thinking about accidental pregnancy with oliver, about keeping the baby, or wanting to keep the baby and. you're not expecting him to stay, really you're expecting him to run. he's not serious about you, about this, neither of you are... and he's an athlete at the rise of his career, you're not expecting him to stay. he does.
if there is one thing that could override oliver's flightiness, his instinct to bolt, it is responsibility. and you've just dropped the biggest responsibility of his life in his lap. oliver's never committed himself to anything except for the responsibility he holds to others, whether as captain, son or now... a father, a responsibility you've tied him to with an umbilical cord. oliver aiku does not let go of responsibility; he builds his life around it.
when you tell him, you expect him to fade out of your life. you expect panic and for the urge to flee to overwhelm him, it's something you've made your peace with ever since the ultrasound.
(pregnancy tests can be unreliable, can give you a false positive, and that hope and joy that bloomed in your heart at the sight of those two lines? it felt too dangerous to nurture without absolute certainty. you had to make sure.)
(you're pregnant.)
there's panic, but he doesn't flee. he asks you, with low tones and serious eyes, what you'd like to do — something unspools in your shoulders, then, and you say with complete confidence that you'd like to keep it. this is your child. you want them more than anything. he doesn't flee then, either.
he drives you to every appointment, stays with you through each one, too. he sits on that chair and asks the doctor questions, asks after the baby's condition, their health, progress and risks. he's... a father, you've come to realize. a good one.
it takes nothing for you to fall in love after that. after all, what's been holding you back all this time is the knowledge that, despite his charm and charisma, oliver is... flighty, a man that's allergic to commitment, he's had a dozen men and women before you and he'll have a dozen more after you — he was never going to be present. so seeing him now, like this? his charm and his charisma coupled with his attentive support? a steady rock you can be sure will you hold up, unwavering under your weight, when you lean on him? reliable. constant. to see oliver aiku fully present with you, to see oliver aiku crystalized? he's beautiful.
you fall.
you understand now, the complete faith his team has in him, their steadfast loyalty and unfaltering affection. this oliver... he does not demand it, per se, but he gives so much of it that it becomes unquestionable to do the same.
you love him.
and years down the line, looking at oliver cuddle your toddler to sleep? you think to yourself that you're glad none of his exes had thought to baby trap him to keep him, because now... you know with absolute certainty that it would've worked.
So, the first time that Draxum experimented, he tested on five turtles. Fours boys, one girl. The little girls name was Venus, at the time, green number five. When Lou Jitsu escaped, he hadn’t seen Venus laying there and took off. Draxum was able to recover her, but he lost the boys. (My version of Venus is a ornate diamondback) The following year, he tested on another female turtle, Athena. They “grew up” together under Draxum’s control. They were each other’s comfort buddies. Sometimes if they were lucky, Huginn and Muninn would bring them paints or markers or little things to pass the time. Athena would always play connect the dots on Venus’s arms and legs, making whatever her mind came to. Venus would draw over Athena’s “blots”, as she called them. Most often, Venus got little flashes of the day she was mutated and would remember little things, like each of her brothers markings. (She and Mikey have photographic memories). Venus could never put into words how much it meant for Athena to proudly carry her brothers symbols until Draxum made them wash it off.
“Jeez dude, you really gotta get your bending under control.” Pidge commented this towards Keith as less of a jab and more of a warning, but Keith took it the wrong way. As usual.
“Shut it, gremlin, can’t you see I’m trying to?! Why else do you think I’m here!” He spits back, causing her to shrug and turn away.
“I’m just saying, if you aren’t careful, someone’s gonna get hurt.”
Pidge would regret her words later that day at practice. If she didn’t know any better she might almost think her words caused the accident, but she knew better than that. The truth was that it was bound to happen. That didn’t mean it was any less terrifying for anyone who witnessed it.
“Alright Keith, come on. Just create a small flame for me, okay? Breathe..” Shiro instructed the boy gently as he moved Keith’s hands into a cup shape, a soft smile on his face. After a few moments he had the flame going, and Shiro pulled away.
“Good, good job. I want you to sit here and keep the flame going until I tell you to stop. Don’t let it get out of control, but don’t let it go out either. Got it?”
Keith just rolled his eyes at this and nodded, seating himself on a nearby bench while Shiro headed off to work with the others. He absolutely hated this exercise, he’d done it so many times before and failed each time, he didn’t care anymore.
10 minutes later the flame was still burning in his hands, and Keith yawned tiredly, bored due to lack of activity- Real activity. He couldn’t see the others around so he decided to play around with his fire a bit, letting it swirl around him like a fireball.
