Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.
reader that isn’t a bimbo? Reader that is put together and likes dressing up? Reader that’s older than 18-20? Reader that’s not white-coded??? Reader who doesn’t have daddy issues? Reader who does have daddy issues in a “man hater” way? Reader who’s taller than 4’11-5’0?? Reader who’s quiet and reserved and not in a robotic way or stuttering way? Reader who’s Tina Belcher coded? Reader who gives off the vibe of a creepy barn owl but somehow it’s endearing? Reader who’s charismatic and charming? Reader who’s-
girl whose type is strictly caretakers but refuses to let herself be taken care of on the principles of being independent and trust issues so she runs away from it for a while before the caretakers coax her into it bit by bit until she's sooo soft and pliant and spoiled from it...
ᝰ.ᐟ nanami with a girlfriend who has sensitive thighs ⸝⸝ 18+ mdni
bf!nanami is a man of physical habit, when you two are winding down on the couch after his long shift—his heavy, warm hand naturally finds a home on your thigh. the first time it happens, he’s just reading the paper, but he feels the immediate, rigid tension in your muscles.
he casually glances over, assuming you’re just caught off guard or feeling a bit shy. "are you cold?" he asks, his deep voice slicing through the quiet room. when you quickly shake your head, he simply pats your knee and shrugs it off, returning to his reading, though his observant mind notes the slight tremor in your frame.
bf!nanami who starts getting genuinely suspicious after the third or fourth time. it doesn't matter if his touch is a passive weight or a gentle, absentminded caress through your sweatpants—your breath hitches every single time. he notices the way your toes curl, the subtle shiver that runs up your spine, and the way you try to casually shift away from his reach.
nanami is nothing if not analytical; he knows compliance versus involuntary reaction, and you are definitely hiding something. he begins to purposely linger his touch, tracing the seam of your pants just to watch your eyelashes flutter and your lips part in a silent gasp.
bf!nanami decides to test his hypothesis on a rainy saturday afternoon. you're both cuddled up, your guard completely down as you watch a movie. without a word or a shift in his stoic expression, his large hand slides up your inner thigh and delivers a sudden, firm squeeze.
bf!nanami watches you gasp, a high, completely involuntary sound escaping your throat—a sharp, needy little squeak that cuts off the moment you realize what you've done. "oh? and what exactly was that noise for?" your hands fly to grip his wrist, trying to pull his hand away, but he doesn't let go.
instead, a slow, incredibly rare, and distinctly smug smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. he looks down at you through his glasses, thoroughly amused by your bright red face. "i don't recall the movie being quite that exciting," he drawls, his fingers sinking deeper into the soft flesh.
bf!nanami who is a little bit mean about it, but in the most intoxicating way possible. he deliberately applies just a fraction more pressure, kneading the sensitive muscle with his broad palm and watching you squirm helplessly against him. "i didn't realize a simple touch could reduce you to this," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a gravelly warmth that tells you he finds this incredibly hot.
he teases you relentlessly, leaning down so his lips brush your burning ear. "look at me. tell me why you're trembling so much just from my hand. if you don't answer, i'll just have to keep squeezing until you do." he refuses to let you look away until you confess just how sensitive your thighs actually are.
bf!nanami who likes to abuse this newfound knowledge at every single opportunity, especially when he wants to fluster you in public. if you're out at a quiet restaurant, his hand will slide under the tablecloth, his fingers mapping out the soft skin of your thighs.
he loves watching you try to maintain a straight face while ordering food, your fingers white-knuckling the menu because he's lightly scratching the apex of your thigh. when you catch his eye, pleading with him silently, he just takes a calm sip of his wine and whispers, "focus on the waiter, sweetheart. tell him what you want to eat."
bf!nanami turns into an absolute menace behind closed doors. during sex, your thighs become his absolute favorite target. he likes to pin your legs wide apart, his heavy palms bruising your hips before sliding down to grip your thighs with enough force to leave faint, temporary marks.
he loves to deeply knead the ultra-sensitive skin right where your leg meets your hip, watching your back arch off the bed as you let out a ragged sob. "look at how flushed you get here," he grunts, his thumb pressing firmly into the sweet spot, relishing the way your thighs clamp around his waist in a desperate bid for relief.
bf!nanami who pairs his heavy-handed groping with sensory overload. while he’s driving himself into you, he’ll lean down to bite and press open-mouthed kisses against your inner thighs, deliberately targeting the spots that make your hips stutter-step and bring a sob to your throat.
he loves the contrast of his rough, calloused hands soothing over the ultra-sensitive skin, murmuring praises against your neck while ensuring you can't think about anything else but his touch.
he'll deliberately slow his pace just to focus entirely on your thighs, sinking his teeth into the soft skin until you're completely undone. "good girl," he rumbles against your skin, "let me hear you make that sound again."
Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt like a normal person, instead asks “How much d’you weigh?”
Shadow falling over you, broad enough to swallow the reflection in the mirror behind the machine you were just using at the gym. You look up and find Ghost standing there in a black compression shirt stretched tight across his chest, mask in place even here, eyes flat and unreadable above the fabric. One gloved hand resting on the frame of your machine.
The question lands blunt, no lead up, no softening. Like he’s asking for the time or the weather. Your mouth goes dry. He’s too close, too big, the sheer width of him making the space between you feel airless.
