, more, more . Want to press your tongue to the seam of his lips, part them, taste him properly—you almost do, growing just as eager as he is as you push yourself higher atop him, bracketing his waist with your thighs as you press your lips to his harder. 

Your nose knocks his glasses askew when moving your head, and you feel him tense ever-so underneath you, as if realising it at the same time, and you can sense his confidence wavering.

You pull back just an inch then, he all but groans in protest. His nose bumps against yours, lips parted and eager for more. “Slow down,” You giggle. “M’not going anywhere.”

“Sorry,” He mumbles, his voice laced with embarrassment. The warmth from his blush radiates under your palm.

Without missing another beat, you reach up to carefully slide his glasses off his face. Leon blinks up at you. He looks like he’s short-circuited, giving way to a vulnerability that makes your heart ache. 

“There,” you whisper, folding the frames before setting the glasses atop the coffee table. “How’s that?”

You’re cruel, though, don’t give him a moment to gather his thoughts, let alone respond. It’s a bit of cat and mouse to you; tease, tease, tease. Gve in just a little, pull away a little more. 

You’re pressing your lips back to his again before another moment can pass. But Leon doesn’t protest; how could he when you’re so close, your bodies pressed together like this?

Leon’s confidence grows with each swipe of your tongue against his. His hands grow bolder, they move over your shoulder blades, down your spine, pressing against the curve of your back. A soft groan tumbles from your lips, your hips pushing down against his, he lets out a shaky moan in kind.

Cute, cute, cute. You’d drown in the soft sounds that tumble from his lips given the chance.

Your hands begin to wander, trailing down his chest, over his beating heart. You rub circles against his chest, as if to satiate the burning desire that’s stuck between his ribs. 

Your lips, on the other hand, begin their descent.

You start with the corner of his mouth, then you follow the line of his jaw, down the column of his neck, the divot of his throat (that rewards you with a mewl). You decorate his collar in a blossoming painting of delicate bruises, tug down the collar of his shirt enough to reveal as much skin as possible for your lips to work over.

A soft smile curls on your lips even as you kiss him, and you realise with a flicker of amusement that he’s shaking beneath you—It’s an endearing quiver, like a newborn fawn finding its first footing. His hands tighten in the fabric of your shirt, holding on as if trying to anchor himself.

“You okay?” You hum as you pull away, Leon assumes you’re gracing him with a breather before he registers your hands working his shirt up his body. 

It’d be rude to let you do all the work, so he shifts enough to tug it over his own head, discarding it on the floor of your theatre room bathed in blue—the movie long forgotten.

Leon’s large hands settle back against the swell of your hips, his thumb runs over the bone of your hip through the fabric of your shorts. He gives you a gentle nod. “M’alright,” He mumbles, but his voice has grown thick, stuck in the cavern of his throat.

“Do you… want to keep going?” You ask softly, your voice is tentative, as if dipping your toes into the deep end, testing the waters.

His mind screams yes, he settles for a “ Please ,” that comes out shakier than he’d like instead.

Your hands make quick work, moving down to undo the button of his jeans, fumbling clumsily in the wake of your excitement that you try incredibly hard to school. For the most part you do, refusing to cave too fast.

You’re acutely aware this is Leon’s first time—he doesn’t have to tell you, you can tell by his shaky voice, and shaky hands, by the way he looks at you as if you’ve just about hung the stars and the planets. To be fair, he’s always looked at you like that. Something akin to a sweet puppy.

Jesus Christ, you’re losing it.

When you finally pop the button, tug the zipper down achingly slow, Leon mewls, his hand on your hip curling into your flesh bruisingly. Fuck.

Your gaze meets his once again. “I’m gonna– I’m gonna go slow, okay? You’ve gotta tell me to stop if you don’t like anything, alright?” As desperate as you are to get your hands on him, you’d never forgive yourself if you ruined his first time.

Leon nods like he’s on autopilot, dutifully, as if the idea of you ruining anything for him is a stupid one. “Yeah, I will– Just, please, ” His voice grows impossibly quiet, “Don’t think I can wait–”

God. You go a little lightheaded.

Your hands make quick work of his jeans then, pushing them down along with his boxers. You’re blessed with a heavenly sight. His cock, pretty and flushed and all but drooling. It’s nearly erotic, has your head swimming. 

“Jesus, Leon.” You huff, eyes wide as you look back up to meet his gaze.

Leon swallows thickly, throat bobbing as his eyes bore into yours, blown wide, rings of blue barely visible. God what a sight. He doesn’t respond, can’t. His throat is thick with something he cannot place. You’re a vision to him like this—hair spilling over your shoulders, framing your head like a halo, thick eyelashes that flutter sweetly down at him. His cheeks heat, neck growing impossibly hot. 

Your hands dance over his stomach, his abdomen, tracing the contours of his skin as you watch his face to gauge each reaction, each shiver, every tremble of his lips.

You’re cruel, you’re so impossibly cruel and, oh— Nevermind. You’re an angel.

You giggle at his blissed out expression as your hand curls around the base of his dick. “That what you needed?” 

Leon’s eyes flutter shut, head tips back as your hand inches up. He resists the urge to buck right into the tunnel of your palm. “Mmhmm…”

“Can’t speak now either?” You coo sweetly.

Something soft bubbles up past his throat, a mewl, a whine, you don’t know what to call it, but God does it make your cunt flutter in time with your heart. “C’mon, Leon, let me hear you.”

And God does he.

You pull whimper after whimper from his pretty lips, tumbling out like prayer each time. You are the chappel he worships at, the altar where he falls to his feet. He thinks if he died like this he could be happy, would go willingly, accept his fate—

“D’you want… more?” The words echo around in his skull.

He couldn’t have nodded faster. 

You’re both giddy and giggling as you pull away, his hands eager as they pull your shorts and underwear off at once. If you could memorise the way he looked at you right now, you would. Leon’s eyes rove over your thighs, the space between them that glistens, in a way that makes you shy despite the hesitance in his own. 

“You’re pretty,” He says thickly, and there’s not a tease behind his words, not a jest. He says them with such sincerity you stutter to a halt. 

You blink, caught in his gaze. Leon watches you carefully, his own eyes wide, as if he’s not sure whether he’s overstepped some invisible boundary. The heat in your cheeks burns a little brighter, and you find yourself instinctively breaking eye contact, glancing away to gather yourself.

His words feel as if they’ve lodged themself in between the left and right ventricles of your heart. Suddenly, you feel the need to close the distance again, your hand slipping to cup his face, brushing a thumb over the flush of his cheek. 

He hums against your lips, hands climbing up your back, under your shirt, slipping under the strap of your bra. 

Your hips are gentle, moving over his instinctively, like something written into your DNA. The subtle brush over the underside of his length has him gasping—you preen internally at the reaction.

But you’re impatient, as impatient as he is, eager for more, eager to take, eager to please. You sink down over him slowly, revel in the silky stretch you’re graced with, moaning around his tongue as your heart feels like it’ll burst out of your chest.

The feeling is near incandescent to Leon, his mind already too far gone. 

“Eyes open, baby,” Your voice comes, shattering the haze of his mind. 

Baby, baby, baby.

He’s hardwired to comply.

You’re something holy above him, head crested by the glow of the moon spilling through the windows, wings of starlight, angel-song falling from your lips as your hips move over his. He wants to swallow each sound. You have the grace to let him.

Your body presses to his as you lean down, chasing his lips in a kiss that surely rewires his brain chemistry. Each moan you let out is like honey in his mouth, sweet and addicting, his tongue pushes past your lips, seeking out as much as you’ll give him.

You’re ecstasy. Entirely too addicting; Leon can’t get enough. Each time you sink down on him again, he’s sure it steals more breath from his lungs. And with earth-shattering realisation, he knows he’s not going to last. “M’close.”

He’s puppy-dog cute like this, pout on his lips, a cinch between his eyebrows that you smooth with your thumb. “I can tell.”

His hand moves to where yours are on his chest, taking one in his own, intertwining your fingers. It’s so fucking over for you. 

“I can’t—” His hips buck up into yours, but his movements are reserved, you clock his desperation to hold out immediately.

“God, Leon, please do. I want you to.”

It doesn’t take much longer than that. He comes within three, four, five ruts of your hips against his, a warning on his lips before you pull off him and his release coats the muscles of his abdomen. You’re left aching, but you can’t find it in yourself to mind, not when you have him underneath you like this.

“Shit, God,” He groans. “That was… fast.”

You sense the apology on his tongue and shake your head before he can get there.

“No, don’t. It was… it was good.”

Leon can’t believe his ears. It was good? He did good?

“Yeah?” You hear the anticipation in his voice, higher at the end, a question.

Smiling, you nod. “Uhuh. Plus, we can… Work on it.”

The implication of doing this again sometime is enough to have him mirroring your smile. 

But soon summer’s over and college is starting. You decide to take a year off, figure yourself out. 

But Leon’s always had big dreams. Before you know it he’s packed his life into boxes, ready to move across the country to California. You can’t lie to yourself forever, pretend that what you feel for him is superficial, that you won’t miss him with a longing that will linger for months.

Your heart aches the night before he leaves. His head on your stomach, looking up at you with those puppy dog sweet eyes, half lidded and hair mused from where you’d grabbed and tugged while he’d lapped at your sweet cunt all night.

“I’m gonna miss you,” The words slip out softly, surprising even yourself. Lately, you’ve found vulnerability escaping you more often around him. A tenderness you’re learning to grow used to again.

Leon’s gaze lifts to yours, sweet baby blues that you try to memorise even in the low light of your bedroom. “I’ll visit.”

“I know.”

There’s a sickening silence that follows. You ache to tell him everything, pour your heart out for him to pick up, but you don’t.

Leon promises to call you as soon as he gets to his new dorm, and he does. For the first few months, everything goes smoothly. You and Leon fall back into that regular routine—you call him every now and then, he updates you on his day, you tell him about yours. But as fate has it, the chasm between the two of you begins to split once more, you feel him drift away, caught up in his flashy new life. 

Turns out distance does make the heart grow fonder.

There are things Leon doesn’t tell you either. Like how he’s been binge-watching those awful horror movies you always mention nowadays (you’ve developed a weird fondness for the gore). Or that he’s started tutoring again. Or that he wishes you were here. God, he really wants to tell you that last one.

He thinks of you all the time, even when he probably shouldn’t—between classes, during his morning coffee before the 8 a.m. lab, while driving from his part-time job to campus. He thinks of you in the inbetweens, when his mind seems to wander. The thoughts come unbidden, when there’s a million other things he should have at the forefront of his mind, you’re there.

And then there’s the way he pictures you every time.

Leon’s not exactly proud of the number of hook-ups he’s had since college. One party turned into two, then three, then four. Simple drinking games blurred into long nights with countless girls underneath him who he now doesn't even remember the faces of.

Convinced if he shut his eyes, if he really focused, he could imagine it was you whimpering under him instead, your hands on his body, your lips melding around his name oh so perfectly.

It was never the same though. Never would be.

None of these girls sounded like you, none of them fucked like you, none of them felt like you did. Like they were made for him, like he could get lost in their cunts forever. It was pathetic, really, the way he’d so willingly chase that unmatchable high forever. Nothing would compare. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

So by the time semester break rolls around, he’s already packed his bags, and the four hour route from California back to Raccoon City has been set before he’s even finished his finals.

Raccoon hasn’t changed, still the same sleepy city tucked away between twin mountain ranges, the smell of pine heavy in the air. His house is how he left it, so is his neighbourhood. He drives by the familiar faded sign of Emmy’s Diner, the Police Department with its big white hollywood-style letters and rusting iron gates.

He heard that you work at the new video store down the road from his house now. Flashy, neon signs and all. Leon wonders what it’s been like for you, staying behind when he left for college, how the city has cradled you in its unchanged arms. If you’ve missed him like he’s missed you.

He pushes the glass panelled door to the video store open, the store bell tinkling in wake of his arrival. He’s fidgety. Leon hasn’t been fidgety in a very long time. He does not remember the last time he hesitated around a girl. Well, he does, it was you when he was awkward and nineteen, but since then? It has been a long road. Too long.

But then he spots you, and it’s as if the world narrows down to this one moment.

You’re leaning against the counter, eyes downcast, lazily flipping through a magazine. The overhead lights catch the strands of your hair—it’s shorter now. He wonders when you had it cut, why you chose the new style. A part of him aches, realising just how much time has passed, how long a year can be when he’s not in your orbit.

Without thinking, he beelines for the horror section, eyes scanning the rows of movie titles as his fingers brush over each DVD spine. He glances at you out of his periphery, half-watching the way you absentmindedly flip through your magazine.

Come on, come on, come on.

H, I, J, K… 

Bingo.

He slides Kairo across the counter, heart stumbling in his chest. You don’t even glance up as you take it into your hands, half-focused on whatever glossy pages have your interest, but you do smile when you register the title in your hands.

“Good choice,” you hum, your fingers already moving to punch the movie code into the register.

“Yeah? You think so?” His voice is a little rougher than he intended, but he presses on, tries to act casual as he leans up against the counter. In honesty, he feels like a dork. “Most people I know say it’s not all that great…”

Your fingers freeze over the buttons. That voice, those words. Your eyes shoot up to meet his. 

“Leon?”

“Hey.” He smiles, catching the way your expression shifts, disbelief melting into something warmer. “What’s wrong? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You laugh suddenly, that bright, familiar sound, filling the empty space between you. For a moment the months apart don’t seem so long. “God, you did not just quote Scream at me.”

Leon’s dusty blonde hair falls into his eyes as he drops his head to hide his grin. “Yeah that was… Not my best.”

Shaking your head, you slide the DVD back across the counter, still smiling beautifully at him.  “You didn’t tell me you were going to be back in town!” You sound breathless as the words escape you.

“Just for the semester break,” He says, his voice steady but soft. “Figured I’d come back before you forgot what I look like.”

You blink. Something in his expression must’ve given him away, because then you smile—small, almost shy. “I missed you too,” you hum, and the words hang in the air like they’ve been waiting to be said.

But just like that you bounce back, as if the vulnerability in your tone was never even there at all, drumming your fingers across the countertop. “You shoulda told me, we could’ve planned something nice.”

“Oh, like a date?”

You blush. Blush. Fuck. You don’t remember him being this forward.

“Are you suggesting something, Kennedy?” You tilt your head, honeyed gaze and all.

Damn you and those fucking eyes, he thinks.

“Well, I was thinking… maybe we could go to Emmy’s after your shift? You know, catch up, and I can tell you all the terrible jokes I’ve collected since I’ve been away.”