He didn’t see Lance come around the corner.
The sound of a sudden thud- the dropping of a weapon? He wasn’t sure- startled Keith out of his concentration and caused the flames to suddenly burst around him, burning hot as they moved toward the source of the noise.
Before he knew it, before he could even blink, he heard a scream and the orange gave way to a cold silence. Lance was on the floor on his knees, clutching his arms to his chest protectively. Moments later the others came around the corner and spotted Lance, eyes widening.
“Keith! What did you do!” Shiro shouts at him as he kneels down next to Lance. He searched him over, discovering the red hot, blistering burns that covered Lance’s arms up to the elbow, and he let out a soft noise of shock.
Keith shook his head, moving forward towards the pair, stuttering like an idiot. “I-I don’t know, I didn’t see him and then I heard a noise and-”
“Stay away from me.” Lance’s voice cut through the room like butter, silencing the group around him. Shock and confusion rang through them in the silence that followed, deafening and overpowering.
“Wh-What? Lance, come on, I didn’t mean to-”
“I said stay away!” His voice shook through the room as he stood suddenly, icy blue eyes glaring Keith down like a predator. Keith was frozen in place, fear shivering down his spine and making his knees knock together. He’d never seen Lance so angry, so hurt, and to know it was because of him.. That scared him more than anything.
“Don’t ever come near me again.” He finally spat the words at him before he dashed out of the training room, eyes dripping tears and hands still clutched to his chest. The other four watched him in shock as the door closed behind him, and Hunk finally broke from his trance.
“I’m gonna go make sure he gets help. Don’t.. Just don’t come after us, okay? I’ll let you know later how he is.” He murmurs, shaking his head before heading out after his best friend. He wasn’t angry, but he was disappointed in Keith. He knew he couldn’t control it, but he was messing around anyways, and now someone was hurt. His best friend was hurt. That couldn’t stand.
“Shiro…”
“Keith, Pidge, lets get back to work. No bending.”
I think when Oliver falls in love with you, it's a form of worship. He starts watching you because he wants to see your eyes light up as you talk, arms gesticulating wildly, laugh unabashed and unrestrained — there's salsa on your shirt, and on your pinky, and he tracks all of these details about you and notes them fondly. He starts to want to do all of these things for you that he hadn't cared to before: bring you flowers, gift you chocolates, leave his hoodies behind at your place. He only realizes the depth of his love when he has you in front of him, casual shirt and jeans, when he notices himself tucking away your every gesture into his heart.
He doesn't realize it when you're in his bed, under him, where he's had dozens of women and men before you. He doesn't realize it on your dates either, not with the restaurant's ambiance and carefully curated romance overhead.
Instead, it slams into him when you're just two people in the same space, painfully human, and he's still watching you as if he's inking you — your presence, your motion, your spirit — carefully into the canvas of his retina.
tags: established fwb, the morning after, sfw drabble (no sex on screen), reader speaks in kansai-ben, slice of life, reader raids oliver's fridge god bless
Consciousness crests over you in waves. You stretch yourself awake, languid and comfortable, this was, probably, some of the best sleep you've ever had. Sitting up, you turn to the other side of the bed —
Empty.
Oliver Aiku is conspicuously missing.
You get your legs over the side of the bed and stand up. You forgo slippers, feet bare as you pad your way out into the living room. The feel of the tile on your skin is comfortably cool.
Yesterday, you had a row with your housemates, so you called up Oliver for a fuck. He's always up for sex, and you can usually weasel your way in for a night or two, which was your end goal. Besides, he fucks good. Good sex and a place to crash? A sweet deal if you've heard one. No coupon's offering better shit than that.
You're scratching at your head, hair-tie having dug painfully into your scalp while you slept. You're pulling your ponytail loose when you see him, Oliver, layed out on the couch.
"What are ya doing all the way out here?" You ask.
Oliver's arm is slung over his face, covering his eyes, no doubt trying to escape the sunlight blaring through his bare ass windows. He's got them set up with that fancy shit of his so that they pull open in the mornings on automatic, to let the sun into the apartment, he'd said.
Oliver, arm still valiantly protecting his eyes, grins at you, "You kick."
No you don't. "No I don't."
"It's a good kick, ever considered soccer?" He continues.
"Yer an ass, and I don't kick," you say, making your way across his couch, past the breakfast bar and into the kitchen. If Oliver wanted to be difficult and obtuse, so be it, none of your business.
You help yourself to his fridge and rifle through. It's nonsensical, the way the food's arranged in there, nothing's ever in the same place as it was the last time you crashed. You bend over, looking for where he keeps his eggs. He should really organize this thing.