You could tell him to fuck off. Should. But the words stick somewhere behind your teeth, and what comes out instead is a mumbled number, barely loud enough to carry, your eyes dropping to the seam where the mat meets the floor.
He doesn’t react at first. Just tilts his head a fraction, that slow, assessing cock of it Then, low and rough through the mask: “Lighter than I’m used to.”
Confusion flickers across your face but he’s already moving, already loading the bar next to you with plates that match the number you gave him exactly, no hesitation, no adjustment. The barbell settles across the padded support with a dull clank.
You should look away. You don’t.
He lies back on the bench, plants his feet wide, and rolls the bar into place across the jut of his hips. One smooth motion and he drives up, hips snapping high, the loaded bar rising clean with the power of it, his body locking into a straight line from shoulders to knees. The muscles in his thighs flex hard under the fabric of his shorts. Up, hold, lower. Up again. The bar doesn’t even tremble under the weight.
It takes a beat for the meaning to sink in. Heat crawls up your neck, tightens in your chest, but it doesn’t stop there. It drops lower, coils hot and insistent right behind your navel and settles between your legs with a heavy, liquid pulse, cunt clenching around nothing. The reaction is immediate and traitorous, slick gathering hot and fast, soaking into the seam of your leggings, clit throbbing in time with every snap of his hips.
Oh.
(Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt but somehow it works every time.)
— cw: hybrid au; past abuse; hurt/comfort; fluff; domesticity
The hybrid shelter calls you a behavioral case.
Kyle reads the file on the drive over.
Female, late 20s to early 30s, black domestic cat hybrid. History of neglect—not the dramatic kind that makes the news, but the slow, grinding kind that leaves invisible scars.
Understimulated. Isolated. A string of foster situations that didn't stick because she's "difficult". Hisses at strangers. Won't make eye contact. Flinches from hands.
"She's not aggressive," the shelter coordinator tells him, leading him down the corridor. "She's scared. There's a difference."
"I know the difference," Kyle says matter-of-factly.
He's worked with hybrids, handled and studied them for years.
They find you in the last room on the left. Sitting in the window, legs drawn up, tail wrapped around your ankles—sleek and black, the fur slightly puffed in a way that means you've heard them coming. Your ears—small, rounded, set high on your head in a nest of dark hair—are rotated backward. Listening.
"This is Kyle," the coordinator says. "He's been approved for—"
"I can introduce myself." He says it gently, and the coordinator takes the hint and leaves.
You don't look at him. Your ears track him, though—rotating forward a fraction when he sits on the floor instead of the chair. Making himself smaller. Not approaching.
"Hi," he greets gently. "I'm Kyle."
Nothing.
"I'm not going to touch you. I'm just going to sit here for a bit, if that's alright."
Your tail tip twitches. Once. He takes that as permission.
He comes back the next day. And the next. And the next. Always sits on the floor. Always talks—keeping his voice low and easy, about nothing important. What he had for breakfast. The weather. A funny thing that happened at work. Never asks you questions. Never reaches for you. Never moves closer than the first spot he chose.
On the fifth day, you speak.
"You're military." Said to the window. Your voice is lower than he expected—quiet, a little rough from disuse.
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
"You sit like it. Straight back. And you smell like gun oil." Your ear flicks toward him. "Under the cologne."
"Caught me." He smiles, even though you're not looking. "Does that bother you?"
A long pause, still not looking at him.
"No."
On the eighth day, you move.
Not much—just shifting from the window to the bed, which is three feet closer to where he sits. He doesn't comment. Doesn't react. Just keeps talking about the truly terrible sandwich he had for lunch.
Your tail uncurls from your ankles. Relaxes against the bedspread.
On the twelfth day, he brings you home.
The adjustment period is exactly as difficult as he was warned it would be.
You sleep in the spare bedroom with the door locked. You eat only when he's not in the kitchen. You flinch when he coughs, when he closes a cabinet too firmly, when his phone rings. Your ears spend most of their time flattened or swiveling, perpetually on alert, and your tail stays wrapped close to your body like a self-soothing mechanism.
And Kyle is patient. Kyle is endlessly, devastatingly patient.
He learns to close doors softly. To announce himself when he enters a room. To leave food out and retreat so you can eat without an audience.
He learns that you like high places—finds you on top of the wardrobe once, curled in a nest of his hoodies you've stolen, and just says "Comfy up there?" and walks away.
The first time you touch him, it's an accident.
You're both on the sofa—opposite ends, the careful distance you've maintained for three weeks—and you fall asleep.
He's watching something, keeping the volume low, and when he looks over you've slipped sideways in sleep, and your tail has drifted across the cushion between you and landed on his thigh.
He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Sits perfectly still while your tail rests warm and soft against his leg, the tip twitching occasionally with whatever you're dreaming about.
When you wake up and realize, you yank it back so fast you nearly fall off the couch, eyes comically wide.
"Sorry—I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," he assure you; warm and easy again, like it meant nothing, even though his heart is hammering. "You can touch me whenever you want. No permission needed. Alright?"
You stare at him with those wide, gold-green eyes, pupils blown to full circles in the low light. And your ears are up—fully up, forward-facing, which he's learned means interested—alert—processing.
"Why are you so nice to me?" you ask quietly, like you're scared what his answer will be.
