Having accessories on that jingle while you have sex with him makes him develop a pavlovian response, now every time your jewelry makes noise, he can't help how fast he pops a boner.
Manato's ears and tails stiffen in place as he feels his pants tighten, he can't meet your eyes, even that reminds him of how hot you looked while you were sucking him off, face beet red while you poke him for answers. Because of his ears, he picks up the jingling of your jewelry even more intensely, bouncing his leg up and down as you're telling Yuzuha some sort of story, he can't focus on anything but how good your lips look right now and how good they looked stretched around his dick. He does his best to not show it, fails, and hugs you from behind to make you feel how badly he wants you.
Lycaon coughs to clear up his mind and focus, you're telling him about a new café that opened up, has delicious menus and— god his ears can't stop twitching, his tail barely staying in place as you keep making excited movements with your body, the sound flashing a memory of you clinging to his neck desperately as he fucked your brains out on your bed, your clothes torn off and your body covered in claw marks, you looked so— he blinks himself out of the thought before it gets worse, but you do notice his tail wagging way too hard, and how tense he is the whole day.
Hugo's smile twitches as he's sitting with you on your bed, you're playing some sort of adventure game with your switch and those damn bracelets won't stop jingling. Just like how the sound made it even more erotic while you were stroking him off after you just gave him a blowjob, his moans had become so pathetic, he melted under your touch, let himself be vulnerable like he never dared to before as you kept stroking him with that punishing pace and— he's pulled out of his thoughts as you cheer for yourself, you finally beat that boss. His hands slowly circle your waist as he buries his head on the juncture of your neck, "Mmm, will you pay attention to me now?"
Lighter can't focus, you're showing him two different graphic t-shirts, you two had been out shopping when it just hit him. The way you're explaining how good both of the t-shirts look as you shove them into his face, the way your necklace keeps dangling— like how it was hovering over his face as you were riding him, your hands squeezing his pecs as you slammed your hips down on his thick cock, his head spinning as he grunts your name and digs his nails into your thigh to keep himself from losing himself in you— he coughs into the back of his hand, at your confused look he just shakes his head a little, "I'll get both of them for you."
Harumasa's hold on your hand tightens out of nowhere as you were running to the new ice cream store that just opened up, you turned to look at him— his face is beet red, refusing to make eye contact with you. The jingle of your bracelets as you were skipping around, holding his hand, is much too reminiscent of the sound the same bracelets made as he was fucking into you on his bed just yesterday. Your hands had circled around his neck, your nails, and bracelets digging into his skin as he watched you come undone just from his dick pounding into you, burying his cum deep inside as he finishes with your name spilling from his lips with a high-pitched whine, you looked so gorgeous then— "Harumasa! I'm asking you what you want to order!" you huffed, he blinked as your voice cut through the flash of memory, his other hand went to his throat out of nervous habit, his blush spreading to his ears and neck, "Yeah… yeah just order whatever you'd like for me, I don't mind."
content: fluff. really, just fluff. discussion of canon prosthetics, references to previous trauma.
Lighter →
Lighter cobbles sleep together in pieces. He dozes off on his feet during gatherings or hooks his legs up over the handlebars of his bike to steal a few precious moments. Anything longer than a nap is playing with fire. That's when dreams creep in, smoke curling under the frame of a door he keeps firmly shut, suffocating, til he wakes up in a cold sweat, clawing at the chain around his neck, clinging to dogtags so they don't burn into his skin.
It's best when he's pushed himself to his limit. Dreams don't come when's he's too exhausted to think past his next step. He stumbles back home, limbs heavy and body weary, and collapses face down onto his bed fully dressed. Come morning, he'll regret not taking the time to peel himself out of his clothes. He'll regret his blood-crusted knuckles and the lingering stiffness in his bad arm - but never enough to trade them for his nightmares.
That habit didn't change when you found your way into his bed. You can nag and insist all you want, but there's no avoiding it. He'll drag himself in at the dead of night and flop right down onto you. No shower. Just the sheer weight of him—sweaty and exhausted, the throat-burning stench of the hollow clinging to him—flattening you into the mattress.
Lighter snores. Swears up and down that he doesn't, ears turning crimson the second you bring it up. He's not shaking the house down or anything, but it's loud enough to rattle his cool guy image. He drools, too - especially when he manages to knock out for more than his usual sparse hours. You'll wake up with a wet patch on your shirt if you let him stay asleep on top of you.
His number one sleep position, though? Little spoon. He makes excuses about it - because this way he can still face the door, see? It's safer. He promises. It has nothing to do with how good it feels to have you wrapped around him, head pressed between his shoulders. It has nothing to do with being held, with your palm over his heart like it's something sacred.
When you fall asleep against his shoulder, he freezes. He's stuck in time. It's a crime for him to move — because what if he wakes you? What if he shifts and you slip away from his side? He'd never let you fall. Of course not. But if he jostles you too much, then you'll never lean against his side again.