A wolf-whistle sounds behind you, couch's direction. You look back and — yep. Oliver Aiku's finally deigned to open his eyes to the world, and they're trained right on your ass. He's got his elbow propped up behind him, a roguish grin spread across his cheeks in appreciation. His eyes trail up to your face, eyebrow raising to match his grin and he compliments, "Damn."
In return, you give him a clear view of your eye-roll before you turn back to the fridge, "What do you want to eat?"
"Are you on the menu?"
"Focus, pretty boy," you snap, index and thumb literally snapping in his direction in hopes that he'll pay attention to something other than where his dick wants to go.
It's a magnificent dick with superior tastes, for sure, but you want a full stomach before a full pussy …or ass, considering that's what he'd been looking at.
"Just make me whatever you're having," he says, something off with his tone, and when you look back he's slumped against the couch again, eyes closed, arm slung across his face.
At least it's not over his eyes this time. Instead, his arm's flung out over his forehead, letting the sunlight paint a golden rectangle over his lids the shape of his window's railings.
Probably actually resting his eyes, rather than trying to go back to sleep.
"Ya better not complain," you warn as you pull away, awe tucked behind your ribs. The eggs are in the second drawer.
"I won't."
Well, Tamagoyaki it is.
Not Pictured: Oliver's pure panic when he moved your hair out of your face after his midnight piss, realizing he's catching feelings, and exiling himself to the couch. Oliver still panicking and trying to deflect away from his feelings when you wake up.
18+, Isagi Yoichi x F!Reader; Oral F!Reader Receiving
His lips trail blazing kisses up your leg, stopping to mouth at the underside of your knee. Isagi lathers devotion onto your skin from where he's kneeling, your leg hooked up his shoulder.
You brace yourself on the bed as you knock your knee aside to give him more access, and he takes the opportunity to resume his ascend, teeth grazing your skin. Your free hand tangles into his hair. He presses bruising kisses onto your thighs, flesh colouring under his skillful attention.
"Yoichi," you moan, and it comes out breathy. Your grip on his hair tightens and you pull him in; he flattens his tongue against the inside of your thigh and licks up.
A hum sounds from deep within your chest. You arch back, eyes fluttering shut as he grazes your flesh with his teeth on his way back down. Isagi sucks his reverence onto your skin, leaving you offerings of rose-water; coaxing out red blooms with his wet mouth. You tap his back with the heel of your foot, a signal for him to lavish his attentions elsewhere.
Isagi complies. He slides up the length of your leg, until he's face to face with your clothed sex. He hooks his index into your underwear and pulls it aside, baring you to him. He licks a wet stripe up your cunt in greeting, from your labia to your clit. Once there, he presses a soft kiss to your clit, then he descends once more and teases open your folds around his tongue. You part around him easily. His tongue prods your entrance with kitten licks before he breaches you, fucking into your heat.
He holds your thigh open with one hand, and thumbs your clit with the other. The sensations leave you heaving for breath, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his thrusts. You grip him closer, your low moans turning high and breathy as your pleasure builds, and Isagi lets you. Head angled, nose digging into the crease in between your leg and pussy.
Warmth coalesces in your gut, pouring in with waves of pleasure. It lathers slick upon his tongue which he eagerly swallows down. Your cunt flutters around him as your pleasure finally crests over, muscles going taut, your body holding itself still in preparation for release.
tags: smut, f!reader, dry humping, mention of Oliver's other flings by reader who doesn't have any particularly strong opinions on the matter, Oliver calls reader 'princess', reader spends the whole fic on Oliver's lap bless
His hands cage your ribs, thumb caressing the flushed skin under your shirt as he holds onto your waist. Oliver’s stroking thumb on your skin, his lips on yours, and your tongue in his has your blood singing. You rock on his lap as you surge forwards, breaking the kiss with an obscene sound and latching your lips onto his jaw.
Oliver groans, hands flexing on your waist. You nose your way down to his collar, teeth grazing soft flesh— you pause, gently extricating yourself from his skin, “Mm, were you with Sara-chan earlier?” You ask, looking up at him from under your lashes.
His hands stutter on your waist and he huffs out a laugh, “You know, it’s a little scary how you can always tell.”
“She has a distinctive perfume.” It’s strong and it lingers, heavy with vanilla and sandalwood, and its all over his shirt. You suspect she all but bathes in the stuff, for it to leave a scent trail like that. You nose your way back in.
“’S not just her,” he says, as his throws his head back, hand hiking up your skin and fingers splaying over the small of your back. “You can always tell, whether its Sara-chan or Kei… you’re terrifying.”