"Because you deserve it."
Your ears flatten. "You don't know that."
"Yeah," he objects gently. "I do."
Something shifts after that. The distances shrink.
You start appearing in the kitchen while he cooks—not helping, just sitting on the counter, tail swishing, watching. You steal more of his hoodies. You fall asleep on the sofa closer to his end, and your tail migrates to his lap like it has its own agenda.
The first time you do it consciously—place your tail deliberately on his thigh while you're both awake—he looks at you, and you look at the telly, ears hot with a flush you're pretending isn't happening.
"Is this okay?" you mumble.
"More than okay." He rests his hand beside your tail. Not on it. Beside it. "Can I?"
A pause. Then you nod.
And he strokes your tail—gently, from base to tip—and the sound that comes out of you is involuntary and devastating. A purr. Deep, rattling, vibrating through your entire body and into the sofa cushions. Your eyes go half-lidded. Your ears tilt back—not in fear this time, but pleasure.
"Good?" he asks softly, long fingers carding through your silky fur.
The purr intensifies. Your tail curls around his wrist and holds on. It's the only answer you give, and the only one Kyle hoped for.
It's two months before you let him touch your ears.
You're in bed—his bed now, which you've migrated to gradually, one hour at a time—and it's early morning, both of you drowsy and warm. His hand is in your hair, stroking idly, and his fingers brush the base of your ear.
You tense. He starts to pull away.
"No," you whisper. "It's... please. You can."
And Kyle hesitates brieflye before he traces the edge of your ear with one fingertip. Down the soft outer curve, over the velvet inside. You make a sound that is somewhere between a purr and a whimper, and your whole body arches toward his hand like a plant toward sunlight.
"Sensitive?" he murmurs, and there is neither mockery nor pity.
"You have no—" Your voice breaks. "Nobody's ever touched them like that. Without—" Pulling. Grabbing. Forcing my head down. You don't finish the sentence. You don't need to.
His hand stills. "We can stop."
"Don't stop." Your eyes are wet. Your purr is stuttering. "Please don't stop. It feels safe. You feel safe."
Kyle inhales deeply as your words settle and lodge themselves behind his ribcage. And then he keeps stroking. Slow, gentle circles at the base of your ears, fingertips tracing the velvet edges, and you melt into him—boneless, purring, tears leaking silently down your cheeks because this is what tenderness feels like when your body has only ever known it as a prelude to pain.
"I've got you," he says, pressing his lips to your forehead. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
And you choose to believe him while your tail wraps around his waist and squeezes tight.
He holds you until the tears stop. Until the purring steadies and your breathing evens out, and your ears are soft and relaxed while your body is warm and lax against his.
"Kyle," you murmur, half-asleep.
"Mm."
"I think I'm yours."
His arm tightens around you. His lips press to the space between your ears. Soft and warm and deliberate.
"I think you've been mine since the shelter," he admits. "I was just waiting for you to know it too."
Your purr hums through them both like a heartbeat. And for the first time in your life, home doesn't just mean a place. It means the warmth of Kyle Garrick's gentle hands and the steadiness of his voice and the way he never, ever rushes you.
(contains eating of both of your holes if you’re not into that)
—
nanami knows you really need to go to this dinner party. i mean, it’s to celebrate your best friend’s engagement. you absolutely have to go! and you absolutely should be there on time! it’s very important! but all of that goes out of the window when he sees you in the dress you’re wearing. it hugs your body in the perfect way, and even though it ends a little before your knees, the black patterned stockings that you wear seem to make him just as hot and bothered as when your wear mini skirts that show your panties if you bend over too much. the color of the dress makes you glow, the heels are so fucking sexy, and god, the way you smell. it has nanami tugging at his tie while you’re putting on your jewelry.
you’re none the wiser to the wound up wolf that your husband is becoming, trying to hurry up and put on your last finishing touches so that you can get there on time.
“honey, go turn the car on! i’ll be out there, i’m almost ready. hurry up so we’re not late!”
you’re trying to find your favorite silver bracelet, rummaging around your drawers when you find it and look up and almost jump. your husband, that you were sure was going outside to the car, is staring at you through the mirror.
“what’s wrong? you can’t find your key? just use mine until-”
“i’m really sorry honey, but we’re going to be late.”
“what are you talking about? we still have-”
he’s across the room in three strides, right in front of you before you can process it. when you open your mouth to question him, it gives him the perfect opportunity to devour your mouth whole, pulling you into a mindbreaking kiss. you can’t pull away, you can’t think enough to. when you’re almost out of breath, he finally pulls away, a string of spit connecting you both for a moment more.
“forgive me, won’t you darling?”
your mind is still reeling too much for you to say anything, just giving him a questioning and confused face. he walks around to stand behind you, and instantly falls to his knees.
“i know she’ll be mad at first, but she’ll forgive us soon enough too,” he says through kisses he presses on your ass through your dress, as his hands reach under your dress and pull down your stockings and panties together.
“ken wait! i…don’t want to be late!”
you would try to pull away, but once he pulls your dress to sit right above your ass and holds your hips in his tight grip you can’t.