Your smile widens, and there’s something in your eyes that makes him feel like he might’ve just found his way back home. “I’d like that, Leon. A lot.”

Emmy’s diner hums with a life that he’s missed. The sound of casual conversation, plates clattering, the soft croon of Bob Dylan from the old jukebox. It’s how he left it. Same peeling leather booths, linoleum tables, vinyl floorings, bottomless pots of coffee and the smell of sizzling burgers over the griddle in the back. 

You share a booth at the back, your boots propped up on the round metal base of the table while you watch Leon with a small pout as he stands by the counter, waiting for a takeout box. The old fluorescent lights cast a soft glow over him, highlighting the little changes—slightly broader shoulders, a more defined jawline, longer hair, no glasses. But he’s still your Leon.

When he turns back, takeaway box in hand, he catches you in the act—a fry pinched between your fingers, dragging it through his ketchup in lazy swirls. You beam up at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and Leon feels his chest do a violent lurch, feels his heart rattle in the cage of his ribs, clawing to jump out and into your waiting hands.

It’s the kind of smile that would have driven him crazy when he was younger—when he was all nerves and stuttered words around you. And God, if it doesn’t still have the same effect.

“You know,” Leon starts as he settles into his seat, “there’s a fine line between sharing and stealing. You’re definitely crossing it.”

You roll your eyes, pushing the fry basket back towards him in a silent peace offering. “You weren’t going to finish them anyway.”

Leon chuckles softly, he doesn’t know what to say then, no witty quip on his tongue or eager reply.  “It's about the principle," His voice finally comes, something soft. "But I guess I’ll let it slide this once." 

You laugh, and the sound is like a balm, soothing the ache in his chest. “How generous of you,” you reply, playing footsies with him under the table. It’s in this moment Leon realises, everything he’s ever wanted is right in front of him. He’s spent so much of his life chasing. Chasing, chasing, chasing, he’s always been chasing. 

Now he thinks he’d like to slow down.

And that’s what he does, when he takes you home that night, you twirl through the door of his old home, giddy as you track the familiar path to his bedroom. It’s how you remember it, same posters on the wall, same black Paul Reed Smith tucked into the corner.

Leon, however, is so much gentler than you remember him being, careful hands sliding up your waist as he walks you back towards his bed. Your calves hit the edge, breath caught in your throat as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. His lips find yours, slot perfectly, he groans against your lips and you melt into his embrace.

Leon’s palm slides down to the underside of your thigh, lifts it up enough to help you back onto the bed. 

Your words get caught in your throat, but they’re not needed—not now, not with Leon. He’s always known you like the back of his hand. His lips move over your face, your cheek, your jaw. Your arms settle around his neck.

It’s like muscle memory to Leon now, the way he slots his knee between your thighs, how his hands move over your torso, up your body.

Your mind wanders—a dangerous thing in times like these—and you find yourself growing a little jealous. You're not dense; you know he’s probably had other girls in his bed between his time away in California. You wonder if they were any good. 

Leon doesn’t let you dwell on those thoughts, has your voice catching in your throat as his fingers tease the underside of your breasts. He looks up at you, those same deep blue eyes studying you, yet unreadable all the same. Your skin burns beneath his gentle touch. Hot, hot, hot everywhere he touches.

One of his hands come up to cup the same cheek he had kissed earlier, his touch featherlight. He looks at you—part adoring, part like he’s planning your ruination.

“Leon… Please. ” You beg desperately then, and in response he groans. As if he’s waited too long to hear you say his name like that again, all needy and breathless.

“Makes me wanna wreck you,” He murmurs against your mouth, his breath hot and heady, “when you talk like that. So fuckin’ sweet.”

And God if that doesn’t do it for you. A whine falls past your lips, eager, tender, desperate, and Leon’s sure he’s never heard anything as beautiful in his life.

Your skirt is off in a flash, so is his shirt, then yours, then his jeans, so on and so forth until your bare cunt is pressing against his thigh he’s conveniently slotted back between the apex of your legs. He presses his knee up against your wet cunt, mutual groans filling his bedroom. All it takes is a tremble of your lips, and Leon’s kissing you twice as hard.

“Tell me what you need,” He’s eager to please.

“You.” You, you, you, always you.

There’s a reverence in your words he cannot shake, a promise laced into the moan that tumbles from your lips. His hands smooth over your abdomen again, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate him in the space between.

“Yeah?” He hums, one of his hands runs from the corner of your jaw to your chin, the other gives a purposeful squeeze to your waist. “I need you too. Want you.”

The sincerity in his voice floors you, hits you harder than any kiss, any touch. This isn’t just lust, this is Leon, raw and open, offering you something more than you’d expected. Something you’ve always wanted but were too scared to admit. You feel the sudden sting of tears kiss the corners of your eyes, startling yourself. 

“Leon…” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. He cuts you off with a gentle kiss, one that’s soft and sweet, filled with a promise that leaves you breathless.

"You’re it for me. I’m yours," he whispers into your mouth. "If you’ll have me."

Your heart stumbles over itself, caught somewhere between disbelief and a feeling you’re not sure how to put into words. “I’ve always had you.”

He laughs softly then, “Yeah. Guess you have, huh?”

It’s now, he realises, you’d never left his orbit in the first place. You’d always been there, one way or another, a constant in his life he’d never be able to shake despite how hard he’d try. You really are it for him.

“I want you too,” You blurt, the words tumbling out too fast. “I want this, want you. I always have.”

The rest is unsaid. He kisses you again with a smile, your hands drift over his back, trace the contours of every plane of muscle, press against the space between his shoulders. His hands run over the curve of your breasts, the dip of your waists, caress the skin of your thighs and leave gooseflesh in their wake. You can’t stand it—how utterly gentle he is. It makes you want to cry.

You take Leon’s hand, leading it down to where you need him most. With precision you drag his fingers up through your folds, tantalisingly slow before pressing the pad of his index to your clit. You let out the softest of whimpers at the sight, his hand on your cunt. Fuck. You don’t take your eyes off the sight before you, even as you push his fingers back down, until you slip just the tip of his finger past your walls.

Your gaze flicks up to gauge his reaction, and you're more than pleased at the sight before you. Leon Kennedy, his eyes wide, mouth hung open in a small ‘o’, like he’s never seen pussy before.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You hum, amusement dripping from your lips—but your voice comes out in between panted breathes, unable to still your thump, thump, thumping heart.

He looks back up to meet your gaze, shaking his head as a grin stretches across his lips. “No, sweetheart, don’t play your games with me.” He huffs, withdrawing his hand, leaving you whining, before he pushes your thigh up to your chest.

You’re disappointed by just how fast he manages to school himself, no longer desperate for more, now invested in the waiting game.

“You want it that bad?” He croons, voice a teasing lilt against the shell of your ear, kissing the skin behind it as his body comes back down over yours. Your leg hooks around his back, hands on his shoulders, in his hair. 

“Are you gonna make me beg?” Your laugh is soft, breathlessly incredulous.

He grins against your skin as he presses a kiss to your neck. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

His lips trail a path from neck to collar, tender kisses that intensify into bruising hickeys so fast your head swims. He litters your chest in lovebites, his hand moving on its own accord as he presses two fingers against your sopping cunt. He teases you, drawing circles around your entrance, grinning against the valley of your breast as he kisses down your sternum when your cunt flutters against his hand.

He drags his fingers up, up, up, presses them to the bead of your clit in a way that makes you squirm, another round of featherlight circles that makes you keen.

“Leon, holy shit—” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, watching as he sinks his fingers into your cunt, right down to the knuckle.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You don’t have to look at him to hear the shit eating grin in his words.

The pads of his fingers press against ribbed flesh, scissoring you open. When he pulls them back out, palm against your clit, a moan bubbles up past your lips. He shushes you, sweet nothings whispered against the cavern of your throat. 

His hand, glimmering with your arousal, finds its way to your lips. “Open,” He murmurs, and so you do, lips parted for his fingers to press curiously against your tongue. Your heart hammers in your chest, thighs pressing into his sides as you blink up at him. You’re beautiful like this, a picture of pleasure that he wants to sear into his mind, brand across his heart so he won’t forget. 

You moan around his fingers and his heart stutters pitifully in his chest, he needs to hear you like that again. “Want more, sweetheart?” His voice is rough as he pushes his hips against yours teasingly, has your eyes fluttering shut and rolling back. “Need words, baby.”

Leon chuckles as you struggle to speak around his fingers pressing to your tongue, a muffled yeah caught in your throat. He placates your whine that follows with a kiss to the underside of your jaw, lining his hips up with yours as he goes.

He sinks in as deep as he can get, searing hot, like he’s desperate to melt through, skin to skin, atom to atom. You push back, chasing that same euphoric feeling, a groan falling from your lips as you choke around his thick fingers in your mouth. You twist your neck, your nose pushing into his cheek as you seek his warmth.

“Got you,” He mumbles into your skin, voice ragged. A forearm is braced by your head before he pulls his hand from your mouth, moving to hold your body. His hand presses into the gentle curve of your waist like it was made for the palm of his hands. Smearing your spit across your skin as he goes.

When Leon’s with you like this, your body beneath his, he’s so sure this is how it’s meant to be. God, you’re perfect in every sense of the word—surely this is fate’s crashing course, isn’t it? Driven together by some higher power, an invisible thread of gold looped around both your fingers.

Has to be, surely. Feels too good when his hips push into yours, shared moans tumbling from both your lips, when his lips find yours once more and he’s swallowing each one like a man starved. You’ve missed the way he feels, how he stretches you out so deliciously, fills you up and seats deep inside you like he’s made for it. 

Your hands on his shoulders blades dig burning half-moon crests into his skin, dragging your nails down his back, eliciting a low groan from deep within his chest.

“Shit, pussy’s fuckin’ made for me,” He all but groans into your ear, dick pushing in at a steady pace, sickeningly slow in a way that makes you ache.

Please, please, please, your mind screams, begging for him to hurry up, give you more. You’ve waited so long to have him like this again, why should you wait any longer?

Leon’s laugh vibrates against the shell of your ear, “Beggin’ already, sweetheart?”

Oh. You’ve said it out loud.

“Don’t tease,” You plead with him.

“Tease? No m’not teasing, that’d be cruel,” He croons, “M’just taking my time with my baby.”

You want to sob. God, he is cruel. You think this must be karma for all those times you’d teased him when you were younger, worked him so close to the edge then pulled him away—

But then his hips slam against yours and a sob lurches from your throat. “Leon!” You cry, nails digging deeper into his back you worry you might draw blood.

“God, just look at you, sweetheart,” He pulls back enough to meet your gaze, hand on your hip moving to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “Crying on my dick. Fuck. ”

His hips are bruising, not an ounce of mercy in the way he ruts into your cunt.

“Can’t,” You whine, tears in your eyes.

He shakes his head, hair falling into his face, obstructing your pretty view, as his hand cups your jaw. “Yeah you can, baby.”

“No, it’s– too much—” You try to get him to understand, you won’t last like this.

He knows before the words even leave your lips. “Aw, pretty baby, gonna come f’me already?” 

More tears spill from your eyes, he kisses them away with gentle lips, almost humorously different from the pace of his hips. “That’s okay,” He decides, “You wanna come now, that’s fine. Jus’ means you gotta keep taking it till I'm done.”

You’re so fucked.

“Can you do that, sweetheart?”

In the haze of your mind you comply.

“Good girl,” You arch your back at the praise, he slips in deeper if that’s even possible. “Good girl, come for me. Let me see you.”

Who are you to deny him?

You come with a soft cry of his name, words sticky with the tightness of your throat, a babbling mess underneath him as he works you through it. He’s not a complete dickhead though, he slows down to accommodate the ache between your legs, gives you a moment to collect yourself as his hand moves to interlock with yours, holding it by your head.

“How was that?” He asks you on the comedown. 

You’re burning bright, you feel like the sun, your heart ablaze in your chest. Your mind is left in a haze, and when it ebbs away, it’s as though sunspots linger in your vision. You look at him, really look at him now, rings of blue in his blown out eyes, hair tousled, lips red and raw. 

You kiss him in lieu of a proper response, tongue and teeth, messy and desperate as your hands hold his face. He groans against your mouth, you feel his dick pulse between your tight walls and you preen internally. Even after all this time you still have him wrapped around your finger.

You giggle at the thought, drowning in the gilding golden haze of the pleasure he’s given you.

“What’s so funny?” He hums, smile sweet on his lips. 

“Nothin’,” You hum, eyes half-lidded.

He grins a little wider, something cunning. “Come again, sweetheart, didn’t quite catch that.” His hips roll into yours, a moan falls past your lips.

“I said– Oh. ” Nevermind.

Another roll of his hips.

“Speak up, baby,” Another, another, another.

You give up trying to get any words out, fruitless attempts reduced to whimpers as you melt into the mattress below him. Your hands wander back over his back, shoulder blades and muscles shifting under your palms as you sooth the ridges that have emerged from where you’d left your stinging mark.

You're tight as sin, sucking him back in salaciously. Leon’s not going to last much longer at all. 

He makes as much known. He whines and you swallow each sound like it’s a sweet prize. His hips snap into yours at a brutal pace, whimpers falling from your lips at each time he drives it home. He has half the mind to pull out, but then your legs are wrapping around his waist, trapping him, keeping him firm in place.

“Sweetheart– fuck , baby–” His words carry the weight of protest but you’re stubborn, always have been.

“ Please Leon?” You’re so sweet, aren’t you? “Want it inside, want you to come in me pretty please–?”

He couldn’t say no to you if he tried. “Shit, that’s what you want, baby? Huh? Need me to fill you up real good?” His voice is low in your ear, a bark that matches his bite.

“ Yes. ”

“Fuck, sweetheart. Yeah, I’ll give you what you need, alright?” He placates, and you’re sweet as you mewl in response. “Yeah, anything you want.”

“M’so close,” He’s brought you to tears again, and this time he lets himself relish in the sight of them dribbling down your cheeks. “So close–”

Leon’s thrusts grow shallow with time, you feel yourself teetering on the edge of ecstasy once more. “Let me feel you, baby,” He mumbles into the skin of your shoulder, his hand gripping yours in a knuckle white grip, the other so tight around your hip it’s sure to leave behind bruises in the morning.

Not a thing you’re saying is comprehensible anymore, slurred words sobbed into the crook of his neck as your cunt does the talking for you. You flutter around his aching length, clamping down around him as the pressure building at the base of your spine snaps in half, a broken cry of his name tumbling from your lips.