You hum, but you’re not really interested in carrying on the conversation. You’ve just discovered the tender spot where neck, shoulder and collarbone all meet, and you fully intend to sink your teeth in. You do. Oliver’s grip on you tightens, fingers pressing into your skin.
“Fuck,” he swears.
You agree. He’s hard, bludge prominent in his jeans, you can feel it from where its standing proud against your clit. You rock forwards, rubbing against him, spine tingling in pleasure. Good. Good. This is good.
His cock is thick and large, framed by the seam of his jeans, the friction of it against your clothed clit is heavenly. It would’ve been overbearing if you were naked, the friction of that line-stitch on your bare skin too much to bear, but clothed like this? It’s good. It’s really good. The way the edge rises, ridge catching on your clit as you grind against it... the pleasure of it is indescribable. It fills your clit up with blood as heat pools down your groin and pleasure sparks with its every slide. His cock presses against your underside, too, pushing against your opening.
You feel so full even without him splitting you open. It’s perfect.
You grind yourself against him, over and over, moaning into his skin and he rocks up into you, his fingers bruising your flesh. His breaths come out in shallow puffs, and you can tell that he has his lip between his teeth, with every hint of sound trapped in his rumbling chest.
You can just imagine him, eyes squeezed shut, thighs and hands tense as he gives himself over to pleasure. You sneak a peek, and yeah — there he is, eyes squeezed shut just like you thought they would be, worrying kiss-bruised lips between his teeth and jaw clenched taut in tension.
You press forward, pushing down against his cock and your core throbs as you hitch your hips, sliding up and down that seam with the delicious pressure of clit pressed against cock. It’s a delicious grind that has you kneeing in pleasure.
You work your lips up, until you’re against the under side of his jaw. Oliver’s beard brushes your cheek. When you suck, you can feel it fall slack, and a deep groan is released from his chest. His hands spasm on your skin, and he slides them down until he’s got fistfuls of your ass. “Shit,” he says, “Are you trying to kill me?”
“I like hearing,” you murmur. Your teeth graze the undersize of his jaw as you latch on again.
“Roger,” he says, squeezing your ass in assent. His next groan comes out loud and clear.
You pass the next few minutes like that. His hands on you, squeezing, touching caressing as you grind against one another and you worry your mouth over his skin. The sounds of sex fill up the room, his moans intermingling with yours, and your pants leave you wondering whether you’d find the windows fogged over once you’re done — realism be damned.
Suddenly, Oliver's hands on your ass grip with purpose, and he hikes you up against him. His hips thrust upwards, his cock kissing your cunt with every movement. If he was fucking you, he'd be slamming into you.
You hold onto his shoulders, and it's your turn to throw your head back and moan, loud and unrestrained. You love it when he gets like this. Forceful and dominating as he takes what he wants. You can't move with how tightly he's holding you, but you don't mind, it feels so good and the friction has your toes curling. He always makes it good for you. You can feel your body tensing with your impending release.
Oliver squeezes your ass, and you can feel his chest reverberate with the strength of his groan. Wetness blooms between the two you, soaking your underwear. You wonder if he got any on your skirt. You don't care.
His hands gentle on you as they slide up to your hips and you lean close enough to share breath, panting your pleasure into his mouth. You ride him through the aftershocks of his orgasm until your release overtakes you: a second wetness blooming between the two of you.
You take a minute to regain your breath and you can feel his thumb stroking circles onto your hipbone. His voice is raspy when he speaks, “Feel alright?” he asks, and when you nod he smirks, cocksure, “You fell apart so beautifully in my lap, and I didn’t even fuck you.” The words are teasing but they come out with a breathless quality that he either cannot or does not bother to conceal.
“I could feel how hard you got, and I didn’t even get naked,” you shoot back as you straighten and stretch on his lap.
He leans back into the couch, smile broadening. His hands go up to your waist and trace the arch of your back, “That wasn’t a complaint, princess.”
“I know.” The way he held you, the sounds he made, the way he drove into you… he was worked up. Very worked up. The breathlessness you caught in his voice when he said that… you know it’s awe. He had you on his lap horny and wanting, all pretty and dolled up, and free to touch. You’d have gone crazy with it too.
You lean in and press a kiss to the underside of his lip, “Thank you, this was nice.”
You had a meeting to get to and the drying ejaculate connecting the two of you was getting uncomfortably sticky. You didn’t have much time to linger. You barely had time for this, really. Before you could extricate yourself from his lap, Oliver’s fingers clasp your waist.
“Your spare underwear is my drawer,” he says, “Bedroom closet, second drawer to the bottom.”
“Thanks.”