“i love you, but i can’t wait. you look and smell way too delicious for me to do that. just hold on tight for me, sweetheart.”
he takes the cheeks of your ass in his hands, squishing them for a moment before he spreads them wide apart. you feel your body flush and heat up as he has your holes on display for him. he spreads them even wider, making your whine as he makes you show him your insides.
he leans down so he can fit his head under and takes a long, wet lick from your clit all the way over your asshole. you gasp and hold on tight to the dresser in front of you. he watches your holes clench in response, your pussy letting out more wetness.
you should really feel bad. your friend is waiting on you, and you’re leaking slick on your husband’s tongue.
nanami gives a light chuckle and repeats the motion, putting more pressure with his tongue over your holes. this time he immediately shoves his face in your pussy, slurping up your juices and licking over your syrupy folds. with one of his hands, he presses into the small of your back to make you bend over more. you bend until your face is pressed into the mirror, sending all the moans and whimpers you’re letting out into your reflection. your spread out even more for him now, allowing him to swipe at your clit here and there.
when you wish that he focused more on the place you really want him to be, you feel his tongue move farther and farther up, or back for you. you really start whining when he licks over your asshole, over and over with more force everytime. it’s not where you wanted him, but it’s making your slick drip down your thighs nonetheless. he twirls his tongue around your hole before he flicks it up and down over it again. the wet noises that it makes are loud as he splashes the juices from your pussy and his own saliva. when he starts to push his tongue in, you cry out.
“f-fuck ken, that feels…shit!”
he starts fucking his tongue in and out of your ass, using his tight grip on your hips to help it. it feels insanely good, but your soaked pussy is being unfairly ignored. you try to move your hips, making his face trails back down to where you need him, but he’s not budging.
“kennn,” you whine out.
“hmm?,” he hums against your ass, going back to licking and sucking at your hole.
“n-need you…please”
he takes a quick break to answer you, “where?”
you could scream at how unfair he’s being. he knows exactly where! you don’t say anything back though, but you look back at him as you take his hair in your fist and move his face where you want it. you could feel his smile in your pussy and hear the quick laugh he lets out. as soon as he’s placed on your clit, he gives a mean suck as his tongue flicks over it. you actually do scream this time, gripping his hair tighter. he lets go and trails down to drink up all the juices that he’s missed so far.
he goes back and forth, slurping and licking and sucking over your clit and your pussy. you don’t let go of his hair, using the grip to allow you to move against his face. he starts to go back and forth between the two places in a rhythm and you begin to properly ride his face. you lean your head down into the mirror until your forehead is touching it. it cools you down for a second before your hot pants start fogging your mirror up and warming you up all over again.
when he decides to be the good husband that he is and focuses solely on your clit, you’re grateful for his hold on you since you would probably fall to the floor with your shaking legs.
“yesss, right there ken! stay right there please!”
he’s being nice now. he keeps sucking and licking over your clit with the perfect pressure. he’s using his whole mouth and your orgasm creeps up on you so fast it makes you lightheaded. your moans are so loud and high pitched it’s a wonder the mirror doesn’t break. when he swirls his tongue around over and over your clit in just the right way, you’re screaming and panting and cumming all over his face. and because he’s nice, right now, he doesn’t overstimulate you to tears and actually decides to lighten the pressure a bit to work your through your orgasm.
you give your last few humps against face before you lean forward and rest your whole body on the dresser, your entire torso and up pressed against the mirror. when your breathing is back to normal, he quietly pulls your stockings and panties back up and pulls your dress back back nicely over them. he stands up and fixes his tie back into place. you’re pulled back to earth when you feel and hear him whisper in your ear.
“are you ready? we’re a little late but that should be fine.”
you take a deep breath and lean on your arms to hold yourself up on the dresser to look into the mirror.
“well, now i have to fix my makeup and hair a little. give me 5 minutes.”
“ok dear, i’ll get the car started.”
he gives you a sweet and way too innocent kiss on your cheek before he leaves. though on the way out, you hear him say something else.
“make sure not to take too long darling. we might have to leave a little early to finish up here.”
you stare at the mirror for a silent moment. your husband could be a real horndog.
ahhh so you're shown to be capable of recognising that people's trauma can make them act irrationally and unpleasantly! you recognised it in the white man! can you also recognise it in the brown woman? no? she's mean and bitchy and uncaring? i see
its probably a normal sign for the economy that all of my adulthood fantasies are like "imagine having your own kitchen living room and bathroom to decorate" "what if i could get on a train" "maybe one day i could purchase a sturdy pair of shoes" "i should save and invest in a single bicycle"
You feel like you're about to throw up from anxiety, sitting at the table across from gaz.
The tension is so thick you think you may choke, your dear husbands entire demeanor closed off from you. Kyle seems...nervous. spending almost all your days with him means you know how to read him. He's practically sweating bullets.
You chew the inside of your cheek, glance away. This whole...everything has been perfect. The life you've made with him, you don't want to risk it but...you take a breath.
"Kyle...I don't want to be pregnant." The words come tumbling out, then, you tack on "and I don't think I want kids either."
...gaz stares, eyes wide. He lets out a deep exhale "oh thank god."
"...what? You're not mad?" Your mind stutters, not expecting that reaction. "You don't want kids? A family of our own?"
"Me? Baby, me?? Just last night my dinner consisted of a bag of crisps and burnt eggs." Kyle snorts, already up and moving around the table to claim a seat next to you. He smiles in that way where he seems totally in love with you, "and you drank a bottle of ghosts mystery brew last week. we are not made for being parents."