Leon reaches his breaking point in quick pursuit, tumbling over that edge just as you do, fucking his release deeper into your cunt. “So sweet, so sweet, so sweet,” He chants, a babbling mess of emotions as you milk him dry. “So good, s’good, baby, fuck. ”

For a few moments, you are nothing but two bodies, twined together, panting and huffing as you catch your breaths. Leon’s hand, still in yours, squeezes reflexively. His face falls into the crook of your neck as his fingers dig further into the flesh of your waist. You hear his breathing grow ragged, his body trembling above you. You think you hear a whine slip past his lips, only solidified when he pulls back and you catch the glassy look in his eyes. 

“We should do this again sometime.” You grin playfully.

“Jesus, Sweetheart.” Leon shakes his head, wet chuckle caught in his throat. “I plan on doing this a lot more often than sometimes. ”

You hum, your knuckles tracing the curve of his cheek before you sweep his hair out of his eyes. “I’d like that.”

There’s a pause then, words hanging in the air. “But at least let me get it right this time. I’ll take you out to dinner, how’s that?”

“Perfect.”

"I meant it, you know." His voice is quieter now, more vulnerable. "About wanting to get it right." He looks at you like he's seeing everything he's been chasing, right in front of him.

You tilt your head, a soft smile playing at your lips. "I know."

Fate is curious, you think—tugging at the golden threads that make up the spider's web of your universe as she pleases, weaving people together and pulling them apart with equal ease. You realise, as you lie with your head on Leon’s chest later that night, that fate has been kind to you. Leon's strong arm envelops you, grounding you in a way only he ever has. Home is inbetween his arms. You listen to the gentle beat of his heart, steady in his chest, pounding beneath your ear. 

Without much thought, you find yourself holding your breath, syncing the thump of your heart with the beat of his, a satisfied smile curving your lips when your breathing finally falls perfectly in time.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[slttygeto]

Hello lovely human :) First off, I hope you are well you are having a nice cozy summer and life is treating you well, as you deserve ^^ I have been reading your jjk stuff for a while and saw your requests are open so i got the courage to give it a shot :) Long story short, what i had in mind is reader having feelings for Gojo but also being bad a direct interaction, so she shows her love to him by trying to make his *busy* life easier (which Gojo never experienced from someone) like: giving him food/sweets, making sure he sleeps, asking about his day and secretly taking on missions from him so he has more free time (to live his life, like??? helloo). He notices these things at some point, considering that is almost always he who does stuff for others, and giving the fact that he mayyyy alsoo like reader/oc he decides that maybe he should do something about his growing feelings too :D I thank you from my heart if you choose to write this! Thank you soo much :)

subliminal message | satoru gojo.

note: first of all! thank you so much for the sweet message, this truly made my day/week! and second of all, I have been struggling with writer’s block for a while so I hope you still like this as it somehow/slowly got me out of it. i had fun writing for satoru so thank you so much for this request!

word count: 1,6k

COMMISSIONS

For a guy who prides himself on using infinity, the space on Satoru’s desk suddenly feels limited. The bento boxes piled up on his right tumble over with an accidental brush of his hand. Then his eyes shift to the food crumbs on the carpet. It suddenly sinks in. Satoru has been having proper meals lately. 

But the strongest doesn’t know what to think of it at first. His six eyes point out almost everything, so it is surprising–perhaps even unusual for him to not notice things right away. Even more so when it is six bento boxes in total. 

His coffee splashes as he walks down the corridor and into the teacher’s lounge where his eyes land on your approaching figure. With a pile of documents in your hands, you fail to notice the pair of blue eyes following your every move. 

You were a talented sorcerer, a few years younger than Satoru so you didn’t witness his highschool years or knew of the awful friendship breakup that he had with his old best friend. All you knew was that he was called the strongest for a good reason, and that he welcomed you so warmly that it left you yearning for the man’s attention and friendship since day one. 

“Oh, good morning!” you say cheerfully and Satoru returns your greeting with just as much excitement. You say something about too much paperwork, a comment regarding the students making a mess in the cafeteria and then you were heading towards your office. Satoru looks back, sees your retreating figure disappear into the hallway before proceeding towards Yaga’s office. He still can’t figure out where the bento boxes came from. 

You learn of Satoru’s unhealthy lifestyle shortly after you join–it’s not hard to notice when the man was never there during lunch or dinner. He was the first person in the teacher’s lounge and the last person to leave. Plus, you are certain that the man has never slept in his dorm room. 

A few weeks ago, and after a long tutoring session with Yuuji, you found yourself packing your things and getting ready to head back to your room at 2AM. As you were locking your office, you hear rustling coming from Satoru’s office and see that the lights were still on and the man could be heard mumbling to himself something about his upcoming missions. 

“I stayed up.” He tells you at 8AM, heaving out a sigh that leaves your heart tightening and your eyebrows furrowing in concern. 

That’s bullshit. Because he was allowed to rest just as much as you and Nanami were. Your eye twitches whenever you hear him reaffirm his status as the strongest–that title was starting to irk you. 

The higher ups were full of shit and you were starting to think that the Jujutsu society was taking Gojo Satoru’s selflessness for granted. You were well aware of your lack of influence in a society where power and status mattered the most, so you chose the next best thing to do in order to remove some of the weight off of Satoru’s shoulders. 

Making bento boxes isn’t exactly complicated–however, it is time consuming and you hate doing things while half asleep. The only thing that kept you awake at 5AM while you were placing the carrot and fruit slices was the thought of Satoru going on missions with the same amount of sleep as you. Four hours to be exact. 

You prepare six bento boxes–leave the seventh one empty in case Satoru doesn’t need them and starts going to the cafeteria when he realizes the amount of free time he suddenly has. But that could only happen after you move onto the next part of your plan–which was to talk to Yaga. Your relationship with the principal wasn’t all that complicated. You respected him as your previous teacher, and he admired the fact that you came back to work for the highschool years later–even after you managed to fall into a rather peaceful lifestyle, away from curses and the constant fear of getting killed on a mission. When you approach him with the idea of taking on missions for the strongest–it is only natural for the older man to reject.

“Do you realize how dangerous it is?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here and confidently asking you to let me do it instead of him.”

“What would you get out of it?”

“Is it bad that I care for him?” 

How couldn’t he have noticed that? How did his six eyes miss the residue of your cursed energy on the bento boxes? It is a bit too late to be asking these questions, but Satoru’s brain refuses to shut down. His six eyes, like a leaf being tossed around in the wind, were out of control. He could feel your cursed energy–but he could also feel, even smell the residue of the same curse that had attacked you earlier that day. 

Satoru doesn't know what to say as he watches Shoko bandage you up, your reflective eyes refusing to meet his own blue ones—almost as though you were ashamed that you had failed not only as a sorcerer, but as a friend as well.

SAtoru can't seem to find the right words for this situation—he wasn’t necessarily mad at you, he wasn't disappointed either—perhaps a little surprised that you had gone out of your way to do something like that. and maybe he was wondering what the motive was. what would you get out of helping him? when he didn't even know that it was you? were you just that nice to everyone else?

Were you doing it so casually? And does that make him not that special to you?

He wants to brush off the lump that forms in his throat at the thought of all of this being casual to you, not that important—that you’d do it to someone else, but he can’t. Not when his growing affection towards you was starting to get out of control and he was failing to hide his own favoritism towards you.

He wants to say that it’s only because you react to his jokes with so much passion, so much excitement—that you know he likes kukifuku and make sure that his drinks aren’t too bitter. a part of him, buried deep under a pile of unresolved personal issues and failure to recognize those who actually love him or not, wants to scream every time you pat his shoulder when he almost drifts to sleep, noticing that the strongest had failed to get the right amount of sleep yet another time. that it’s just how you are with everyone else.

That he wasn’t special.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Thankfully, Shoko chooses to step out of the room—mumbles something about this being too awkward with a cigarette between her lips—and you find yourself alone in a room with satoru gojo.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether or not you’d think it’s weird.” 

“I don’t think it’s weird, just a little unusual.” Satoru admits, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest. He refuses to take off his blindfold but you know that his six eyes were staring deep into your soul.

“You care for me so openly,” he then confesses and it almost breaks your heart. He is now staring at the door, bracing himself forward so that his elbows are on his knees.

“I like you.”

The room goes silent.

You didn’t know if it was the adrenaline, or if it was your heart beating as though you were being chased by 3 bulls at once—you spill out the words and then stare wide-eyed at satoru. lips trembling, fingers shaking, you can’t bring yourself to say anything else but those three words. It was supposed to be a silly crush, I mean—who wouldn’t have a crush on him, right? and it’s not like you were the first person to ever like him but—

You were panicking. Because the silence was stretching longer and longer and longer—or perhaps it was your quickening breath and your heightened senses making you far more sensitive to things simply because you had spilled your growing feelings to the same man who was sitting frozen on his seat.

“y-you don’t have to say anything in return—“ your throat has gone dry and you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “I just figured telling you would—I don’t know, fuck—“ your cover your hot face in shame, ears burning in embarrassment because you didn’t know what to do. The humiliation of confessing to a crush stays even as an adult, you were discovering.

“Can I talk now?” you feel a hand resting on your knee and you stare at him with teary eyes. you hear his chuckle, this hand other hand travels up to your face where he wipes your tears and strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“You just figured telling me would, what?“

“Make it easier for me to move on.”

“You want to move on from me when we haven’t even dated?” he says with a playful pout, his blindfold no longer hiding his eyes and you see that the tip of his ears was turning a beautiful shade of pink.

But it also sinks in that the strongest was also confessing to you.

Using his own words, he was letting you know that he would gladly welcome you into his arms—into his world. It would no longer be just him, this next journey would involve you and him both—embarking on a new adventure. 

“But no more going on missions for me, okay?”

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[ageingfangirl2]

You Could Do So Much Better Than Me! Buggy (OPLA)

You are a princess from a small island kidnapped by Buggy and his crew. Little did Buggy know he'd kidnapped the wrong princess, and after time together he feels sorry for you and asks you to join his crew. Buggy x Reader (Female)

Your head was groggy, why couldn't you remember anything? Yes, you drank but never enough to blackout. You groan loudly and attempt to stretch your hands but hit something metallic. Your eyes dart open in fear, and you have to cover your eyes from the light because it makes your head hurt more.

'Finally, the princess wakes up,' an unfamiliar male voice chuckles.

A clown was crouched down in front of you, you scramble backwards but your back hits metal, 'WHY AM I IN A CAGE? WHERE AM I? WHO ARE YOU?'

The clown grins menacingly at your fear, 'I kidnapped you princess. You're on my ship, everyone calls me Buggy.'

You click your tongue as realisation dawns on you that you'd been kidnapped by a notorious pirate, 'Buggy The Genius Jester, I've seen your wanted posters. Why kidnap me?' you question, calming down a little.

Buggy's eyes sparkle when you use one of his other names, 'I'm glad you've heard of me, princess. It should be obvious why I kidnapped you. I've already sent a ransom demand to your family, royalty will pay a lot of berry.'

You can't help but laugh, 'now that's funny. Do you know nothing of lineage?'

Buggy frowns, 'why are you laughing? I kidnapped you, you should be scared.'

You try to control your laughter and wipe a stray tear away, 'you couldn't have picked anyone worse to kidnap. Everybody knows I'm, the throwaway, the expendable one. You should have taken my sister since she's next in line for the throne. I'm the spare to her heir.'

'QUIET!' Buggy growls and slams his gloved hands on the cage, 'they'll pay, otherwise, I'll have to send them body parts as an incentive.'

You bite your lip and roll your eyes, 'I bet the ransom money they don't do anything. You can slice and dice me, sell me, or even kill me and they won't bat an eyelid. I'm a realist Buggy.'

Buggy huffs, stands up and storms up the stairs leaving you locked in a cage in the depths of his ship. This wasn't your first kidnap attempt, but the first successful one. Buggy could be dangerous, and you didn't know how he'd react if he didn't get his way.

1 WEEK LATER

BUGGY

'You're going to want to see this captain,' Cabaji says, holding out a newspaper to me.

I snatch it from him and my heart sinks a little at the headline halfway through the paper not even considered major news 'ROYAL FAMILY DEVASTATED BY DEATH OF BELOVED PRINCESS - ASK FOR PRIVACY WHILE THEY GRIEVE'

'I kind of feel bad for them, doesn't even mention a kidnapping. Puts all the fault on her for being careless,' Cabaji sighs.

I wasn't annoyed that they didn't mention my excellent kidnapping or ransom demand, but I was angry they blamed their own daughter making them out to be a bumbling idiot while their older sister couldn't do anything wrong. I guess I better show this to y/n and decide what to do next.

I'd had the cage moved to my quarters to make y/n more comfortable, I wasn't a monster and they'd been the perfect hostage. Over the past week, we'd talked about a lot of things, especially my adventures since y/n had never left their island. They may have a fire and a yearning for something more than a title, and I maybe kind of wanted to help them because it was nice having someone else intelligent on the ship.

I enter my quarters and y/n looks up at me from inside the cage and waves, 'You're back quickly, it usually takes you half an hour to check things over.'

I hand them the paper between the bars, 'I might owe you than ransom money. Your family are assholes.'

y/n reads the article and snorts, 'I never asked to be royal Buggy. I hated the etiquette and the dresses, and don't even get me started on arranged marriages. I spent my days sparring and fighting with my tutors. I'm pretty good with a blade.'

Next thing I know they pull out a blade from behind their back and twirl it in their hand, 'Now where did you get that?' I ask, intrigued.

They smile, 'took it from one of your crew on my daily walk around the ship, no one even noticed me.'

I'd have to punish the crew member who let a princess steal one of their weapons, but an idea popped into my head and could benefit the pair of us, 'Join my crew. I'll turn you into a feared pirate and we'll destroy your family.'

Their eyes light up, 'sounds like fun Bugg--I mean captain.'

Hearing them call me captain had a nice ring to it. If they could fight and thief they'd fit in fine, and with their knowledge of royalty we could easily make a lot of money and boost our reputation. They insisted I'd chosen the wrong princess to kidnap, but it looked like I'd chosen the right one. With them by my side things would get a lot more interesting around here.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Last updated: September 14

I’m only writing for Bucky Barnes

Lots of love for my Bucky people! ♡

I do not consent my work to getting republished

My work can include heavy themes (such as sexual assault, abuse, panic attacks, death, toxic behavior, self-doubt etc). Each chapter and fic will have their own warnings, but if anything might trigger you, be cautious!