He's the sort of sap that gets emotional when you're sleepy around here. He's heard all the anecdotal evidence about feeling sleepy around people you trust and he buys into it. You trust him. That's why you're sound asleep, head on his shoulder. He trusts you. That's why, when his eyes grow heavy and his back aches from holding still too long, he lets himself rest his head against yours.
Rina →
Sleep hygiene is just as important as regular hygiene, and if you try to bend the rules when Rina is in your bed, you'll get more than just a lecture.
Phone on the nightstand, in do-not-disturb. One singular alarm - none of this six plus nonsense. She's up before your alarm anyway. Sheer force of habit; you thought you might someday glimpse her with her hair undone, gazing longingly out the window in her flowing nightgown, a specter to haunt any passerby who turns their gaze her way. If she does any haunting in the dead of night, she keeps it carefully hidden from you. You start to think it's much more likely that she takes the recommendation for a full, uninterrupted eight hours of sleep extremely seriously.
Rina has the most elaborate pillow set up in the world. A body pillow, a neck pillow, a pregnancy pillow — this is just her first line of defense against bed bugs and charley horses. Her pillows are all on rotation, all prompty replaced every six months — there's even little cushions for her wrists.
Rina, of course, knows how overwhelming all of this can be. She forsakes her comforts the first few times you spend the night with her. These things take time. You would be overwhelmed if she rearranged your bed on the first night. Poor thing. She knows she has to be patient with you. You rest your head on her chest and she coils herself around you bit by bit. Her legs wedge between yours. You hadn't anticipated that she would be quite so clingy — and you're correct. Rina is simply focused on ensuring her knees have the proper support and spacing while she sleeps on her side. The deeper into sleep you fall, the more her arms tighten. You make for a fine (albeit temporary) replacement for her pillow arsenal.
Gradually, she introduces her pillows back into your bed. They appear one at a time, each an apparition that pops into existence while you're out at work. Explaining the use would be too obvious. It would expose her pillow-based scheme. Instead, she demonstrates their proper use each night, expecting you to pick it up subconsciously.
"Let me tidy up for you," she insists. You can only turn down the offer so many times before you start to rationalize it. Maybe this is how she shows her love. Maybe it's acts of service off and on the clock, and words of affirmation wrapped around you the second you stepped in the door. A warm shawl knit from praise, a hot mug of tea pressed to your hands.
Her true intent is, of course, to intertwine her belongings and habits seamlessly with your own. You don't realize it until the conquest is complete — until your bedroom has been transformed into a fluffy haven.
"Ah, yes," you drone, propping yourself up on an elbow to watch Rina pile her hair into a satin wrap. "Me. My girlfriend. And this brick wall she's built between us."
"A down wall," Rina corrects. She leans across the pillow dividing you to kiss your temple. "Would you like to cuddle before bed?"
Of course you do. Even if you're going to wake up to a pillow wedged between you, you'll fall asleep curled up in each other.
Yanagi ->
For a while, you thought she just didn't like you that much. She kept rescheduling nights at your place, kept having work emergencies that made her leave early, taking her spend-the-night bag with her. You understood - honestly, you did. She's a busy woman, she's got a kid, the whole nine yards. You wouldn't still be there if you expected things to move at your pace.
But it was starting to feel purposeful. So one night, holding her bag out to her while she slipped back into her heels and pinned her hair up, you just ripped the bandaid off. Was this going anywhere? Was there something wrong? If she didn't want to sleep over yet, she could just say that - no need for pretend, no need to bring along props or plan out the night.
Yanagi fumbles with her words. She fidgets, adjusts her glasses, strokes her hair back. You brace yourself for the inevitable, for the 'this isn't working'. She says your name lowly. Lamplight gleams off her glasses.
She confesses with all the seriousness of a general sending you to your death:
She has to have noise to sleep.
That's all. She acted like it was a big deal, said she understood if you would rather sleep in separate rooms — or, perhaps, not even together at all. She's flustered when you remind her that ear plugs exist— that this, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing. You can accommodate that.
The next time your schedules (and the stars) align, you march her back to the bedroom to show off your fancy new white noise machine. 33 different sounds. High fidelity stereo sound. You flick through a few different options, wiggling your fingers and waiting for her review.
It takes months for her to introduce you to Soukaku, and even longer for a proper sleepover at her place. After it all settled into routine, you found that Yanagi's bed was frequently abandoned in favor of the couch. Rather than keep you awake with tossing and turning, she folds the covers back over you, turns off the sound machine (moved from your apartment to hers permanently) and escapes into the TV's low drone.
Some nights, you wake alone. You can piece together the order of events. Yanagi fled the bed first. She untangled herself from the both of you, placed the covers back - tucked you in, even, if the covers at your back are any indication. Then, Soukaku - hair mussed, yawning big, pushing at her eyes and blearily calling for Nagi from the bedroom door. She would have clambered out of her bed, left the covers a mess behind her.