"but...all that talk whenever we...?" Your mind drifts to those filthy words that spill from kyles mouth, about breeding you each night until it finally takes, about making you a proper parent.
Kyle kisses your temple with a snort, laces your fingers into his own "just a fantasy, baby."
"Besides," his whole body leans into you, warm sides pressed together "you're already my family. Even if its just you."
For the nonny who wanted reader being scared of pregnancy!
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
cw: fluff. suggestive a teeny tiny bit. self indulgent. could have continued forever. i might just.
it’s always warm and cosy in the fire lord’s private chambers. red silk sheets rest languidly on your waist as you lay bare on his chest. his arms, thick and solid, are loose at your back but you know how quick they’d tense if anyone was to storm in here.
but they wouldn’t. with it being a little after midnight, all of zuko’s fire lord duties are over and your duties being an earthbender in ba sing se continuing sometime midday, it feels like you have forever in his arms.
the air still smells of sweaty hot sex, which you just enjoyed a few moments ago with a mix of petrichor. warm, comforting and grounding.
you rest your head in your palm, your elbow digging into his cotton mattress and zuko’s honey amber eyes only drift to your exposed chest for a second, okay two, then he meets yours.
“hm? why’re you looking at me?” he rubs up at down your back soothingly and you sigh wistfully.
you brush his long onyx hair off his pectoral, out of his face and behind his ear to reveal his scarred eye. the sight of his complete face. pouty lips, glowing eyes. stupidly straight jaw and slightly crooked nose (apparently he broke it once as a child). it all makes you want to kick your feet in the air and giggle. but you hold it together, you’re a lady somewhat. eh, not really.
“it’s my granny’s birthday this weekend,” you drawl, looping your finger around a lock of his hair. you hold it straight underneath your nose like a moustache just so you can see his eyes quirk in amusement.
“i thought your grandparents were dead?” he asks, robust yet tender like the flames he uses to reheat your cold teas.
you let go of his hair, slapping his arm lightly.
“my blood grandparents, yes. i’m talking about my granny! she’s looked after everybody since we were babies. i’ve never known life without her.”
zuko hums, listening and unmoving.
“how old is she turning?”
“one hundred and eighteen. impressive, right?”
zuko pouts at you out of habit. just because you’re so close and he’s right there. you meet his lips in a wet smack, stretching your leg to rest over his lower stomach.
“you want me to come to her birthday i’m assuming?” he cocks his head slightly, picking an eyelash off your cheek.
that bluntness, the obvious statement now held between you both, makes you horribly shy. instead of his eyes, you’re looking at his nose. grumbling to yourself.
having a relationship with the fire lord, whilst you were a earthbender (one of the best, might you add!) from one of the smallest tribes wasn’t the easiest. for one, you knew the fire council wasn’t the most supportive with wanting fire royalty to stay firebenders, your dates would occasionally come with an entourage of help and your schedules often proved difficult to line up.
though you and zuko made it work, which lead you to the next stage. introducing him to your tribe.
“everyone’s inviting their boyfriends. a few have some from different tribes and kingdoms!” you draw your finger along his hard chest making incoherent shapes, missing out the clear fact that none of them are royalty, however. it’s a slow whisper, “i want you to be there too.”
your hand is snatched from his chest, curled into a fist and your knuckles are pressed against his lips. the eye contact alone gets your stomach swirling with lust. your leg hitches higher on his chest.
“i’ll be there. for sure.”
your smile could light up the night sky. could rule the tide and guide boats home. zuko finds it difficult to say no to you, especially when all your wants and asks are pretty much within his means. besides getting you a flying bison. he still hasn’t broken the news that it’s not likely you can have one since neither of you are airbenders. anyway.
but to you, as much as you love the luxuries his life can provide, you don’t see him as the royal fire lord. you treat him casually, like his friends do and at this earth tribe party, his only title will be yours. it’s times when you try to demand him to return back to bed in the morning that will always drive him crazy. these aren’t dynamics that are supposed to work, but they do.
“okay,” you roll your lips in, then out before flinging your whole body onto him in an embrace. it’s easy. how his arms circle around your smaller frame, your face tucking into his neck to place a kiss and how his gravely chuckle jumps out of him.
“okay, okay,” he squeezes your asscheek playfully, “what does your granny like? i can go down to the market and get her a few things.”
“you don’t need to get a gift, zu. i’m making her a bracelet that can be from the both of us.”
zuko’s grin doesn’t let up. the idea that even though he is your boyfriend, he will turn up empty handed and name your gift as his?
“sweet, but i’m not doing that. heavens forbid.”
you roll your eyes but lay your lips over his in a kiss which only turns into him pushing you onto your back into his bed and opening your legs so he can slot between them.
on the day of your granny’s birthday, you meet zuko without his entourage outside of your home.
“hello baby.”
you pause for half a second before resuming your pace. that doesn’t last long until you’re jogging up to meet zuko, just to look at him closer and faster.