If you are interested in reading the Bucky fics I loved on this app, check out my list of fic recommendations on my other blog @buckbuckbarnesstuff

WIP Game

❁ - fic with 300+ notes

✯ - fic with 500+ notes

Series

Breaking Chains (ongoing)

Biker!Bucky x reader

Summary: Leaving behind an abusive and possessive boyfriend, and finding refuge in the hometown you once yearned to escape, certainly wasn’t a chapter you anticipated in your life’s story. Yet, eyes as blue as the sky at dusk, belonging to a mysterious biker drew you into a world of unexpected possibilities, where a job at his bar becomes more than just a means of survival - it’s a pathway to freedom and self-discovery. Though, breaking away from your past proves daunting when shackled by invisible chains.

Two-Parts

1. Tangled ropes [8.2k]

Sailor!Bucky x reader

Summary: A new sailor arrives at the docks amongst Captain Barton’s crew. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself, or perhaps it’s the way his eyes are the echo of the ocean in color and depth. But something about him makes you want to untangle the ropes that seem to choke his spirit.

&

2. Beyond the Horizon (coming soon)

One-shots

Listen to your gut [2.8k] ❁

Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky is assigned on a Hydra mission. Letting him venture back in the lion’s den without backup sets a deep unsettling dread knotting your stomach. Drowning out logic and reason you beg him to stay.

Still on the list [14.1k] ✯

Frat!College!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes, the infamous frat guy, known for sleeping around and throwing parties left and right, constantly invites you, out of all people, to all of them. His intentions though remain a mystery to you. Following a troubling event that leaves you shaken and anxious, Bucky is there to pick up the pieces. Stolen glances and exchanged smiles gradually blossom into a connection that goes beyond what meets the eye.

Casual Sweetness [2.3k] ❁

Roommate!Bucky x reader

Summary: You seek out your roommate and best friend Bucky for comfort after a girls night out leaves you shaken up.

Two [6.2k]

College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Your friends Wanda and Nat drag you to a corn maze event at night. After a rather unpleasant encounter with Bucky, Sam, and Steve, you want nothing but this night to end. Unfortunately for you, you’ll have to find the exit first.

Drabbles

Paranoia [1.4k]

Avenger!Bucky x reader

Summary: Bucky comes home to an unlocked door - his mind convinces him something horrible happened to you

Learn his way [1.5k] ❁

College!Bucky x College!Tutor!Reader

Summary: Bucky is more interested in learning about you than biology

“Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.”

- Edgar Allan Poe

[mothdruid]

The Physics of Love - Prologue

series masterlist | part one

pairing.

robert 'bob' floyd x afab!reader

warnings.

insecurities, previously experienced misogyny in STEM, self-doubt. this content is meant for those who are 18 and older.

authors note.

professor coleman (hondo) is a real one who loves his students. but let me know what you think so far! i will be doing a tag list for this series, so if you would like to join that, let me know.

The red ink stared back at you menacingly. Every minus one, minus two, minus three points marks taunting you. Sixty-eight out of one hundred. It wasn’t the worst you had scored in the class, but it was too far into the semester for you to drop. If only you had actually considered it a few weeks ago. That foolish woman in STEM mentality got the better of you though.

“If there are any issues with scores, let me know after class.” Professor Coleman announced.

It was as if the whole classroom failed, many students hanging back to talk with Professor Coleman. And you were no exception, slowly packing your bag while leaving your test on the table. You flipped through it a little bit as you waited after packing. It wasn’t that you were embarrassed, you just weren’t sure what to do from here on out.

“Issue with your score?” Professor Coleman asked.

You shook your head, letting out a soft chuckle.

“No, I just,” your hand tightened on the marked up papers, “don’t know what to do.”

Professor Coleman gave you a questioning look. You watched as he adjusted his glasses, staring at you with an odd kindness. The tension in your shoulders started to dissipate, your body finally relaxing enough to let your frustration sift into worry.

“If I don’t pass this class, boom, bam, degree gone,” you set the packet on the table. It was annoying to think that this class would potentially make it or break it for you. Stripping you of that geology degree you had yearned for since junior high. Math? A struggle but doable. Chem? Not too bad. Physics? The bane of your existence.

“It’s not like the final is next week. You have passed both exams so far.”

“Barely,” your hands were starting to clench up. It was a nervous habit, one you couldn’t seem to shake.

“Still passed though,” Professor Coleman offered you a smile.

"My degree requires a C plus, something that looks impossible right now," you sighed, tightly running your forefinger and thumb across your forehead to block your vision. It was beyond frustrating.

"Have you thought about looking for a tutor?"

A tutor? Was he being serious? How could anyone help you learn this cursed subject? Let alone get you to retain the information. Plus, you had tried it last semester. It ended in a bit of a failure, on your part and the tutors.

"Yeah, last semester. Tutor got frustrated because I couldn't pick it up, and I got frustrated about not picking it up quickly and it was just," you removed your hand only to be greeted with a soft frown, "it didn't work."

"Would you be willing to give it another try?" Professor Coleman asked, pushing his hands in his pockets.

"I uh… I don't know. I'm not a huge fan of the tutor program here, especially after last semester." You looked over at him with a frown and shrugged. "Maybe this is the universe's way of telling me to give up on geology."

"Hey, some of the best things in life are hard to get, and this might be one of them." Coleman smiled softly at you.

Doubt with a hint of shame swirled around your mind. A storm cloud that didn't want to dissipate. As much as you wanted to believe his words, it was hard. It was hard enough to make it in this field anyways. Hell, any STEM major was hell to get into. It was exceptionally worse though being a female in the field though. You had had classmates and professors act as if you didn't belong among them. And now, it felt like it was all true.

"What if I found you a tutor? Hand picked by me," Coleman shrugged, his words catching your attention.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, I can just fail and go about taking it next semes-"

"I don't want to see you fail."

The two of you stood there for a moment, staring at each other. Coleman had been the first professor that had seemed to actually care about how you did, which was rare for a STEM professor. Most of them had a sink or swim mentality with their subjects, but not him. Not good ole Hondo.

You had heard about Professor Coleman through a few of your other classmates in your program. He used to be an astrophysicist for NASA but then decided to pursue the field of teaching. Or at least that is what you heard through the grapevine. He taught a collection of undergrad students and grad students. You heard Professor Mitchell call him crazy one time for teaching so many students, but you didn't think that Professor Mitchell had much room to talk.

"I don't know if anyone you pick will put up with my incompetence for physics," you hate to admit it, but it was true. You were incompetent at the subject, basically hopeless.

"You're not incompetent, we all have areas we struggle with. I have the perfect person in mind anyways," Professor Coleman said with a smile while leaning back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yeah? Who?" You gave him a curious look.

"It will be a surprise," Coleman said as he pushed up off his desk. He took a few steps over to you. "He will be helpful and patient, because it sounds like you haven't had much of that so far."

"But what if–"

Professor Coleman held his hand up to stop your words.

"No buts, and please just trust me."

"Fine, but if this doesn't work out," you grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder, "you're paying for my second semester of Physics ll."

Professor Coleman grinned, holding his hand out for you to take. The two of you shook hands, sealing the deal. As much as you didn't want to, there was an overwhelming feeling about you failing flowing through you. It felt like the only outcome, all your insecurities about your place in the world bubbling to the surface. But somewhere, deep down inside of you was a bubble or two, telling you that this tutor would help you survive the rest of the semester.

[sacculariuss]

well, well, well … if it isn’t SHIVANI MISHRA, the LADY who’s best known around london for their affiliation to MISHRA. the THIRTY ONE year old has been around london for FIVE MONTHS, and seem to remind me of SMOLDERING EMBERS CUT WITH HONEY, ORNAMENTS DELICATELY PLACED THROUGHOUT RAVEN BRAIDS, A CHARMING SMILE WITH A SNAKE’S TONGUE BEHIND IT, IRON IN THE BACKBONE OF A LIE THAT DOES NOT WAVER. keep this between you, and i but i heard that THE FAMILY IS ILLEGITIMATE AND WAS SENT TO THE SEASON TO MARRY & SECURE FUNDS; can you believe that? i guess it makes sense seeing they are quite VIVACIOUS, ENDEARING & CONNIVING, HEADSTRONG. let’s just hope that little secret doesn’t fall into the hands of lady ashmore …

STATS.

NAME. lady shivani mishra AGE. thirty-one GENDER. cis woman PRONOUNS. she + her SEXUALITY. pansexual AFFILIATION/LOYALTY. the mishra family TITLE. lady, second born TRAITS. + vivacious, endearing, ebullient, compassionate, nurturing, confident. - conniving, headstrong, secretive, decadent, opportunistic, noncommital CHARACTER INSPIRATION. penny lane (almost famous), lady sybil crawley (downtown abbey), keeley jones (ted lasso), rose dewitt butaker (titanic), anna karenina, cosette (les miserables), alice cullen (twilight)

pinterest. playlist.

SHORT BIOGRAPHY.

RUIN IS IN YOUR BLOOD. there is a farce that you must protect, the blurry lines of your family's origin and the whispers of the enigmatic shroud that covers you hidden behind fine fabrics of embroidered silk and ornate jewels and crystals. your father, a disowned son of a wealthy merchant descends from the noble bloodline of viscount sinha, who purportedly traveled to India in the late 17th century, married an Indian princess, and established a trading empire. falsified documents aged and authenticated, including marriage certificates, letters, and wills, written in both english and indian, supposedly passed down through generations.

who were you to ever doubt your lineage? you have the finest tutors, you giggle with your maids as though you are longtime friends, you travel with your father on business when the opportunity arises, get lost in the gardens at night. you establish yourself in court as one of the most beautiful women there but you have always remained untouchable; let them see and yearn what could be but never let them take a closer look. your pedestal was always placed far too high, your confidence is unbounded. the light is warm when you have her attention, leaves you wanting it more the moment she leaves. these were the philosophy you had been raised on until the funds began dwindling.

the three mishra children are sent to fix what their father ruined — the reputation of your family lies on the balance. if you cannot find some way to fund what has been lost, the mishra lineage will become more than just false — there will be much more dangerous prices to pay. are you willing to let your status define who you are as you have your whole life? could you live without it? who are you without the fawning courtiers and fine jewels? is it worth becoming nothing?

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

past flings that would potentially look bad for her family and reputation because she's meeeessyyy // potential suitors she leads on because she's simply waiting for the best offer // people that suspect the mishra family's sudden rise to nobility is strange and not right // perhaps a mutually parasitic relationship i.e. using each other for more influence // the possibilities are endless... give me all

template by asmodeus-psd.

[skitter-kitter]

👀👀👀 looking at u with my big ol eyes

Alright here’s a fic I’ve been cooking up for a while. “Mama’s Boy” (title is a work in progress) is a fic set during Halloween where ghosts are able to be seen by normal people and so Lear ends up seeing his mom and getting to have one last conversation with her. However, it doesn’t go well as he’s forced to confront everything he’s gone through by someone he can’t lie to.

Lear gasped for air in what breaths his body would allow him, the broken sound feeble and unbecoming of royalty. “I missed” — he accidentally cut himself off with a heaving gasp as another wave of anguish ran through him — “you, too. Dad— he didn’t— he— I missed you. I missed you so much, Mom.”

“I know what he did,” Clementine muttered in his ear. Her tone changed from the adoring, soft tones she addressed him with to a harsh, bitter tone. Her long, beautiful black hair ran over her back and around her shoulders. Lear tried his best to not get snot on it, though he could not save her shirt from the same fate. “You don’t have to lie to me. Neither of you should have ended up like that after I died, I thought he would have been better to you, but he wasn’t. I thought nothing would change. That was my fault. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Lear asked. His arms were wrapped around her stomach, constricting so tight he might as well have been pretending to be an Arbok. His mom leaned her head away from him, prompting him to do the same. The prince could only manage a few inches of distance from her, but her loving smile almost managed to make him forget about it.

Clementine lifted her hand to his cheek, wiping away his tears and removing his glasses in the same motion. She folded them up and placed them on the collar of his jacket. Their matching purple eyes met; something seemed to shatter in her when she looked at him. The queen looked at him like he was the sun in her galaxy. Lear looked at her like he looked at the stars, yearning for a life he knew he could never have. A mother who would never survive.

“For the way your tutors treated you.” Lear’s eyes widened and his mind went silent. He stopped crying. His mother’s expression fell, but it didn’t kickstart his heart. “I’m— I’m sorry, Lear, I didn’t know he would react like that. If I had, I would have done something, I promise you.”

“How do you know about that?” Lear’s voice was frosty and horrified. From the opposite side of the front hall, he felt someone react to his heightened emotions. He stared at Clementine like he would Giovanni or any other threat to his safety. “No one is supposed to know, and you were dead, so who in the hell told you?”

Lear couldn’t help the way his body was shaking, couldn’t help the betrayal surging through his blood, but he could help himself from touching this— this fake! His mother was dead. Whoever was in front of him, whoever dared to apologize for something they had no right knowing about, didn’t deserve his touch. His skin crawled with disgust as he pushed himself away from Clementine’s imposter.

His back slammed against the railing, leaving him with two choices. He could stay and face this liar— or he could jump and hope Hoopa would catch him in time. It was harder to find the unending trust that had been there moments earlier.

Tears ran down his face, but this time they weren’t ones of relief but of fury. Or, at least, that’s what the prince wanted to believe. From his mother’s perspective, he knew she would see nothing but a terrified child scrambling away from her. But, she was wrong. Lear wasn’t a kid anymore! He was a self-sufficient adult… who was still scrambling away from her with tears falling down his face.

[witchofthesouls]

As much as I love the raunchy mikoscreen content, it would be such an upgrade to go from "fuckbudies that are kind of friends" to "oh shit, I think I catched the feelings...I like LIKE him/her" + raunchy hc (maybe some holoform interactions)

Also, idk why, but I also see Jack doing this kind of "secret relationship" too, but maybe not with a bot (I know that some ship him with arcee, and idk what are your opinions on that). Maybe he's with a human, the least human you could ever imagine him with.....

Any hc, opinions?

Personally, I’m not a fan of Jack x Arcee. I view their dynamic as the “reluctant partnership that grew into a mutual bond of camaraderie.” I think part of it is how I interpret her age as someone in her 30s along with her long experience with warfare. Arcee has underlying trauma from grief and loss beneath her hard exterior and sass and salt. (Honestly, nearly the entire cast of them does. At the very beginning of the series with Cliffjumper’s memorial, Optimus basically said they were the only Autobots left on Earth. That leaves many questions on how many were there before. Did they go down with the Ark? Separation? Break off?)

Smokescreen, on the other hand, strikes me as someone as not even 20 years old. This greenhorn is like a 17-19 years-old in my eyes. He’s got heart. He’s got guts. And he’s doesn’t have a bad mind when he actually uses it. I mean, come on, remember the little dance he did before a mission? That psych-up of excitement with little jumps? Sonnova, I was dying.