If you sleep through Soukaku's calls, you'll slip out of bed at brink of dawn to find both of them asleep on the couch. The TV plays a compilation of old infomercials, casts them a flickering glow. Yanagi sits upright, glasses askew, Soukaku passed out with her head on her thigh.
You slip her glasses from her face and settle onto her opposite side. Your head nestles against her, throw blanket carefully arranged over the three of you. You need to get a larger blanket, you think. This, too, you can accommodate.
Lycaon ->
Big. Fluffy. Warm.
That's what you anticipated. It's not quite what you got.
You wake up with fur in your mouth. A cold, wet nose presses below the hinge of your jaw has you shuddering awake. You squirm and he has the audacity to huff - as if he hadn't just wrested you out of sleep. His arms tighten around your waist, drag you closer, maw hooking over your shoulder to anchor you there.
"Not yet," Lycaon grouses. It's his (only slightly) more dignified version of 'five more minutes'.
His finesse unspools behind closed doors. He lets you pick at the buckles of his restraints one by one until he's unbound before you. Late nights are for catching up. The petals of his flowered language fall away while he removes his prosthetics and carries out his nightly routine.
All the irritants and complaints of the day, the little things he had brushed off, the small moments he had smothered a smile at — he lays it all at your feet while he brushes his tail. You swap stories until he's curled around you, his voice and words gradually roughened. Even with his prosthetics off, he manages to envelop you. His tail is insistent, tucked around you, swishing and lashing — emotive for the first time all day.
God help you if you have to get up in the middle of the night. He's a light sleeper, and he prefers to have you in his arms through the night. He's grumbling when you stir, grip tightening, only releasing you when you insist. And if you take too long? There's a very sleepy, very ruffled, very grouchy wolf thiren watching you from the doorway. He guides you back to bed with a hand between your shoulders. No more detours. Just because he can sleep without you doesn't mean he would choose to.
He's not quite the morning person you would think he is; once he's up, he's golden. Put together and professional, ready for the day. In those early hours, though, his voice is still scratchy. He yawns, tongue curling, jaw clicking shut. The alarm clock has nearly rattled off the nightstand by the time his big paw smacks it silent. He shakes the sleep off, ears slapping with the force of it, and even then, he's still groggy and grouchy well into his routine.
On rare mornings where he has nowhere to be, he rests his muzzle against the pillow and watches you go about your routine. He's still, save for the occasional swish of his tail and the prick of his ears. He'll be up in just a moment. He swears it. He just wants to soak in a little more time like this, to bask in the sun on his fur, in your easy, unhurried motions. Allow him this indulgence before he picks up everything he had laid down the night before.
Hugo →
Of course, by the time you're out of the shower, he will have put himself together — bound up for the day, looking professional and well-groomed while he tends to breakfast. He saves his tail bindings for last. How else would you get to watch it wag when you step into the room?
Hugo is the king of microsleeps. Genuinely, he could fall asleep anywhere.
Can and will sleep with his eyes open. It's awful. You'll be talking to him, thinking wow — he's so engaged with this story. Can't wait to hear his insights. Surely he has some revolutionary pearl of wisdom to share.
And then you'll see it - the way his eyes suddenly sharpen, the way his they flutter as he blinks the sleep back. Somehow, fresh out of sleep, he's raring to go. No grogginess, no nothing — just mild surprise that you're before him now. He knows you hate it, too, and deliberately leans into it to get on your nerves. "Well, hello — when did you get here?"
He's been known to fall asleep mid-conversation — especially if you're chatting with Vivian. It's his favorite white noise. The steady chatter, the soft peals of laughter - you're both close by, safe. His head tips back, arms folded loosely across his chest. He doesn't shift, doesn't make a sound. He's a silent, still sleeper, would be perfectly at home in a coffin.
It's hard to stay mad at him for falling asleep (and he knows it) because, frankly, he doesn't adhere to a regular sleep schedule. Between his above board, legit practices and his less-than-savory business ventures, he runs himself ragged. He's grown to appreciate it. Hugo feels restless without something to work towards. Sleep comes easier when he's filled his days with his ambitions and his limbs are heavy from the effort.
Still — there's a peace that comes over him when he truly sleeps. His features soften. That ever-present vigilance falls slack. You brush the hair from his face and there's no teasing comment, no snatching your wrist. Just the subtle lean into your touch, his most vulnerable self craving the contact. He will never truly slow down, but in moments like these you can imagine a future where he's content. Where he dozes like this regularly and the bags under his eyes have disappeared entirely.
Surprisingly, he's not prone to nightmares — not ones that he remembers, anyway. Sometimes he'll wake with nothing but dread and a cold sweat. Hugo centers himself with tactile sensation, with temperature. He kicks the covers off of himself, tucks them in around you to keep you insulated from his sudden downturn in mood. He shuffles into the kitchen, finds himself making a hot drink and an ice water just to alternate sips of them.