“hi! you look adorable,” you coo and he doesn’t swat away your fluttering hand. he lets you cup his cheek, your eyes gazing all the way down his body.
he’s still in fire nation robes, but civilian ones. he stands before you, in your kingdom, sans a crown or any golden jewellery, his armour off. just burgundy trousers, black boots, a classic grey long sleeve undershirt and a maroon tunic on top. you know the fire insignia will be sewn on the inside of the sleeves if you had a look. the gold thread on the collar and ends of his undershirt are the only signs of wealth and quality. aside from that, he appears to just be your firebending boyfriend, going to an elder’s birthday.
zuko’s got his hair all up in a bun, one he’s embarrassed to have attempted numerous times to get perfect, so you looking at him with gooey eyes causes him to puff out his chest in pride. he lets a few hairs frame his face and like always, you tuck the side that covers his scarred eye behind his ear. the one thing that will always make it difficult to not mistake him for being the fire lord.
you’re too engrossed in his appearance to notice the wooden box he’s holding, about the width of his chest and four inches outwards.
“you look beautiful,” he hums, bending down to meet your face, “kiss me hello, princess.”
“thank you, kind sir,” you play, slinking your arms around his neck as he adjusts to hold the box on one hip.
outside your quiet apartment, zuko slips his tongue into your mouth, pulling you to him with a bare hand on the sliver of skin exposed from your sage bandeau and loose brown linen trousers. he grunts into the kiss, feeling the rumble of his large body with your hand on his chest.
“i’m so nervous for this,” he whispers against your lips, pulling you back in by sucking your tongue. you don’t have to reply before you’re practically moaning into his mouth, careful not to mess up his bun with the desperate need to rake your fingers over his scalp.
you manage to pull away, slightly breathless, “no, you don’t have to be! i’ve told everyone i’m bringing someone.”
he drops his head to your shoulder with a sigh, “but do they know it’s me?”
you smile, just a tiny one, “they’ve never met you.”
he growls into your neck, “you know what i’m asking.”
“do they know you’re the great and powerful fire lord?” he pokes your side and you yelp in a giggle, “two of my friends know of you. but nobody knows you but me.”
zuko lifts his head.
“nobody knows zuko, my zuko.”
he exhales, rubs his hand down his face.
“if i love you, so will everyone else,” you comfort, taking his hand in yours to start walking to the party, “now what’s in the box?”
the only people that mention zuko being the fire lord are a group of your little cousins who run circles around him, pulling at his maroon garments to get his attention.
there’s three of them— all missing teeth, holding stones to practice earthbending and full of questions for your boyfriend.
“are you the fire lord? you look like him!”
“no. he doesn’t have the crown.”
“but he’s only got one eyebrow,” your cousin points to their own eyebrows, “see, we have two.”
“is it true you know the avatar?”
“can i see some fire tricks? i can show you my earthbending!” complete with your cousin throwing her rocks in the air and them all plopping onto the ground with a clonk.
“zuko can talk to you all later about firebending. now where’s great granny?”
amongst all the balloons, banners and food, you follow the little fingers to the back where there is a stone stool, covered in forest coloured cushions and orange flowers. your granny is seated right in the middle, surrounded the older members of the tribe and all your agemates.
zuko smiles at the kids, lays his palm out in front of him to show off a quick small burst of fire. they all release a chorus of wows. “i’ll show you later if my lady here lets me.”
you roll your eyes, grabbing his heated palm as the kids squeal, “c’mon!”
zuko’s grip gets tighter when you near your family. all in multiple different shades of mossy green to honey yellows with the earth insignia at the sleeves.
“happy birthday granny!” you squeal, letting go of zuko to kiss your granny’s wrinkled yet soft cheek and hold her calloused hands. “are you enjoying your day?”
“my dear, i’m happy to see you’ve made it,” she squeezes your fingertips, crinkled eyes squinting up at you. there’s screams of kids in the background, the teens playing further back and your siblings chatting at one of the tables. but in the presence of your granny, your world stills, listening to every word she says.
“of course!” then you gesture zuko to come forward. he does cautiously, bowing lightly to your granny, the woman who’s taken part in raising you your whole life. “this is zuko,” then you giggle girlishly, “i think he’s the love of my life.”
you tell zuko this often, without the i think at the beginning. wrapped in his arms in bed, sugar dusted confessions beneath the sheets or when you take walks along the ocean at midnight. a few times it’s slipped out when he served you plates of food in front of his friends and every single time, he ends up with cheeks as red as his clothes.
“is it now? let me see this boy.”
zuko takes that as his turn to talk, hoping the sweat along his brow isn’t reflecting in the sun, “hello granny. it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
the smile your granny had for you falls, eyeing down the man you brought with you. you watch as she runs her eyes over his clothing, the golden stitching of his undershirt, his new freshly ironed robes. then his eye, the raised reddened skin around it.
“is this the fire lord?” she asks you and zuko’s wide pupils bounce to yours.
“that’s just his day job—,”
“do you love my child?” she presses, her attention back on zuko.
even you can’t judge where she’s going with this, your posture straightening as you await zuko’s answer, like there’s a possibility he will deny you in front of everyone you love.
it seems to be the easiest question of the day as zuko, still holding his gift, nods. “of course, with my whole heart. the easiest thing i’ve ever done.”
“awe,” you whisper and zuko grabs your hand with an ease unlike before.
one of your (rather annoying) aunties butt in, arms folded, seizing up the fire lord. “yn is one of our most beautiful women.”