(To anyone who wants to see it, I present the Youtube link. Go to 2:43. Arcee gives Bulkhead a heads-up on “Destiny’s Child” and both of them look over to see Smokey’s little hype.)

As for Jack with a secret relationship, I’ve toyed with some ideas of an outsider’s perspective that’s in a romantic relationship. Very AU, though. Like an Other!Jack and an Other!OC: both in the know but OC is firmly on the Other side of the Veil or deep inside the Foundation. 

I don’t have a strong preference for Jack in a romantic relationship with anyone else. (Platonic and parental relationships are a different story!)

Tbh, you’re not far off how I view the progression of Mikoscreen’s relationship. From Miko’s point of view. Smokescreen realized early on he was in for the long haul when he decided to stay on Earth after Cybertron was restored.

Smokescreen doesn’t yearn for Cybertron as the other Autobots had. He doesn’t have memories of the Crystal Palace Botanical Gardens, the vibrant murals within Iacon’s artisanal caste, the Festivals of the Thirteen… 

He onlined at the late stage of the War upon Cybertron’s surface: the bombardment of Iacon’s shields, packed barracks full of raw trainees and quiet veterans, the vast emptiness of the Iacon Database when he was pulled and reassigned to Alpha Trion…

Earth was his crucible and it feels strange to leave it behind after everything that went down.

In the aftermath of their heavy-petting and makeout in the desert, there was a little active part of his self-preservation that went Wait a klick, mech… 

While a big part had stemmed from Wrecker retaliation on poaching their own, he’s also thinking of the various health modules the barracks had to go through.

He’s nervous about anything more and so many questions circle his mind: Is he too big? Is it even safe? What happens if he hurts her from ‘facing? What happens if he accidentally reverts his default size?

Miko decided to attend university in the United States, so she and Smokescreen can disappear into the vast wilderness for him to stretch out his legs. Plus, it’s easier to get into contact with Ratchet who also stayed on Earth.

The trio is still in contact with one another. Jack is also attending college and she stops by with Smokey to race and give him a break. Raf followed Ratchet’s steps to track Energon growth and Unicron’s effect on Earth.

Miko makes money under the table from tutoring Americans the Japanese language, raw manga into English translations, and helping out Ratcet as an extra pair of hands with the Apex Armor.

For the longest time, as in several years, the most they’ll do is map out each other bodies and figure out what they like.

Deep kisses and trailing their fingers over flesh or mesh. Miko is absolutely fascinated by the thrumming cables and flexing plates of protoform, by the intensity of biolights flashing bright, and how warm Smokescreen can get. Smokey is similarly fascinated by how soft and small Miko’s body is compared to a Cybertronian, even when mass-displaced, the buzzing of her chaotic biochemistry as he circles her, the way she’s comfortable being so exposed without any armor, the flexibility of her body.

With the Decepticons gone, the discovered raw Energon is theirs now. Smokescreen could indefinitely use his holomatter if he chose to do so, they’re swimming in fuel at this point.

Smokescreen finds out that his holomatter is very ticklish when she digs her fingers across his ribs and sides and he disappears in an electronic shower of sparks.

Miko figures out that Smokey is physically affectionate. He likes touching her or having her touch him. His holomatter’s arm around her while they’re shopping, brushing her hair back or casually redoing it, kisses to her cheek or forehead whenever “Sawyer” sees Miko. Smokescreen carrying her in his servo or on his shoulder, Miko perched on his thigh when they take a break in the middle of nowhere to watch the sky and stars.

She thinks it’s absolutely unfair that not only Smokescreen can manipulate his neural net in his frame, but he could also control sensation in his holomatter. No more surprise tickle attacks.

The first time they do penetrative sex, it’s in the shared apartment between her and Jack. They’re on the bed and watching Red 2, Smokescreen is playing with the ribbon of her shorts. They already talked about and he’s sufficiently fueled and far more experienced with his holomatter. Of course, she croons into his ear, smiling wide. “Show me something, Hot Wheels…”

Miko wouldn’t even realize it until years down the line when Jack pops the question about her and Smokescreen making it official as they can, even Raf even gently reminds her that Smokescreen has painted light brown accents on his frame.

Painting another mecha’s colors onto yourself, Raf explained, was a Declaration of Intent. Usually, it was also followed by incorporating a piece of the other mecha’s armature into their own.

Her space-boy painted the shade of her eyes on himself...

After that revelation, Miko schedules a hair appointment and brings a picture to the stylist for an ombre effect of his specific shade of blue and bright red tips.

"Don't cry on me, space-boy." "I'm not!"

He totally did.

[lowlyroach]

366) No, Fuck Me Brainless Book Club

The way your hands feel

On my face

Slap me

Grip my throat and choke me

So heavenly how you

Press those delicate fingers into my arteries

I-

Indulge in my feral savagery

Pants come undone

I grab myself and rub

Moaning and gasping

Slap my thigh as I

Read

Then, my face

Oh how you pull my ear

Grab my hair

Hold me up

My stomach soars

Lips curl into a humming smile

A rollercoaster in my organs

Guide me like a dog

Eyes in the back of my head

I try to focus when I open them

Call me a good pet

As I whimper for you

You like the way my eyebrows look

In my yearning

Let me take off my clothes

Run your fingers across my skin

I'll melt into that electrified puddle

Cover my face with the pillow

When I get shy with ecstasy

When I'm on top

Thumb to your tongue

Oh, god

How you control me

Even when I'm in control

The feeling of it sliding in that slutty pretty mouth

Good girl

Let me grab your throat

Run my hands between your thighs

How great the desire to be inside

I want you to be mine

Call yourself mine

You are MINE

MINE

I'll tease you gently

Run my fingers up and around

The way your tongue dances

Between your lips

Suddenly dry

As I grab your throat

I stifle the eagerness

Catching in my own

Don't Make me beg

To feel that heat beneath the body suit

Let me devour you

I want to see you read too

Pin you with patience

Not yet, stupid slut of mine

Not till I hear you whine

Are you too shy?

I haven't given you permission yet

Have I?

You haven't said pretty please

So let me soften up your knees

Make them weak

Hands off, you brainless girl

Let me take those butterflies for a twirl

I want your thoughtless head to swirl

Match my eagerness

My earnest want to please

Tease me

As you touch it absentmindedly

Don't apologize

Grip it with both hands

Or trace them around my thighs

Don't mind the way I'm throbbing

You can watch

If you find yourself wanting

Oh, I moan your name

As the sting crosses my face

Stomach dancing in your enchantment

Don't let me finish yet

I am only at the rising action

I don't want to skip to the climax

Don't give this pervert permission

Until he's

Earned it

Leash me

Choke me

Put me in a collar

Force me to thrust into your hand

Or rub myself against your elbow as it rests on me

Make me weak and needy

Call me pathetic as I

Whine so desperately

Mind racing uncontrollably

It all started when you hooked me in the hallway

I am permanently

Wrapped around your finger

You make me burn up at work

I need it now

Let me tear your clothes off

Rip those fishnets apart

Toss them aside

I'll bend you over

So be good and unkind

You stupid naughty brat

I'll teach you some manners

Watch how you react

Let me be a good dog boy

Leave my handprint on your bruised ass

Let me get a mouthful

Feel free to give me sass

That bratty lip of yours needs tutoring

I'll sign you up for one more class

I want to see your eyes flutter

Your brain in the gutters

Perverted fucking slut

Bite your lip when I make you shudder

When I hear you say

"That feels way better"

It only makes me want to tease you more

Grip the air with frustrated desire

As I press my finger between

I want you dripping and sore

Only for a moment

Let me see you brim with lust

You are so pretty when left wanting

Grind yourself against my body

Oh, you dare threaten to do it yourself?

I know you want to be disobedient

I won't let that happen

But gods how I want to see you

Be that little brainless thing that you are

As I pleasure you without release

Give in to the temptation and

cum for me

Like a stupid and naughty girl would

I will

Cum for you

Like a pathetically obedient slave should

I will do it twice in a row

Three or four times, if I'm lucky

You know how I love to

Re-read immediately

I'll make a mess

I don't want to get to the resolution yet

I want to be stupid with you

Pathetically perverted, too

Let's start a book club

And read together.

[yumiyue07]

Heartstrings in Seoul

The fluorescent lights hummed mercilessly, mirroring the relentless drone of your computer. Each keystroke echoed in the sterile silence, starkly contrasting the morning's chaotic printer jam that had thrown your entire department into a tizzy. "Let’s just get out of here," you muttered under your breath. As you finally heaved a sigh of relief and zipped your bag shut, a sharp click-clack of heels echoed on the sterile tiles. Your department manager, Mrs. Kim, materialized beside you, a disapproving frown etched on her face.

"Miss Y/N," she began, her voice laced with a chill that sent shivers down your spine, "I expect impeccable work from you. The quality of your work simply isn't up to par. If you can't deliver, perhaps you should consider, well, other options."

Her words cut like a knife, and she stomped off, leaving you stunned and seething. The words hung heavy in the air, a cruel echo of the whispers that had followed you all day after the incident this morning. You bit your lip to keep from shouting the retort burning on your tongue. Blinking back a surge of angry tears, you clenched your fist, the fabric crumpling under your grip. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing you crack. You had been under their watchful eyes all day, ever since this incident.

You pulled your cell phone from your pocket and dialed his number as you walked, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Each ring echoed off the empty hallway, a hollow counterpoint to the pounding in your chest. The setting sun cast long shadows through the glass windows, painting the outside world in hues of orange and gold, contrasting the grey monotony you felt inside.

He answered before you even reached the elevator, his familiar voice warm and soothing. "Hello, my sweetie. Did you miss me?" Just hearing him felt like a balm for your weary soul. "H/N," you managed, voice thick with unshed tears, "Can you pick me up, please?"

He picked up on the tremor instantly. "I'll be right there," he replied without hesitation. You didn't need to explain further. He could sense something was wrong, and further questions were unnecessary—he knew you too well. Fortunately, it was his day off, so he could leave immediately to come to your aid.

A wave of relief washed over you as H/N's voice filled your ear. You felt infinitely grateful to have him as your boyfriend. Two years together, his presence, even just over the phone, was still a balm to your soul. Moving to Seoul six months ago had been a leap of faith, fueled by the desire to bridge the physical distance that had strained your relationship. Back then, late-night calls and stolen moments during his hectic schedule had become a constant reminder of the sacrifices both of you were making. Seoul, with its vibrant energy and proximity to H/N, had seemed like the answer. Yet, settling in had been far trickier than anticipated.

The language barrier loomed large. You'd aced countless interviews in English, your old comfort zone, but here, fluency in Korean was non-negotiable. Thanks to H/N's patient tutoring and your relentless determination to improve your Korean as soon as possible, you'd landed a job at an international company, handling correspondence with global clients. Yet, navigating the intricate web of office politics felt like scaling a slippery slope. Misunderstood emails, awkward silences during meetings, and the constant fear of making a faux pas had become your daily companions. Today, that struggle had reached a new low point, leaving you yearning for the camaraderie of your old team, a support system you now desperately missed.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing two colleagues from marketing. Their smiles were strained, their eyes flickering with a knowing glint. The air crackled with unspoken words, a sickening confirmation that news of your predicament had traveled fast. You plastered a tight smile on your face, the silence in the elevator a deafening weight. You did your best to ignore them, focusing on the glowing numbers above the elevator door. Every floor seemed to crawl by, each chime a reminder of the watchful eyes upon you. When you reached your floor, you mustered a polite goodbye and quickly stepped out, eager to escape their knowing eyes and hushed whispers following you like unwelcome ghosts.

Until H/N arrived, you took refuge in the ladies' room near the main entrance. You couldn't bear the thought of being watched any longer. As you pushed open the door, a snatch of conversation drifted from a nearby stall - the mocking laughter confirming your worst fears. Tears pricked your eyes as you recognized their voices. They were dissecting your day, turning your struggles into their entertainment. As they emerged, their faces fell in shock. An awkward silence followed, their eyes darting away as they mumbled a half-hearted apology. You offered a curt nod, the sting of their betrayal a fresh wound. Seeking solace, you retreated into a stall, the flimsy door a meager barrier between you and the world. "Please, H/N, be here soon," you silently prayed for his comforting presence. You longed for the safety of his arms, a place where judgment wouldn't sting, and the world wouldn't feel so cold.

To be continued...

♡

Author’s note:

Hello lovelies, here we go again!

I’m excited to share my latest story, Heartstrings in Seoul, inspired by Stray Kids’ beautiful song “Because.” This story captures the warmth and care of a loving boyfriend helping Y/N navigate through a rough day at work. 💖

In this story, I wanted to showcase the quiet strength and gentle support that can make all the difference when life gets tough. Whether it’s a simple gesture or a comforting word, it’s these moments that truly connect us and pull at our heartstrings.

I hope this story brings a smile to your face and warmth to your heart. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below—I’d love to hear how this story resonates with you. 💬✨

Thank you for your support!

Stay tuned for part 2!

Love, YumiYue 🌙

(⌒▽⌒)💜

Follow me on: 📸 Instagram: @yumiyue07 🎵 TikTok: @yumiyue07

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fan fiction. All characters and events are fictional and are not intended to represent real people or events. All rights reserved. Please do not repost or reproduce this story without permission. © 2024 LunaVerse - YumiYue07. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

[fullcupceramics]

A year in review

I started the year with two loves of my life and pizza. I said goodbye to my magical northern Israeli life. The quiet and calm. The isolation. The finding of beauty in pink streets, moo hikes, and farm runs. To my arab school and my sweet classroom. Children who found love in a forbidden relationship.

The finding of love.. the sharing of intimate moments in our sacred bubble. This was ours. A girls trip with my best friend and chosen family. Fuck Beer Sheva. Where are my keys?! So much weed. Eilat hikes with my sweetie, Allison.