You'll have to drag him to bed most nights. Hugo lies as easy as he breathes. He'll be right there, he swears it. You leave the lamp on, wait for her to crawl into bed next to you. Before you know it, you've passed out with the lamp on. You stir hours after he promised to come to sleep, to see him with his hand on the switch, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
He's easily most likely to let his personal care habits slack. As a result, the top drawer of your nightstand has become an emergency stash. He stumbles to bed, looks a little too pale, words a little too slow and slurred, and you're practically launching a packet of fruit snacks at his face.
Manato →
A veritable jungle gym of a man. The kids swing from his arms and climb all over him, only to tire themselves out and crash, curled into his side, cheeks squished against his chest. He doesn't let it stop him from carrying about his day. He curls his arms around them, balances them where they lay and lets them snooze away while he runs errands.
It's not uncommon to see Manato heading back from the store, sleeping kid in one arm and a mountain of groceries in the other. His steps smooth unconsciously, gait gliding, rocking them further to sleep. It's as easy as breathing, second nature to keep them comfortable when they're bundled up against him.
Manato's the kind of partner to recognize when you need a break and enforce it. If you're walking around dead on your feet, then it's his job to get you to rest. It's not always right away, but when he realizes it — whether your social battery is completely drained or you're just exhausted — he's leaning close, his voice a low rumble. "You ready to go?"
And if you insist that you can stay, that you're not tired, that's cool. He'll respect that for all of about ten minutes. Then he's bumping you with his shoulder, the question evaporated from his voice. "I'm ready to go."
You can cling to him like the kids, too, if you want. Shoes hurt your feet? Just too tired to stand? He's crouching down, waiting for you to climb onto his back. It doesn't matter if you're big or small. What, you think he can't carry you? That's just gonna make him carry you harder. Or, well — more often. He adapts that same smooth, steady gait as he navigates back home. You'll be lucky if the warmth, the steady pulse of his heart, and the easy pace he sets doesn't lull you to sleep before you've even crossed the threshold.
He'll flop down on top of you on request, but he finds it… not weird. Well, a little weird. He's just concerned. He's muttering 'can you even breathe?' while you're smothered by his weight. It's secure, it's cozy, yeah — whatever you say. He's not buying it.
Manato would much rather you sleep on top of him. (Hypocrite.) It just makes sense. His chest is broad, see? And you're always saying how warm he is, so you probably don't even need a blanket. You can squirm, can toss and turn all you like. It doesn't particularly bother him. He's your favorite nap spot, after all. He's more than content to stretch out on the couch with you firmly in place. His thick arms act as guard rails to keep you from spilling out onto the floor when you shift. He's not hearing any apologies, either. The kids are way worse than this.
Besides. When you plop down on him like that, you're going to be there for a while. He shows you post after post on his phone — often from the forums, but sometimes he just uses it as your daily catch up. Why text you every funny thing he comes across when he knows he'll have a captive audience? This way, he can see your reactions for himself.
There is something incredibly adorable in the way Wise acts when you are working on him, he is not the loudest but it is incredibly obvious with his reaction, he shuts his eyes close and gasp softly with every little thing you do, from licking to taking him inside of your mouth, everytime he gasp and moans so softly, he tries to press his lips together as much as he can but still can't keep the soft moans forever, neither he can avoid looking at you, he tries, he even cover his eyes with one hand but soon the arouse wins and he glances at you, just to end up feeling mesmerized by the way you are taking him, there is something hipnotic by seeing you, more likely because of how good it feels, at least that lead him to let go of more breathy moans and stop trying to close his legs, arching his back and pushing his hips a bit further, even holding onto your head out of instinct just like a quiet plea to don't stop
And when he is the one giving you a blowjob it isn't too diferent he doesn't has much experience in this kind of things but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to, he is so sure of it that he have made sure to prepare himself and knows exactly what to do, althoght, when being faced with the real thing he takes slow steps between the eagerness and nervousness, he takes almost no time on trying to take your cock in his mouth and takes as much as he can at once, and, as long as you don't tease him and embarrass him, Wise will take no time to fully underestand exactly how to do it, and if he ends up getting some moans out of you that will encourage him quite a lot, making him even more eager
જ⁀➴ Asaba Harumasa
If you are the one giving him a blowjob he will fully take advantage of it, he may make a few teasing remarks until he simply can't for being too busy moaning and telling you how good it feels with breathy whispers, it doesn't take long before one hand is gripping onto your hair and the other gripping whatever it is under him, his eyes barely open his hips moving clumsy if you don't hold them, chaising after your warm mouth and tongue, it is more likely that he won't meet your gaze because he keeps his eyes shut close most of the time and when he is close to cum he actually clenches his teeth before throwing his head back with a loud groan of pleasure, every time without exception, althoght, he may open one eye to glance at you, and each time the view does nothing but make him even more eager, making him cum even harder