“yn’s beauty is the least interesting thing about her.”
it’s as if the whole tribe goes silent, not quite understanding what zuko means. though here you see the qualities of the fire lord rise to the surface with the speed of a wildfire.
he stands tall, straight, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand.
your granny squints with questioning, while your aunties gather with furrowed brows.
“yn is strong, kind and an intellectual. strong with her bending, strong in her willpower, strong to handle everything life throws at her and still stays by me day after day. the kindest human i’ve ever met. i’ve never seen her think about herself first and she’s shown me love in a way i’ve missed my whole life.” he kisses your palm, “checks for my wounds, offers to manage my accounts. then the smartest smartest person. proves me wrong daily, knows the most random facts and could rule a kingdom if she wanted. though she’d never admit it.”
you swat his arm at that, shyly looking to the ground, “stop zu!”
he laughs, his amber eyes are the softest they’ve ever been. he looks nothing like the fire lord who sits on his throne with the layers of robes and heavy golden jewellery. here he looks like a local boy from another nation, convincing his family he’s made for you.
“but also yes, yn is beautiful. i knew from the day i saw her that i’d love her.”
there’s a range of emotions on the members of your tribe. some with watery eyes, others with gleeful smiles. a few in awe, at the fire lord so effortlessly baring his soul for you in front of everyone who loves you.
“hm,” your granny huffs but you don’t miss the crescent moon smiles in her eyes, “you’d look good in green. yn you must have a shawl you can give him. a scarf?”
a peace offering. you chuckle, nodding unable to take your eyes off zuko, “yes i can, if he wants?”
earth nation robes reminds zuko of a specific period of his youth. he did look good in them. “sure. a shade that goes with the red.”
“also, i got this as a gift for you,” zuko bows when he hands the box to your granny, lightly settling it on her lap.
your granny loves a gift, a fact you didn’t mention to zuko because you knew it would only stress him out more. “oh! you didn’t have to, my boy.”
zuko glances over at you, in shock already. my boy? you shrug playfully.
“delicacies from my kingdom.”
the wooden chest is opened to find cheeses, fruits and chocolate over green fabric. some foods you’ve yet to even try. you point to a chocolate in the corner, white chocolate stripes over a block of milk chocolate.
“that one looks tasty!”
but you’re forgotten as your granny takes zuko’s hand with a greedy smile, you’re wondering if your boyfriend is about to get poached. “what a thoughtful gift. i will be trying these all.”
“everyone loves you here,” you whisper to him as you drunkenly sway to the music your family members play in the distance. “almost as much as i do.”
after practically sharing zuko with every mother, father, auntie, uncle, cousin and your granny who even told your boyfriend to pull up a chair after dinner to talk, finally they’ve given him back to you.
all in one green and red piece.
he’s only had a few drinks, nothing close to how many you’ve thrown back but with your tribe, you’ve always been able to relax. for zuko, it’s the first time he’s ever seen you so… yourself in public.
you’re not overthinking every comment you make. your laughs are booming, not covering your mouth. you also inhale all the food on the tables, swearing it’s better than anything he’s ever tasted because your tribe made it.
you’ve danced with every family member, dragged him away from your cousins when he had to answer his twentieth question about the avatar but just as you get him, your teen cousins ask him to spar. this time you fold your arms in front of zuko, protecting him from their weedy selves, “he’s here for granny and me! not to fight you!”
“sorry, have to listen to the misses here.” he pipes up.
so in zuko’s arms, away from your tribe, you appreciate the reprieve they give.
“how about i give up being the fire lord and just become your husband here?” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as he sways you to the music. zuko’s hands appropriately stay on your hips, despite the desperate want to grope you just a little.
you stare at him with wet round eyes, bottom lip jutted out, “don’t tempt me and you better not be proposing to me here.”
you’re pretty with the candle lights surrounding you, braided hair dancing to the opposite way of your hips. there’s even a daffodil tucked into a braid by an auntie earlier. the more you’ve drunk, zuko’s been on watch that your skirt is still facing the correct way and your bandeau isn’t revealing too much cleavage that you’d usually allow. every clothing adjustment attempt zuko’s made has been met with a deviant smirk from you.
you’re about to kiss him, yank his hair out of his bun and have his gorgeous locks flow all around his face. instead you have to throw up a wall of dirt when a little cousin comes zooming to your feet. “go back to auntie! zuko’s mine now.”
there’s a loud whine when the kid spins around, pottering back off.
“i’m not proposing to you now. you’ll know when i’m proposing to you.” he hums, kissing your cheek, pulling you tight to his chest. he inhales your hair like he always does, peppermint and wafts of orange.
“okay. not now though, i’m not ready yet,” you tell him firmly and zuko’s smile stays put. he nods in understanding. “i loved your little speech earlier.”
his cheeks beam a berry red, looking away from your piercing gaze. you look like you want to eat him in one gulp whilst simultaneously take your time with him.
“just wanted everyone to know i am serious about you and you know, despite my title and priorities… you’re important to me.” his lashes flutter over to you at the end. the grip on your hips tighten, pulling you in to feel his hardening length against your stomach. your next inhale is sharp.
“d-don’t. my family is here.” you warn, but you still snuggle against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and rubbing your nose against his, “you can’t be adorable and…” he brushes his lips along your jaw. you clench your eyes shut. “zu… we can’t. later.”