Moving to Tel Aviv. Feeling overwhelmed. I miss the north. To starting ceramics and crying. I can't fucking communicate. This isn't me. To finding crochet and girlfriends. To breaking my heart. To crying and feeling withdrawn. To running along the Tyelet and buying a bike and seeing the city pass. WeEE. Wow. This place is freedom. Young and vibrant. Is this what it means to be happy? Finding tutoring jobs and nannying with families that became my own. Joining protests and marches. Somehow ending up in the front. To running my first half marathon. I did that. I became the person who does things. Mom and dad visited. Feeling that this feels like home. This is my home. Can I tell you this? Should I? How will you react? Do you trust me? I went in front of the camera. I posed. I felt radiant. I am beautiful. Yes, I AM beautiful. I AM beautiful. JORDAN. IZZY. food, petra, wadi rum. My hair in the jeep. I couldn't drive shift. Petra is SO much more than that one picture. Yoga festival. Meeting angel Yael. My first sign. My first tent. I went in a car with Rotem. I went alone. Bold. You are fierce. to finding dance. Ecstatic. Look at them. Look at them feel. Energy transfers, soul alignment, connection. Intimacy. Sex. Blindfolds and oil. Coconut water and fruit. An animal hunting for substance. Bite. Lick. Smell. Women. Love letters to Noam. I feel heard. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for lifting my. Higher frequencies. Yoga. More women. More sacred spaces. How graceful my body. How glorious my body. Each scar. All the cellulite. All the flubber. All the muscles. All the inconsistencies. Thank you for bring me here. August rain. August home, comfort, planning. Yearning. Its Israel I need to be. A little longer. I'm not done yet. Midburn. Mystic Queens. What could have been. Bikes. New friendships. Vitamin D. Starting. Leaving.

I experienced the most intense anxiety I have in my life. I hurt my ankle and couldn't run the marathon; I was devastated and couldn't handle it. I couldn't comprehend loving a place so far away from "home." I am still making sense of the word "home." I had debilitating anxiety trying to figure out how to spend my summer. Whether or not to come back to Israel. How to make a decision that I knew would upset the ones I love. Resettling in Tel Aviv only to realize that the bubble had broken and while the city is magical, you still need to pay for bills and deal with maintenance people who you can't speak to and figure out a confusing visa process and figure out how to get a new bike tire after yours was stolen and figure out how to get a job and fill out a tax form... Only 3 weeks later to be caught in the midst of a war. Feeling so desperately out of control. Feeling so desperately in pain. Screaming out, "this wasn't part of the plan." To temporarily move back to your parent's house but unable to see the temporary nature in it. To be in a dark spiral for 7 weeks. To lose all sense of growth and thrill for the life I had just built, had just discovered. Wondering, would I feel that again? Would I find her again? Or would I stay lost in this girlhood version of myself who needed a hug but I refused to give it to her. I couldn't. I was traumatized. My thoughts spiraled. They looped. A broken record. Each day. all day. To feel that this was all a dream. That I was living a dream. Not now, but always. If I touch you, will you feel it? Will I? ... To decide that the only way out of this would be to return to my magical place. The place I never mentally or emotionally left in the first place. Only then did I believe could I see clearly. Could I return to myself. To return and breath a sense of calm and peace, of knowing that I will dance again. Feeling unsure and confused but trusting. Feeling angry and numb but trusting. Diving inward. Studying guitar, art, Hebrew, and psychology. Returning to movement. Returning to my breath. Returning to dance, to bring on a new year.

I dance for the ones who can't. I dance for the child that didn't. I dance for the moment I wanted to jump. I dance for the moments of dark. I dance for the tears, the joy, the laughter, the anxiety, the depression, the friendships, the bad weed, the hospital visit, the loss, the love, the closeness, the distance... I dance because it's the only way forward. I dance because I trust.

[im-a-shitpost-god]

It's my dad's birthday today and for the first time in the 22 years I've been alive for I haven't wished him a nice day or another happy year. It made me feel really guilty of course, but I don't think he deserves it. Almost four whole months of not talking to him have gone by, and he has asked around about how I've been and what I've been doing. He's not been brave enough to ask me though. Four months and he hasn't asked why I don't speak to him either. I assume he thinks it's because I'm ungrateful and greedy, interested only in his money. It's hard when it's the only thing someone has to offer you and no matter how many times you try to explain and how you fade away over the years and how they stop knowing you completely. The worst is the extent you can pull yourself from someone's life without them trying to stop you or wanting to know why. So I haven't wished him a happy birthday and I feel horrible about it but I have enough self respect for myself to not do it.

Two weeks ago I got a bus ticket going to work, because I didn't have enough money to get one. I've had to miss doctor's appointments and reschedule therapy for weeks because I can't cover it and the guilt I feel for my mum having to go back and forth angry texting my dad to give her 30 pounds is worse than missing it. We've only been able to get groceries once the past three weeks because she can't cover it more often than that and I've been scrapping together dinners and lunches for work with whatever we would have on hand. I have debts I haven't been able to pay off in months and things I've needed for weeks I keep pushing off because I can bearely find enough money for food let alone stupid shit I can stretch without for a little while longer. The ammount of work one has to put into something as stupid as not starving lays heavy on my heart on the bus ride home from work. I stare out of the window as it's pouring outside, the window foggy from the heat of the bus and the people inside it. It's the only moment of my day I have enough time to consider how I'm feeling and I'm not feeling well. I feel like my heart's growing heavier with each year of my life and I yearn for the times where I worried about my friends and my grades and how other people saw me and how sad I would feel and I had enough time and friends and people around to worry about.

I digress, my dad's birthday is today and soon I'm suing him for aliments. It's not a pleasant thought and not a pleasant thing to do and not something I want to do at all if I had any other choices. I feel guilty for it, but even more guilty for my mum who is left arguing with my dad and worrying about how she will pay for our house bills. My dad seems like he doesn't have money to cover any of this, judging by how angry he gets about these things, or how he used to make me beg and plead for him to help me pay for groceries in uni. My sister, in the same position but with perhaps less quiet anger and pride bubbling up inside her broke off her silence after months to beg and plead. When she talks to me about what she has to say and do to get 40 pounds for petrol and a doctor's appointment I feel sick and all the more I feel my silence is okay. I am not like her and have never been like her. I'm not one to scream and yell and storm off and ignore someone for months out of anger. My anger always feels like it's brewing quietly for weeks, months and years before I get so fed up I up and leave. I don't ever explain why, to anybody. So, my dad has so much money. I grew up more well-off than any of my friends, never even looked at the prizes of things in stores, never wondered if we would go on holidays to someplace fancy and never wondered if I asked for something if my parents would decline. I had private tutors, expensive shoes and money-consuming hobbies. Dad didn't blink twice sending me off to America in highschool, spending enough money on it to buy a brand new car. So yeah, inviting me to his new house last year, staring at his imported from Britain wallpaper that cost more than my life had the past 6 months and at his designer fucking frigde that cost more than my life had in the past year and a half? The quiet rage kept growing and growing, every time he would yell at me asking where my money had gone studying abroad that month because food isn't that expensive and I have to be lying to him.

So, no happy birthday.

I feel like I am drowning in on myself, always have been that kind of person. I have suprisingly always been well-liked, well-known, like the kind of person that managed to be recognized by most people I passed. A smile always plastered on my face, teasing and talkative. Engaged into everyone I turned my attention to as if we were the best of friends. First time I walked away from someone was from my first friend group in highschool. They were all nice kids, way more quiet than me and consistent in their presence. But I've always been loud and a bit annoying and really too trusting and too honest. And I had like a fucked up situation happen there and I promise as selfish as I am, that was not my fault. I got semi-dropped but I earned back my way into that group and then fucked it all up again only a couple months after for this girl I was really in love with. My best friend had feelings for her and confessed all this shit to me when I was away in America and it obviously didn't go all that well. I dropped the poor girl before I left, but for some reason things between us always have been this way like a slow magnetic pull always. And so I tried to ditch her to save my friendship with this person I really loved and cared about. But then shit happened and I got pulled back in and then again stupidly promised I wouldn't see her because I loved my friend that much. Despite how earnest I was to do this I obviously didn't last all that long and two months passed and we were stuck at each other's hip again. Kept being blown off by my friends who seemed to have moved on from me to some extent and it hurt me a lot so I dropped them completely. I was depressed for months but moved on later, whatever. Similar thing with the next friends I made. I don't confront people about things. I quietly hope they will shake themselves and realise they are being assholes. So again, I wasn't treated the best. I pulled away. Some people would try to come back into my life but I wouldn't let them. Gave them a chance once, which they fucked up so badly I refrained from doing that ever again.

I used to be really trusting, overly so. People would take advantage as people do. I don't like to trust people now. I have friends but kept at arms length, ones I've known for years who I am not close enough with for them to fuck me over too bad. I have other friends, in countries I don't live in anymore, who I wish I got to see but can't. I am a really lonely person. I yearn to have people I can rely on but I also like to push people away. So when I'm on the bus staring out at the route I've taken since I was thirteen, so familiar to me, I wish I had someone close. I am not interested in surface level friends like I used to be. That came after losing the first real friends I had. I don't know. Many times I've found out my closest friends would call me annoying and too much behind closed doors. I can honestly see what they meant but the diluted version of me that exists now makes me sick to my stomach. I used to be just as happy and excited and loud as I used to be sad but it was a whole me. Now I feel like a fructured mess of nothing and nothing to offer and nothing to want or need. Last time I made friends was maybe three years ago and since then I'v e felt less and less like myself.

So, anyways, off topic a bit. Sometimes walking through a busy street, on a train getting home and in a pasta aisle of a grocery store I want to start screaming and not stop. Start sobbing my heart out and have people look at me weird and pull their children away and call the security. I want to finally break and do something so crazy that at least somebody will look at me. I just still feel like that about everything- like a slow slow light and gentle brewing anger, non-spilling and not hot. Just bearely there if you don't look at it right or close enough. I don't know. When I was younger I used to think that if I killed myself then at least people would notice. I don't think I was that far off

[5sosfanfictioncatalogue]

1k Fics (2) Masterlist

part one

a new hope (ao3) - no_clue_who Luke/Ashton G

Summary: The lightest pitter-patter of rain on the window was the only background noise to Ashton’s cooking. The house was still dark and Luke, nor Petunia, had made an appearance outside of their bedroom. The gray skies and perpetual rain had been a welcoming break to the onslaught of heat over the past few weeks, Ashton enjoyed the quiet and calm of it all.

Ashton grabbed the popcorn and his lunch, sinking further down on the couch and pressing play on the remote.

or how not to watch a movie

Baby I'll Never Leave If You Keep Holding Me This Way (ao3) - FayeHunter Michael/Calum T

Summary: Calum stops by the flower shop to pick up Michael for date night.

Can I Go Where You Go? (Can We Always Be This Close Forever and Ever?) (ao3) - Anonymous Luke/Calum T

Summary: Whatever Luke’s opinions are, are one-hundred percent okay to have. “What if they don't like me?”

Calum frowns, running his fingers through Luke’s curls. “Darling, pride parades are about self-acceptance and love. Hell, that’s why Pride month became a thing in the first place.” He hugs Luke back, tighter than his boyfriend had. “Besides, people attend parades to love themselves unapologetically, not to garner approval from anybody else, per se.”

(Or where it’s Luke’s first pride, and Calum is determined to make it the best.)

Domesticated Erotica: Luke’s Hobby (ao3) - twinkylukey Luke/Ashton E

Summary: Basically, Luke likes those hetero erotic romance novels and Ashton thinks it’s cute.

Fashion (ao3) - 3amstalker Luke/Calum T

Summary: Luke is a teen boy who likes pretty things and Calum likes him maybe a little too much...

Frozen Cores and Cake Pops (ao3) - 1loulu5 T

Summary: "The question your teacher assigned you is What if the Earth’s core cooled, right?”

Or, Luke's new tutor helps him with his science homework.

He's Into Drummers (ao3) - orphan_account Calum/Ashton E

Summary: When his older sister drags him to a punk rock concert in the middle of the night, sixteen-year-old Calum finds himself enjoying more than just the music. Hey, it's not his fault that the drummer is good with his hands.

I’ll Take My Pizza AND the Pizza Guy (ao3) - eyecrinkleskink Luke/Calum T

Summary: luke is really awkward and calum is a pizza delivery boy.