Somehow, he knows really well what he is doing, he takes his time to play with your cock and pleasure you, he take the time to pass his tongue across the whole lenght and even tease the tip before putting it inside of his mouth (he actually does it quite a few times because, as much as he want it, he struggles to keep you inside of his mouth for too long, he needs to take you out to breath), from the start Harumasa takes as much as he can and takes care of what he can't handle with his hand, following a constant rythm and keeping his eyes on you as if to make sure you are enjoying it as much as he does, and once he has grown completely used to having you inside of his mouth he quickens his pace and even tries to take even more, not even feeling you reach his throat will stop him at the end
જ⁀➴ Komano Manato
Komano is not really good at reciving a blowjob just because it doesn't feel good for him to let you do all the job, besides, it make him incredibly embarrased that you would take his cock inside of your mouth. He tried to protest and find excuses but the moment you actually take him deep inside of your mouth his protest becomes moans a bit too quick, he gasp in surprise and breaths heavily, he wants to look somewhere else but he simply can't take his eyes form you, it is almost hypnotic the way you take him with such ease, althoght if your eyes happen to met his it would be too much for him, Komano may not be able to hold back if you look at him or even play with his balls too, he is just too easy to overwhelm
It is quite adorable the way he focus so much with the task in hand, keeping his eyes on the way your dick apears and disapear in his mouth, taking heavy breaths here and there as he focus completely on the rhythm of his head on your lenght, keeping his hands close in case he may need them too, most of the time holding them under your cock to don't let even a drop fall on the floor, dutifuly taking your whole and only stopping when the tip kiss his throat, trying his best to handle it and get used to the feeling before keep moving his head, even if you grip his hair and guide his head to move faster, even if you force your way to his throat he will not complain, Manato will still do his best to take it all
જ⁀➴ Lighter Lorenz
The idea of letting you do all the work doesn't feel right, it just doesn't feel fiting and Lighter even tried to fight back before you could even bend down, but all his protest quickly are drowned in the moans when you start working on him, this man is not only quite shy but also weak for you, he doesn't have the heart to stop you and having you focusing on him make his legs feel weak, despite his previous protest Lighter seem to be unable to take his eyes out of you, watching you bounce your head on his cock while he becomes a flustered mess, his hands hold onto anything they can while his moans are kept relatively quiet until he feels his orgasm bubbling up, his head is thrown back and his hand clinging to dear life to anything he can while his moans become breathy, louder, he even start to groan by trying to hold back himself a bit, still somewhat embarrased to load in your throat, holding back until he can't hold it anymore
Ironically, Lighter is less embarrased to be the one giving you a blowjob, he rather not have your eyes on him while doing it but would just try to don't pay much mind if you want to stare, he make sure to stroke your cock a few times before passing his tongue across it, savouring the sparced precum before attempting to take you on his mouth, he is so focused on it that it is almost adorable, he starts slowly, at least until he gets used to the sensation of having you inside of his mouth, making sure he doesn't gag even if you end up reaching his throat, then he himself will start quickening the pace, he surely is enjoying himself and because of that he needs to make sure you enjoy it too
જ⁀➴ Seth Lowell
He is not only incredibly embarrased to have you eating him out but also incredibly embarrased of how much he actually likes it, he cover his eyes as if that would do anything with his embarrasment, babbling nonsense about how embarrasing it is and about how good it feels, Seth even has the tendency to drool a bit whenever you are taking him but he just can't help it! Not only that but his ears keep twitching and his tail is completely stiff, he tries to stay as composed as posible even his free hand is clenching into anything he can and his back is arched, hips chaising after you almost as if begging you to please take more of him and don't stop, wich, of course, only makes him feel more embarrased of himself, he actually has to fight back his embarrased until he is drowned in his orgasm, mometarely forgetting about everything else once he feels himself getting close and moaning embarrasingly loud when he finally cums
When it comes to him giving you a blowjob Seth is somehow less embarrased, perhaps because he feels that it is like "paying the favor", he may need a bit of guidence but it is a quick learner, he grasp into what he has to do and how you like it pretty quick, althoght he tend to get lost in the moment so his hands most of the time are resting on the floor or your hips and his eyes half closed, sucking your lenght at a good rythm until you ask (or even force him) to go quicker, he is also pretty whiny, he won't stop whimpering and whinning even if you let him go in the rythm he wants, he is just enjoying himself too much, so lost in the moment thats he can barely comprehend that is his own greedy and needy self the one making him go faster and take more
Something about some of the rough-looking men of Hoyoverse… something2 hmmmm… ^_^
Manato, Lighter, Varka, Mydei
🌻 Imagine…
Manato using his body to shield you when needed as you are both fighting against ethereals. He’s always there to protect you and make sure he’s got your back covered. He always ends up surprising you with his insane strength that what should seem ‘almost impossible to deal with’ to you is something he is capable of managing. His body is no joke! He’s truly built that way for a reason.
He’s such a gentleman despite that though, he wants to help in any way he can possible! Need him to lift your groceries? He’s got you! Feel like someone’s acting suspicious? Don’t worry, he’s following right behind you like a bodyguard. Hasn’t he always been such a great help to you? You should totally reward him with many kisses! You’ll probably notice his tail going crazy behind him, but it’s just a clear sign that he truly loves you!