“i know, i know,” and you hear the lust heavy and thick in his voice. he lays one kiss behind your ear, “i love you more today than i did yesterday.”
you want to tug his hair, have him expose that throat so you can mark it up. “i love you too, so much more. you were so sweet with everyone, made me want to cry. take you home for myself.”
you shiver at the brush of cold air as the sky darkens, the lights surrounding you getting brighter to manage. zuko is quick, shrugging off the shawl you gave him earlier to wrap around your shoulders and lightly heating his hands to hug you back into him.
“i was on my best behaviour, wasn’t i?” he grins, stunning as always. your stomach can’t help but heat.
you nod, chewing down on your lip, “one more hour, we pack up the food and we go, okay?”
“it’s up to you, baby. whenever you want.”
“i’m rewarding you when we get back.” your tone ends on a sensual tilt, one that has all the blood in zuko’s body rushing south.
“you’ll be on my face then,” he mumbles and you can’t reply because aunties are rushing over to you, dragging you back into the crowd to sing songs and listen to stories.
Ghost with an oral fixation using his mask to hide the fact that he’s been eating you out- via your portal pussy- for hours.
Briefing room lights low, projector casting shifting blue-white glow across the long table. Price stood at the front walking the team through the latest op intel. Soap was leaning forward, scribbling notes and occasionally interjecting with his usual chaotic enthusiasm. Gaz sat beside you, arms crossed, focused.
And you… you were seated directly across from Ghost, trying- fucking desperately- to remain professional.
Hands clasped tightly in your lap under the table, knuckles white, spine ramrod straight, thighs pressed together so hard the muscles trembled. Your cunt, however, was a soaked, throbbing mess.
Because Ghost had your portal pussy strapped securely over the lower half of his face, hidden beneath the balaclava, pressed flush to his mouth. He was relaxed in his chair, gloved hands resting loosely on the surface, heavy lidded eyes fixed forward with that signature dead stare.
No one noticed the subtle, rhythmic shift of his jaw beneath the fabric.
No one saw the way his eyes fluttered half closed for a split second every few minutes.
No one could possibly guess that Simon Riley was eating your pussy like a man with a terminal oral fixation. Tongue moving in broad, flat strokes under the mask, dragging from your dripping entrance all the way up to your swollen clit.
Lapping at you lazily, savoring the taste that coated his tongue and chin, swallowing every fresh gush of slick with a quiet, satisfied hum that no one else could hear. Circling the sensitive bud, sucking it gently between his lips and sending low vibrations straight through to your cunt.
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood when another wave of pleasure rolled through you, cunt clenching hard around nothing, leaking more arousal that Ghost eagerly drank down.
You tried to keep your breathing carefully controlled, slow inhales through your nose, but your cheeks were flushed, and you could feel sweat beading at the small of your back.
Ghost’s cock was rock hard and leaking steadily into his pants, thick length straining painfully against the zipper as his tongue pushed deeper, curling to stroke that spongy spot inside you that always made your vision spark white at the edges.
Price gestured at the screen. “Ghost? Thoughts on the exfil?”
Simon lifted his gaze lazily, voice coming out gravel rough and perfectly even from behind the mask. “Solid. No notes.”
The moment Price turned back to the slides, Ghost doubled down, sucking harder on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly, then slowed to lazy, teasing circles that had your hips twitching involuntarily in your seat. You gripped the edge of the table, forcing your face into a neutral expression while your poor, oversensitive cunt fluttered and pulsed against his mouth.
Every time your walls started spasming harder and your thighs began to shake, he’d pull back just enough to lap softly at your folds, letting the intensity fade until you were no longer right on the brink. Then he’d dive back in, tongue fucking you, sucking your clit, humming those deep vibrations that made your eyes nearly roll back.
By the third orgasm he ripped from you, your cunt was puffy, swollen, dripping down his chin beneath the mask. By the fourth, you were fighting not to whimper out loud, biting your lip bloody.
You were a wreck, legs trembling under the table, panties long since ruined, core clenching uselessly. Every slow, wet lap sent sparks up your spine. Every suck on your clit made your vision blur. You wanted to moan his name, to beg him to let you come properly, to spread your legs and let him bury his face for real.
Ghost knew it. And the bastard was enjoying every second.
When the briefing finally wrapped and the team started filing out, Soap clapped Ghost on the shoulder with a “You alright, Lt? Lookin’ a bit focused today.”
Ghost remained seated a moment longer, voice low and slightly hoarse as he replied, “Never better.”
His eyes locked onto yours across the now emptying room.
You stood on shaky legs, trying to walk normally as you gathered your notes. The portal was still pressed to his face. He still hadn’t stopped. Even as people left, his tongue continued its slow, torturous circles around your oversensitive clit, occasionally dipping inside to curl against your walls.
As the last person disappeared through the door, Ghost finally rose from his chair, and crossed the room in two slow strides until he was standing right in front of you, mask still firmly in place.
His gloved hand came up, tilting your chin so you had to meet his eyes.
“Been such a good girl fer me,” he murmured, voice rough and thick. “Sitting there all while I ate this pretty cunt. Didn’t make a sound.”
A low, hum rumble vibrated through his chest.
“But we’re not done yet. Briefing’s over… and i’m still fucking starving.”
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