Lip Ring, Warm Aura, and a Hot French Accent (ao3) - 1loulu5 Michael/Luke T

Summary: With golden hair, ocean eyes, and un putain d'anneau à lèvres (a fucking lip ring), the boy was becoming Michael’s only thoughts.

~~~

Michael just moved to Australia from France, and he doesn't know a word of English. So, of course, his parents enrol him in school right away.

My Baby Wears Shades of Pink (ao3) - twinkylukey Luke/Ashton E

Summary: Ashton now owns the Playboy mansion. Luke is the only male bunny, and the only one that suits his needs.

Nobody Gonna Love Me Better (ao3) - universalstark Luke/Ashton E

Summary: Luke just wants to show Ashton he’s capable of anything, anytime.

How lucky is he?

one look and i’m enchanted (ao3) - jbhmalum Michael/Calum T

Summary: “Stop looking at me,” Michael grumbles, arms crossed and a pout on his face. Calum knows very well he’s not asking for safety reasons, which makes another teasing smile breakout on his face. “But you’re so cute,” he says, laughing at Michael’s disapproving noise. Michael hates being called cute. “I swear, you’re the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

OR Michael now has to wear glasses. He hates it, so of course Calum teases him about it.

Relax a bit (ao3) - Slimshady86 Michael/Luke M

Summary: Luke knows Michael is stressed at work and plans a surprise for him when he gets home.

So Kiss Me Where I Lay Down (My Hands Pressed to Your Cheeks) (ao3) - Anonymous Luke/Ashton E

Summary: Ashton yearns to be surprised – he craves pleasure from his boyfriend, but a surprise every once in a while doesn’t kill him. It just makes him more whipped, in fact. Ashton is so whipped for Luke fucking Hemmings.

(Or where Ashton hears thunder outside and needs a distraction, so he wakes up his boyfriend. Sex ensues.)

sugar we're goin' down (ao3) - no_clue_who Luke/Ashton E

Summary: Luke giggled against Ashton’s neck as Ashton was trying to unlock the front door, the dead weight he was adding probably didn’t help but they just wanted to stay where he was. Ashton finally pushed the door open with a grunt, making Luke giggle again against his neck. Ashton nearly dragged Luke into the house, his arms sliding under the oversized coat Luke was wearing.

Luke tried to flick on one or two lights to see where they were walking, but Ashton spun them and pushed them up against the wall instead. Ashton grabbed his hips and held them tightly, “Do you know how nice you look?”

or how not to rile your husband up

turn it on in a new kind of bright (it's solar) (ao3) - yellingatbabylon Luke/Ashton G

Summary: Each morning and evening brought gorgeously painted skies that no artist could ever dream of replicating exactly, no camera able to draw in all the light just right. Luke is no astronomer so the science of the beauty the sun creates is lost on him. Though he thinks he’s alright with considering it somewhat magical instead.

Watch (ao3) - 1loulu5 Calum/Ashton, Michael/Luke M

Summary: In which Ashton reads a letter Calum wrote to him.

Watch Out for the (Tomato) Killer! (ao3) - 1loulu5 Michael/Calum T

Summary: “Papa’s gon’ k-kill us!”

Or, two-year-old Mya sees her papa (Calum) cutting a tomato and runs to her daddy (Michael) for help.

[kingdumkum]

WHAT ARE YOU THE GOD OF, AGAIN?

feat: Satan (1754) ∻ Asmodeus (1297) ∻ Beelzebub (1402) ∻ Belphegor (1533) synopsis: turns out, fallen angels can have more than one sin. cw: afab!reader | dom!Satan shouldn’t be allowed to play with toys but here we are; vouyerism (on behalf of the brothers but namely Asmo); exhibitionism (on behalf of Satan); brat tamer!Satan x brat!reader; humiliation; cnc in that reader doesn’t actually give explicit consent in this situation but it’s been given for situations like this before; Satan is a closet FREAK and i will be taking questions | kinda public sex (they’re in a closet); fwb; really rough sex; possessive!Asmo knows how to leave a mark; slight mentions of blood; feral!Asmo is something ELSE but I’m here for it | panty-stealing; panty-sniffing; perv!Beel; breeder ball Beel ain’t an agenda, it’s the truth; he’s kinda pathetic and lovesick in this but i fail to see how that’s out-of-character | facesitting (on Belphie); oral (f!receiving); overstimulation (f!receiving); soft!Belphie because writing him mean is really hard for me; it’s really just great to be Belphie’s tbh a/n: i... am shocked speechless at how many people enjoyed part one. this was so self-indulgent, but y'all have been so nice, so have a cookie ya filthy animals. the prince of demons and his angel and his human are next.

∻ Satan         ↠         w r a t h        ⤲         e n v y

While SATAN does his best to remain calm, to try and not just put up with his anger but control it, his sin is contagious, and more often than not, he inadvertently starts things. Sometimes without even realizing; most of the time with the sole intent to. It helps, he justifies, that he doesn’t have to be the only one angry all the time. It gives him a break, lets him be calm.

Let him regain control.

And control he has, as he plays with the settings of the vibrator nestled neatly in your cunt. A punishment from earlier, when you showed up to your private study session with Asmodeus in tow. Yes, Satan knows you didn’t invite him on purpose, and yes, he knows Asmodeus pulled the but I would fail without your help! card, as if he wasn’t around whispering inspiration into Oscar Wilde’s ear in the first place, but that didn’t help his barely-controlled rage when Asmo decided the best place for you to tutor him would be in his lap.

And you agreed.

Satan knew why, of course; it was your way of trying to get back at him for accidentally standing you up the other night. That wasn’t his fault though; he’d gotten so caught up in his latest work that he’d completely lost track of time, but he’d rushed over to Hell’s Kitchen as soon as he realized. Three hours late.

To where you were sitting with Asmodeus. Drinking, with Asmodeus–laughing, with Asmodeus.

Asmodeus, who promptly left with a brief kiss on your cheek and playful scolding of Satan for losing sight of something so precious, had the sense to not be seen again, and Satan managed to remain calm until your salads arrived, at which point you made note of how Asmodeus helped you picked the menu.

He did pay for the damages done to the bathroom (discreetly, of course; he didn’t need to be scolded by Lucifer for losing control again), and he thought the two of you had come to an understanding. One in which he’d stop making foolish mistakes like losing track of time, and you’d stop keeping foolish company.

Satan had underestimated how addicted you were to making him lose control, though. Almost as much as he was addicted to controlling you.

His face is as stoic as always, even as he watches your reflection in his goblet while nonchalantly flicking his fingers erratically over his phone’s screen. To his more oblivious brothers, who aimlessly talk about Beel’s upcoming game or Mammon’s latest photo shoot, Satan merely looks bored and yearns to return to the library from which he was so ungraciously dragged for dinner; to Lucifer, whose gaze flicks between you and Satan’s apparently apathetic facade, something sinister lies in his creation’s blank stare; and to Asmodeus, who cradles his chin between his palms as he leans across the table towards his older brother, suddenly realizes Satan’s far less interesting than you–you, whose face is flushed, whose jaw is clenched, whose eyes are shut so tight, Asmo knows you must be seeing stars.

And that’s before the smell of your arousal hits him.

With a deepening grin, Asmodeus takes a deep inhale–deep enough to catch Satan’s attention.

The toy stops moving.

With a whimper of protest, your lower lip starts to quiver. Your eyes slowly open, blinking back into reality; and reality being, Satan was about to make you cum for the second time that dinner, with all six of his brothers gathered around the table. You were close–you were so close, and you knew that, and Satan knew that, and–his teal eyes are narrowed in Asmodeus’s direction. His face barely changes; a tightening of his lips, thinning of his eyes, the pause of his hand. But when you whisper his name, hand stretching beneath the tablecloth to grip his knee tightly, he falls apart.

His stoic facade slips, and for a moment, Asmodeus’s smile slips, too–for there, in Satan’s eye, is something Asmodeus had thought to be too intimate for his brother to ever feel; something too tender for an Avatar of Wrath to possess. But it’s there, lurking in the shallow waters of his brother’s eyes as Satan’s stretch for the jug of wine sitting just beyond your reach brings his lips to your ear.

“Apologies, darling,” he murmurs in a tone so light, it wouldn’t be fair to call it air. “Let me make it up to you.”

You cross your arms over your chest and lean into the table, prepared to quip something back about how he better before a gasp slips out instead as Satan, quicker than you thought possible, pulls out the vibrator.

“Satan–” you hiss, but he silences you with a tense glare. One he makes up for by placing a heavy hand back on your thigh, fingers lazily trailing along the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, and despite the uncertainty biting at your spine, you nod. He’s never given you reason not to… ever. “Good. I think this could be fun.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you know better than to ask; the last time you tried questioning what the reserved demon wanted to try, you ended up tied to his bed, vibrator strapped to your aching cunt, for eight hours. Not that you minded that particular outcome, except for the fact you were running out of plausible excuses to justify your frequent absences… or hickies.

Satan’s lips twitch up as he fills your goblet, then goes to top his off. You see the glint of something heavy in his palm, then the splash of something making contact with the liquid in his goblet, then the realization of what he’s doing turns your blood cold as he offers his cup to Asmo.

“Want some?” he asks with perfect ease. “It’s particularly… sweet this evening.”

Satan’s smile could be considered cruel, and in his heart, he knows it is, especially with your shocked-still look of terror beside him, but… this was as close to a blessing as he could ever grant. He might never be willing to share you fully, but he couldn’t pass up the chance to let the others know what they’re missing; particularly Asmo. Particularly the only other demon who seems to be better at eliciting wrath than he.

Asmodeus takes the goblet with a coy grin, already knowing what devilish game his brother is up to. He lifts it to his nose, swirling what little liquid is left as he takes a deep whiff. His sultry gaze turns to you briefly before back to Satan, taking a deep sip. “Made it yourself?”

Satan leans back in his chair, fingers circling around your thigh and dipping beneath your skirt. You bite your lip and fist the hem of the thin material, already knowing that when Satan smirks, it’s not because you’re already flustered from his featherlight touch, but rather because you’ve soaked the cushion beneath you already.

“We did together, actually,” Satan corrects. Without warning, he dips a single digit into your fluttering hole, desperate to be filled after being so cruelly teased all dinner, making sure to gather as much slick as he can. “She’s quite the excellent chef. Everything she makes is… sublime.”

As if to prove his point, Satan withdraws his finger and slowly brings it to his lips. Your cheeks burn with humiliation, not just at the lewdness with which Satan wraps his pale lips around his finger, but at the deep laugh Asmodeus echoes as he dips a finger beyond the goblet’s gilded edge, as carefully as if he were stroking a lover. “Oh, truly,” he agrees, popping his finger into his mouth and sucking gratuitously, “I’ll have to have both of you cook for me some time. I wonder what wonderful things you might be able to make for me, hm?”

Satan starts to frown, and your heart starts to race. With thin lips, he replaces his hand beneath your skirt, but gone is the reverence he was stroking you with before; now, he dives in like a drowning man. Plunging two fingers into your depths, not caring at the way your whole body tenses as you fail to keep your breathing steady, all while maintaining eye contact with his younger brother.

“That’s up to her, I suppose,” Satan muses, angling his palm so it grinds against your puffy clit with every deep thrust, “she doesn’t like cooking for just anyone. She needs the right ingredients, you see. High class stuff. Not sure someone like you would understand, little brother, considering the usual… chefs you employ.”

In other circumstances, you would be fuming at the casual way the brothers discuss you as if you aren’t even there. You’d also probably be in a right enough mind to scold Satan for slipping Asmo your vibrator without actually asking, or at the very least tell Asmo off for being such a brazen flirt–but your mind isn’t thinking that far ahead. It’s all you can do to keep up with the pleasurable way Satan is moving inside you, filling you more fully than any toy ever could, pressing against your core as if this were something he was made to do. Your brain is hazy with pleasure, body even more so, to the point where you don’t even notice Asmodeus passing the goblet to Mammon, teasing the back of the white-haired demon’s head as he’s promised this’ll be his new favorite drink.

Your nails dig into Satan’s arm as he brings you past the edge. He lets you bury your head in his shoulder, softly settling an arm around your shoulders as he murmurs, “good girl.” He tells Asmo that you’re just overcome with emotion about the way your book ended, and he tells Lucifer it’s none of his business when the elder demands to know the name of such an offending book, and he tells Mammon he may absolutely not have the recipe, because that’s a secret between just the two of you.

He does this all while still steadily pumping his fingers in and out of you, bringing you to yet another silent orgasm that leaves tear-stains on your cheeks. By the time Satan’s decided he’s had his fill, his fingers are pruning, his lips are coated from his near-constant finger sucking, and his goblet returns empty.

“Come on, darling,” he says after you’ve had a chance to catch your breath, “we’re out of wine. Shall we go make some more?”

∻ Asmodeus         ↠         l u s t          ⤲         w r a t h

The sound of skin-slapping-skin is the only thing to be heard in the cramped janitor’s closet ASMODEUS pulled you into just five minutes ago. Your hands curl against the wire shelves as you pitifully try to keep your whimpers in. Not that Asmo helps with that, though; not with the aggressive way he’s slamming into you, thumb constantly rubbing your clit in a way he knows drives you insane, sending you jolting forwards into the various cleaning solvents and potion ingredients you did not find romantic whatsoever. His grip on your hips is bruising, but every time you try to straighten, he’s instantly able to shove your shoulders forward and grab your hip once more before you’ve even processed what he’s doing.

“Perfect fucking pussy, sucking me in so goddamn tight,” Asmo growls, letting his free hand trail down your spine to grab your hair. With a sudden jerk, he yanks you backwards, his breath hot against your ear as you fail to suppress a pitiful moan. “Stop pretending like this is too much, angel. This–is–your–fault.”

You don’t know what he’s talking about, he can tell; and it makes him even angrier. It’s not exactly a secret that Asmo has a… soft (or rather, hard) spot for the human exchange students, but there were a few demons that didn’t care. A few pathetic, weak, disgusting demons who thought they could try and steal you away–

He has no right. He’s not stupid, he knows he has no official claim to you. He’d known that since the day you met, and he remembered it when you snuck into his room and shly asked if he had any advice for how to be safe when it came to demons, and he forced himself to tell you, over and over, that he was the Avatar of Lust, and a mere human could never be enough to fully saite his appetite.

So why is he the one who can’t seem to move on?

He was the one who wasn’t searching for something serious, just like he was the one who promised, if you’d let him take care of you, nothing would change. That you’d be friends first and foremost, benefits on the side, no strings attached. No expectations, other than cumming so much you lose count; and no feelings. Except unadulterated pleasure, of course.

It’s a pattern Asmo’s been able to do since the dawn of time, and as the Avatar of Lust, it’s worked out just fine. And then… you, with your soft smiles and softer touch and the way you look at him and see him. Not his beauty, or his charm, or his cock, but–him. Asmodeus, your Asmodeus, only yours–

“Bet this drives you fucking wild, doesn’t it?” Asmo whispers. His tone matches his pace; rough, deep, and full of the things he can’t actually say. “Knowing you’ve got–the Avatar of Lust–pussywhipped–”

Your walls flutter around him, but it’s the low moan of, “Asmo, please–” that causes him to pause. He’s fully sheathed inside you, pulling you back into him as far as he could as he presses his chest to your back. Roughly, he bites at the skin on your lower back, slapping your ass when you yelp and try jumping away. 

“Stay. Put.”

Another bite, this time on your hip, earning yet another yelp–but you manage to suppress your jump with a tremble, keenly aware that whatever mood Asmo’s in is not one to be trifled with.

Another, on your other hip; another, moving up your spine; another, between your shoulder-blades–

Asmodeus keeps you impaled on his pulsing cock, the long member twitching inside with every pitiful yelp you release when his teeth make contact with your tender skin. His hands run up and down your sides before coming to cup your breasts, gently teasing your nipples until the pain of his bites blurs into the pleasure from his fingers.

“Asmo–Asmo, please, I–” you try begging him to move, begging him to pay attention to your clit again, begging him to let you cum–but he won’t have it.

“Oh, so now you remember my name?” Another bite, this time on top of your shoulder. You barely register his words. Asmo snatches your chin and forces your head back. His eyes, usually so full of kindness, are nearly black with rage. Your eyes flutter shut when he snaps his hips into yours, and your whines are pathetic when he stills once more.

“Look at me.”

You can’t. You won’t. You’re tearing up from frustration, and if you open your eyes he’ll see you cry, and if you start crying he might stop fucking, and you don’t want that. Not when he gets like this–when he treats you like you’re his.