Lighter showing off a little more with what he can do if ever he’s fighting in the ring when you’re in the crowd. He’s there to give it his all to impress you and make you feel the pride of being his beloved. Like, yes, The Champion of the Sons of Calydon is your smitten boyfriend — yup! Whenever he’s done, he’s confident that you’ll be able to patch him up; he prefers the feel of your hands on his skin in general. Who is he to turn down a chance of physical contact?
He makes sure that there will always be time for you two to make more fond memories together. Even when he’s busy, he’ll always think of ways so you’ll both be able to spend time with each other that you’d never feel neglected! He does like taking you on rides and actual dates, but he finds a comfort joy in doing little things together… That stuff gives him many things to look forward to; you give him the strength to wake up and enjoy things that would be mundane tasks.
Varka making it look like lightwork with the two claymores he uses in battle. Those are the same swords he uses to protect others and you. He’ll manage to guarantee your safety, even while knowing how capable you are. And when he does get the chance to play as your knight in shining armor, he likes to get a little bit close to say a flirtatious line or two in hopes of keeping you on your toes for later before heading back to fight.
He likes to be loud about you — he doesn’t have any shame at all! He boasts about how great you are and would fight for your name in silly debates like ‘who has the best smile in Mondstadt,’ but ends up trying to fight for you having the best smile in all of Teyvat. Everyone has to know that he loves you, and maybe he’d bring a megaphone to scream about it on Celestia for all to hear.
Mydei and his duality… He’s truly a force to be reckoned with — given that he fought tirelessly as a child and trained to be as strong as he is today. He ripped off Nikador’s head in his trial with his bare hands and is the best frontline for Amphoreus, y’know? He can definitely protect you, and his immortality helps that even if he’d go down, he can rise again to keep protecting you (for the most part). His combat capabilities aren’t something to be questioned.
Even when he’s not fighting out there, he still wants to do or make things for you. He’d call you over to eat something he cooked or baked without you asking for it — all made with love! If you want to relax by the baths, he’d offer to make you his pomegranate juice so you could enjoy your experience more. Shows a lot of his love through actions — always making sure you to take care of you whenever you’re worn out and are as comfortable as you’ll ever be!
was gonna write for Wriothesley and Gallagher but i don’t know them as well compared to the others. booooo…
anyways, saw a tiktok with all of them after not going on the app for so long, saved it, then hopped off with the intention of not going on it for the next few months like a cycle. few tiktoks a year. enjoy~!
lighter x reader, alcohol (lighter is drunk, nitro-fuel is alcoholic here), otherwise just pure fluff
thinking about lighter, stumbling up to you, the smell of nitro-fuel on his breath (and his shirt - he'd definitely spilled some on himself earlier, though with how unstable he was standing, you were hardly surprised). a bit of a party atmosphere had developed around steeltusk's bar tonight, and lighter had definitely had more than he should have. you had barely joined the gathering for a few minutes, relaxing a bit further from the bar, but as soon as he'd noticed you, he had made a (very wobbly) beeline for you.
"(Y/N)."
his hands went to your shoulder, using you to stabilise himself, even though his weight made you stumble a bit too.
"hi," you laughed, a rare sight to see the champion so discomposed, though he was looking into your eyes with a slightly nervewracking seriousness through those shades.
"we should get married."
it took you a couple beats to process his slurred words. heat rushed to your face, one you hoped, if someone noticed, you could blame on the one drink you'd had so far. you searched his face for the punchline, or any sort of elaboration. all you found was a similar searching - he was waiting for you to answer. he was almost pleading with his eyes, swaying a little from the alcohol - this was absurd.
"you are so drunk," was all you could muster, chuckling in disbelief. lighter collapsed against you, arms wrapping around your neck and head on your shoulder, and you swore you heard a very uncharacteristic whine leave his mouth.
"you don't want to marry me," he pouted - just how many drinks had burnice given him, that lighter lorenz, infamous red scarf of the sons of calydon, was pouting?
"hey, i didn't say that," you comforted him, instinctively petting his hair in a way he seemed to enjoy. and it wasn't a lie - it was something you had dreamed about several times, but... "i just feel like you've skipped a few steps here, you know? we're just friends, lighter. and you really are very drunk."
he picked himself up from your shoulder to look at you again, but he was so close this time, the tip of his nose barely an inch from yours, his full bodyweight still leaning on you. for the first time, you really realised the position the two of you were in, and so publicly, the crowded bar not far away. but you couldn't quite get yourself to focus on them, not when there was so little space between you, and his stupid handsome face took up your entire field of view. the musky scent of his cologne cut through the smell of nitro-fuel and it made your thoughts brain spin even more, so you waited for him to say something. you doubted you could come up with any more coherent thoughts.