This bite breaks skin.

Middle of your throat, right above the pulsepoint he so easily could’ve sliced with just the barest twitch from either of you. Warm liquid slowly trails down to the hollow of your throat, but you don’t know if it’s blood or spit from the messy way Asmo makes out with your neck.

He watches you while he does, pulling back to lick from the nasty bruise that’s already starting to ache all the way up to the corner of your mouth.

“All I had to do was remind you, hunh angel? You don’t need anyone else, yeah? Just me, baby. Just me, just need me-” his voice is soft with desperation, pressing needy kisses to every inch of your face he can reach. His grip on your breast and jaw turns bruising, but you don’t care. You love being marked by him; the pretty patchwork of blues and greens serving as a reminder that your time with Asmo is real. 

“Just--just you, Asmo. Just need–you.”

He doesn’t know if you mean it, but he can’t find it in him to care. Not when you start rocking back on his cock, freely crying as you continue to beg him to make you feel good. 

For a moment, Asmodeus has the sadistic urge to leave. To step back, walk out like nothing happened, and leave you in such a state of want you’ll never think to forget him again.

But then your hand finds his on your chest, and you interlock your fingers while you press a gentle kiss to the palm still clutching your cheeks, and you mumble, “only ever want to be yours, Asmo. Make me yours.”

He can’t breathe, first because he was in shock and then because his lips find yours so quickly, he doesn’t get a chance to. His hips move slowly, minimally grinding into yours as your makeout turns sloppy, only turning into full thrusts when the pleasure gets to be too much and you have to break away from his kiss for air.

“All you had to do was ask, angel. You know I’d do anything for you. But since you seem to keep forgetting, guess I better figure out a way to make you remember, yeah?”

He starts sweet. Sweet as the kiss he presses to your forehead, sweet as the way he caresses your cheek as his hips start to gain traction–but quickly turns bitter when he doesn’t stop. When his hips pick up to the brutal pace he’d initially set when he first dragged you in, slamming against your already bruised thighs without mercy. When the hand on your cheek goes down to your throat, and the other snakes its way down to your clit and tweaks in all the areas but the one you need.“No one else can make you feel like this, you got that?” Asmodeus whispers–though it sounds more like a hiss, with how tight his jaw is. “No one can fuck you like me, so don’t–fucking–bother–it’s just me, angel. You’re–just–mine–”

∻ Beelzebub         ↠         g l u t t o n y          ⤲         l u s t

BEELZEBUB thought he knew better.

Well, not thought; he does know better, and not because Belphie told him so or he watched Mammon get punished for this before, but because this isn’t like him. This–insatiable need, this gnawing pain in the bottom of his stomach that won’t go away no matter how hard he tries. At least with his sin, the last few millennia had taught him how to manage it (a binge here, a binge there, eating constantly in-between, working out whenever else to try and keep his mind occupied), but… this? This?

He’s never felt like this before. So–empty. Hollow. Weak.

His urge to eat you raw might break him.

He knocks softly on your bedroom door, despite knowing that you’re currently in the mess with his brothers. You’re probably laughing at some corny joke Mammon made, offering to split your rice with Satan, letting Belphie rest his head on your shoulder–Beel’s next knock splinters the wood.

Crap. He’ll have to fix that, before he goes back. Thank Diavolo he’s built up a bit of a reputation for breaking things, though, so it quickly shuttles to the back of his mind as his gaze lands on what he’s here for.

What he should leave alone.

What he can’t.

A small pile of laundry, overflowing from your hamper, poking out from behind your closet doors.

He should not be here, but his body betrays him. Again. Like the way it did when you came down to breakfast in a shirt that was so obviously not yours, apologizing to Asmodeus over and over for letting your laundry get away from you and praising him for letting you borrow from him in the meantime.

Beel broke his spoon. Belphie gave him a new one. Beel promptly broke that one too, when you sat down across from him and asked if he had any laundry you could do, seeing as how that might be all you get to do this weekend.

He didn’t plan on letting his mind wander to what else might be dirty, just as he didn’t plan to nearly get run over on the way to school because he was so caught up in wondering if you even had any underwear left, and he certainly did not intend to run back to the House of Lamentation to rifle through your dirty laundry for just one infuriating pair of your panties.

Just one, he reasons as he cautiously glances into your hamper. He hopes it’ll be right on top, that he can take a pair and race to his room and get one good orgasm (or two or three or however many it takes to get you out of his brain), then return them before you’re ever the wiser.

So how did he end up in his bathroom with six pairs in his pockets?

Oh. Right. Because the pair on top were lacy and black and had him salivating, even before he pressed them to his nose for a deep whiff; and then he caught sight of a white pair, just beneath your school skirt, and he figured two is a safer bet than one, and then he thought he saw a red pair with polka dots and he’s always been partial to red, and then–

And then, and then, and then.

It’s the story of his sin; to never be satisfied, never be full. How he managed to stop at six when the image of number seven (an orange thong that he nearly ripped in half trying to unhook from a pair of tights) he’ll never know; how long he’s been on the bathroom floor, hastily jerking his hefty cock with low groans of your name also escape him; but he does know it’s worth it.

He takes a deep sniff of the lacy black pair he’d first pulled; the most recent. The ones that smell the most like you, and not just the fading clean scent of your detergent or the lingering waft of your soap, but you. He wonders if you masturbated in this pair, or if you naturally stain each panty you wear. He wonders how you masturbate, if you prefer to strip naked and take your time or if you’re desperate like him, if you can’t wait to fully bare yourself like him, if you’re a freak like him–

Beel groans and sticks his tongue out, trying to control himself but failing as soon as the tip of his tongue makes contact with the cool seat of your dirty intimates. His cock throbs in his palm, and no matter how many slow, heavy, hard drags he makes up the girthy length, he is left feeling needier than ever. 

And then he gets an idea; a sick, twisted, perverted idea that makes him feel even grosser than before, an idea he can’t ignore as the heat in his stomach starts to convulse. He picks up another pair (he knew it’d be good to take multiple), the white ones he’d had to wrestle from your skirt, and he grips them tight in hand.

He hesitates for a moment. Holds his breath, staring at the pale fabric in his hand as if he doesn’t recognize it, as if he hadn’t just stolen it, as if he wasn’t imagining what they’d look like on you and nothing else–

He groans. Loud, without care, desperate as he stuffs the black lace so far into his face it nearly goes down his throat, while his other hand wraps your white pair around his cock. They’re… soft, and a little cold, but if he closes his eyes he can pretend it’s you rubbing them against him, and if he breathes deep enough he can pretend you’re doing this after sitting on his face the way he dreams you would.

He’s never been this hard. Never so receptive, even to his own touch. The way the cotton of your undies glides against the precum dripping down his cock is softer than the clouds in heaven, and he swears he could cum like this; sprawled out on his shower floor, still half-clothed from his desperation to be close to you, your panties wrapped around him. He imagines what you’d do, if you were here, with him–not with his brothers, but him. Because he’s the one who has this piece of you, only him. 

But… what would you do, if you came home early and found him? Would you be as disgusted with him as he is with himself? Or would you offer him a fresh pair, stripping bare as you fall to your knees, offering to let him taste from the source–

Beel cums. Hard. White splatters along his RAD uniform, gathering heavily against the dark material and saturating the lower-half of his button up. Thick spurts fly through the air, some landing as high as the tile beside his head, before steadily pooling at the base of his abs. He pants, mouth still covered by the remnants of you, eyes still shut to the thought of you. His hand goes lax, letting the now-damp fabric of your white panties dab slowly at the copious amounts of cum now dripping down his hip.

His heart beats as fast as if he’s just completed a workout, and for a brief moment, he feels full. As if you–the mere thought of you, in fact–is enough to fill the missing pieces of him.

Until his DDD buzzes, and he sees a picture of you and a sleeping Belphie, and reads your message asking where your tied-for-first-favorite snuggle-buddy wandered off to, and his stomach growls. His lip curls in a sneer that morphs into a growl of frustration as his dick starts to swell, his eyes instantly drawn to where your breast presses against Belphie’s sleeping bicep.

It’s not fair, and it’s not right, and Beel knows better. He knows you’re happy to share, that there’s enough of you to share, that he should just fucking share–

But he doesn’t.

He keeps this for himself, this secret of raiding your hamper. Of keeping a piece of you close, always tucked away in his back pocket, and not just because it makes dealing with the random hardies easier. He might not be able to admit his feelings, but he can have this one piece of you for himself.

Why else would you be sure to leave his favorites right on top?

∻ Belphegor       ↠         s l o t h         ⤲         g l u t t o n y

Death should be an old friend to a creature like BELPHEGOR. Death should be something he’s able to greet with open arms, to plainly discuss the state of the world and how fleeting such things like eternity can be–but Death is not. Death is now as unfamiliar to Belphie as Love, and this is not a relationship he wishes to change anytime soon.

Although, with your legs wrapped around his head, tongue lapping at your folds as he glides your hips across his soaked lips, he knows he could greet Death with a smile. He might even be able to tear Death to shreds, for all the vitality your essence seems to bring. 

He’s lost track of the time he’s spent between your legs. Enough so that even the sheets on either side of his head are saturated, and not just from sweat; but not so long as the painful ache in his stomach has yet to subside. He’s yearning, in a way he hasn’t done since the Fall, for something he hasn’t had since the Fall.

For Love. 

For you.

He can think of no better way to show his love than this; bringing you to the apex of pleasure over and over and over again, until the cry of his name becomes synonymous with this feeling of fullness that engulfs you every time Belphie latches on to your clit.

His technique is the same; gentle kisses along the inside of your thigh before whispering against your cunt, tongue flicking out every-so-often to catch your sensitive bud. Sweet musings you often can’t hear, but aren’t addressed to you. Sweet sentiments you sometimes make out to be, “such a pretty girl f’me,” and “what a mess you’ve made today, pretty,” and the worst–“you’re my perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

You whimper as his open-mouth kisses get closer to your heat. Slowly, you try rotating your hips to force Belphie to land a kiss where you need him most. Instead, he bites your clit.

With a gasp, you shudder and instinctively try rolling your hips backwards, but his hands latch on to your waist–not even your hips, but your waist–with enough force to keep you pinned.

“M’not done,” he mumbles. Spit slides down the swell of his cheeks, matting in his inky locks. His tongue languidly flicks at your folds, and he snickers when you squeak.

“Belphie,” you plead, “either do something or let me go, please–’

“Do something?” he asks. He peers up at you, and the sight of his violet eyes just barely peeking out from between your legs, the entire lower half of his jaw hidden from sight by your sex, has whatever little strength was left in your legs give out entirely. A smug smile curls his pale lips, and he bites your clit again.

“Belphie!”

You try squirming away, but the vibrations from Belphie’s chuckles feel heavenly. He knows what he’s doing when he presses his lips, still thinned in a smile, against your overstimulated nub, gently rubbing back and forth to ease the sting from his teeth. “You should’ve learned by now, little human, to be more careful with what you wish for.”

He blows out a puff of air, warm and cold and euphoric and tortuous all at once. Tears start to pool in your eyes, and the hands that once rested against his velvet headboard come to cradle either side of his face.

“P-please,” you choke, “please, Belphie, I–I need–”

“You don’t know what you need,” he dismisses, and instead of explaining, not because you’re a dumb human, but because you haven’t spent enough time in this existence to know, you don’t have the curse of knowledge that I do, and this is the least I can do to make up for all that I’ve done, so let me teach you to not just know what you need but how to take it, he gives you what you’ve been asking for.

Slowly, deeply, he begins licking around your seeping hole, collecting as much of your nectar as he can. His hands wrap around your thighs to help spread your lower lips, grinding you against his mouth every time you try to breathe. His nose brushes against your overstimulated bundle of nerves, never quite catching the hood but putting enough pressure to keep you on the edge of oblivion.

“I know what you need,” Belphie mutters into your thigh. He sucks a light bruise into your skin before diving back into your folds, humming as happily as if you were the one sucking him off, instead. “I can give you what you need, pretty girl. Want me to? Want me to make you cum?”

“Yes–” you gasp. Your hand knots in his hair, trying to direct that running mouth of his to somewhere more useful–and he lets you. He lets you guide him to where you think you need him most, gently lapping at your folds, alternating between kissing your sensitive clit and guiding his tongue as far into you as he can reach. His fingers trail lightly along the pudge of your leg, nails irritating the skin enough to raise little welts but not enough to hurt, palms applying enough force to keep you exactly where he needs you.

Because he does. Need you, that is. Even if he can’t say as much out loud; even if he doesn’t know how. But this is his confession, can’t you tell? That he lets you use his face as your personal throne, ride him for your personal pleasure, control him for your personal gain. No one, not even Lucifer, has been able to tame the sleeping giant–so shouldn’t the fact that you could mean more than any words could muster?

Belphie doesn’t know what he wants to watch more; the way your oozing sex begs him for more, or the way your eyes are glazing over as you desperately try to keep eye contact with him. He starts to frown, but before he can pull away and ask why you’re staring at him like that–like you think you know what you need, like you don’t believe him, like you don’t need him–you’ve caught his wrists in your hands and pinned them by his head.

He could’ve stopped you, if he really wanted to, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Slowly, you slide down his body, face contorting at every catch of your slick clit against the rigid planes of his body, until you come to rest squarely atop his hips. His cock is erect behind you, thighs sticky with a release you hadn’t realized he’d even let go of, but it’s his lips that get your attention.

His pale, full, sticky lips, covered with your juices, parting slightly as he asks, “what are you doing?”

“You said I don’t know what I need,” you answer softly, placing more weight on your palms, keeping him pinned. You lean forward, letting your eyes drag along the sharp lines of his jaw, lips hovering above his. “I probably don’t. But… I know what I want, Belphie.”

He doesn’t trust himself to answer. His heart races in his chest, which he keeps remarkably steady, even as he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of your breasts pressing against his bare chest. Your fingers tighten around his wrists, and he finally meets your gaze.

Belphie’s throat goes dry. His lips part, and you take that as the perfect opportunity to kiss him. Softly, sweetly, the same way he’d been pressing kisses to your core. You take your time tasting him–tasting yourself, staining him–tongue swirling against his, breasts rubbing against his chest, his throbbing cock finding refuge in the slick staining your thighs.

He thinks he’s found it for real, this time; love. To have, to hold, to keep forevermore. He thinks this might be real, that you might be the best dream he’s ever conjured, that being awake might be worth more than just endless pain, so long as you stay with him–and then the memory of Death floods his thoughts. Death, who stole the last one he loved, who tried taking Beel from him, who’s no longer an old friend but an ancient foe with your name awaiting his collection.

Belphie tenses beneath you, then flips you over. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, thinking all the nightmares away in favor of focusing on the dream beneath him.

“In case it wasn’t clear, I’m saying I want you, Belphegor, now and tomorrow and all of tomorrow’s tomorrows,” you laugh, and Belphie’s heart absolutely shatters.

You can’t lie, not to him; and you can’t know what you’re saying, not about him. You can’t want him, not when Death wants you too, and Death will always win.

But… he can have you tonight, right? And–tomorrow, if you’re still here, and maybe even tomorrow’s tomorrow, if Death doesn’t steal you first. So shouldn’t he make the most of it?

So instead of answering, he presses a trail of soft kisses down your sternum, keeping his gaze fixed on the way your skin disappears beneath his lips. “M’not done with you,” he repeats, and he dives back in.

| Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan | Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon, Solomon |

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