"what's step one?" he said eventually. you frowned, not sure what he meant.
"what?"
"you said I skipped steps. what's step one?"
"to marrying me??"
"yeah."
once again, you had to pause to process. was this his weird, misguided, honestly really cute, way of confessing to you? there was no way - but there was a sincerity in his gaze that went past alcohol. the best answer would probably be 'ask me on a date when you're sober', but he was too pretty to be considering best answers, and your mouth moved faster than your brain did.
"probably this," you muttered, then pulled him forward by the scarf, closing the distance between you. even drunk, his reaction time was instantaneous - you were the one to initiate the kiss, but his hands were around your waist so quickly it surprised you, pulling you somehow even closer into him. it was clumsy but full of heat, and you could feel his mouth form a victorious grin against yours.
when you eventually pulled away, though, your gaze was immediately drawn away from his to the rest of the sons of calydon, who were whooping and cheering from the bar.
"yes! i told you it'd go well, lighter!" caesar called, shooting you a wink. Lighter only responded to her with a thumbs up, his head returning to rest on your shoulder again.
"did you tell him to do that?" you yelled back, head still reeling from the kiss.
"so what? neither of you were gonna take the leap sober," she replied, and you realised she wasn't behind his words - not intentionally, anyway.
"he proposed to me!"
a round of shocked laughter from the gang, except for lucy;
"he WHAT?"
i truly had no idea how to end this. but like. i love lighter so so much but i especially love him being dorky and down bad.
wc: 757
just him being a big softy, I love him
I want to talk about him so much but when I actually get to talk about him, I end up having a hard time to even say anything
Lighter's awkward at the beginning, and probably wonders why you chose to date him but once he's comfortable with the relationship, he'd be the sweetest boyfriend ever.
He is very protective when it comes to you, unless he knows you can actually handle yourself in a fight (which... can you really?), he'd mostly just stand by your side and intimidate whoever dares to mess with you.
"Are they bothering you?" You just have to say the words to put him in action.
But whether you’re weaker or stronger than him, the softness he has for you makes him treat you with extreme care. When Lighter holds you, it’s gentle and steady, and it makes you feel that you’re precious.
When it comes to your closest friends and family, he naturally treats them well. Especially if you have younger relatives, he'll carry them when they pester him for it and give them candies he has in his pocket.
He gives you candies too, but if he got the last one, he'll just take the lollipop out of his mouth and shove it in yours.
Whenever you're out on an errand and he either happens to see you or was already with you, those bags you're carrying aren't going to be in your hands anymore. It probably doesn’t matter whether they’re heavy or light, he just naturally takes the bags off your hands.
Also makes sure that he has time just for you. You want to hang out with him right now? Immediately sends you an “Okay”, and Lighter will just show up at your door in the shortest time possible.
Bonus points for you if you’re being cute and admitting you miss him.
You have no idea how much you give Lighter the want to keep living. To him, you are his life, his second chance (along with the Sons of Calydon). He really won't be able to forgive himself if he loses you.
you accidentally send your roommate a nude meant for someone else. no big deal, right?
✦ content. 9.7k words. lighter x f!reader. roommates to lovers. fox thiren!reader. mating / heat cycles tho this isn't an omegaverse fic. lighter is just the sweetest guy (kind of). resolved sexual tension. heat stress. smut (MINORS DNI).
✦ foreword. i'm sorry. that's it. that's the author's note.
✦ smut tags. m&f masturbation. lighter steals your underwear in a moment of weakness and jerks off with them lol. use of sex toys. penetrative sex. copious amounts of dirty talk, bordering on ooc. disgustingly self-indulgent (you have been warned okay... don't say i didn't...)
You don’t notice what you’ve done at first.
You’re still riding the reckless little high of having done something impulsive and a bit daring for a Wolf Thiren you’ve been getting frisky with for the last few weeks. Your ears are warm, your tail swaying in lazy, pleased arcs behind you as you toss your phone onto the bed and wait for a reply that you hope will be very enthusiastic.
A full minute passes. Then two.
You frown, roll onto your stomach, and grab your phone again.
Still nothing.
You open Knock Knock to double-check it actually sent—and that’s when your stomach drops so fast it feels like missing a stair in the dark.
The name at the top of the screen is not the one with the flirty nickname.
It’s Lighter.
Your roommate.
Your absurdly considerate, unfairly attractive, definitely-not-the-intended-recipient roommate, currently on duty somewhere in the city protecting an A-list celebrity as a bodyguard.
As you stare at the very risque photo you just dumped in Lighter’s Knock Knock thread, you feel your soul gently peel away from your body. Your ears slowly flatten against your hair as if trying to reduce your profile out of shame. How in the world did you tap the wrong thread?
You slam the unsend button so fast you nearly throw your phone. The message disappears, which would be great if Lighter hadn’t already seen it.
Because of course he did. He’s a professional bodyguard. He once gave you a five-minute lecture about always checking notifications immediately in case of emergencies. You literally sent it to the worst possible person if your goal was not being perceived.
Your hands start moving before your brain catches up.
Me: WRONG SEND. I AM SO SORRY.
You drop the phone onto the bed and let out a groan that vibrates through your skull.
You’ve lived together for three months. Three blissfully easy, drama-free months. Despite his rugged appearance, Lighter’s quiet, tidy, never complains about your late-night baking experiments. You cook extra portions when he works long shifts. He fixes things without being asked. The entire roommate situation has been suspiciously perfect.
And now you’ve detonated it because you were horny on a random Tuesday.
Moments later, your phone buzzes and you flinch so hard, you almost convince yourself to ignore it. But curiosity gets the better of you and you deign to take a peek.
Lighter: It’s okay. I figured it was an accident.
That somehow makes it worse.
You type immediately, trying to suppress the urge to bash your head into the wall.
Me: Please tell me you didn’t actually see it
The typing dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
You imagine him somewhere glamorous and high-profile, surrounded by flashing lights, staring at his phone with the same quiet, unreadable expression he always wears behind his sunglasses.
Lighter: I only glanced.
Your tail curls around your waist like it’s trying to physically restrain you from spiraling into another dimension. Because that is not a denial.
That is the legal language of a man who absolutely saw everything.
You do not, as it turns out, evaporate on the spot.
Life continues with quiet cruelty, the hours slipping by whether or not you are psychologically prepared to brave the day or not. You shower. You change your sheets. You open Knock Knock, stare at the thread with the man the photo was supposed to go to, and then close the app without replying.
The thought of flirting again makes your stomach twist into knots. Whatever heat had been simmering in you has gone cold, replaced by the mortifying certainty that your very nice, very easy-to-live-with roommate has seen you in a way roommates are absolutely not supposed to.
You tell yourself you’ll explain later. Or tomorrow. Or never.
The next few days pass in a strange, fragile truce between you and your own thoughts. You move through the apartment carefully, hyper-aware of the way your clothes sit on you now that you know someone else has seen what’s underneath. You half-expect Lighter to act different, to make things awkward in some unbearable, irreversible way.
He doesn’t.
Lighter simply asks how your shifts went. He thanks you when you refill the water pitcher. He does not so much as blink in a way that might suggest he is replaying anything behind his eyes.
Which somehow makes everything worse.
By the time your next bakery shift rolls around, you are exhausted from pretending you’re not thinking about it. The early morning rush drains you physically, the scent of sugar and yeast clinging to your clothes as you lock up and step back into the late afternoon air. Your phone buzzes once in your pocket, and you ignore it without even looking.
You are not in the mood right now.
When you get home, the apartment smells like fried noodles and something spicy enough to make your eyes water pleasantly. The lights are on and your shoulders drop on instinct before you can stop yourself.
Lighter is there.
You realize belatedly that it’s his day off. He’s changed out of his usual gear and dressed down in sweats, his hair still damp like he’s just showered. Your roommate looks up from the counter when he hears the door and gives you an easy nod.
“Hey,” he greets. “You’re home late.”
“Yeah. Busy day,” you sigh.
“Figures.” Lighter nods solemnly before gesturing toward the bags on the counter. “I ordered takeout. Thought you might not feel like cooking.”
The words land gently, without expectation or any hint that this is him compensating for anything or trying to smooth over an unspoken disaster. He’s just… thoughtful. As usual.
“…You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I wanted to. Oh, I also did the laundry this morning. It was my turn anyway, right?”
You stand there for a moment, tail flicking once behind you, unsure what to do with the gratitude swelling in your chest. “Yeah, thanks. Pretty productive day-off, huh?”
“You bet.”
Dinner unfolds quietly. You sit across from each other at the small table, trading anecdotes about how you both spent the day, your plans herewith, and nothing else in particular. Lighter listens like your words matter even when they’re mundane, and it makes the tension unspool from your shoulders.
You try to play it cool, and act like your eyes don’t catch the way he leans back in his chair, sleeves pushed up his sculpted biceps. You try to forget that you once sent him something that stripped you of all this carefully curated normalcy.
Later, when you’re alone in your room, curled on your bed with the lights off, you replay the evening in your head and feel the strange dissonance of it all. How gentle he was. How unchanged. How safe Lighter still made the apartment feel.
What you don’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—is that your roommate is simply very good at keeping his own secrets.
Lighter is not a saint.
There are too many things stacked against that illusion—years as the head of a mercenary crew that paid for his negligence with their lives, time lost in the underground ring where survival meant learning how far a body could be pushed before it broke. Even now, with a place among the Sons of Calydon, he isn’t foolish enough to believe affiliation alone scrubs the blood from his hands.
Salvation is a generous word. At best, he has learned how to carry on knowing the others did not.
Living with you has complicated that discipline in ways Lighter did not anticipate. You were practical about it when you first offered to split rent. You made space. You trusted him with the keys to the apartment and the soft rhythm of daily life. There was no agenda in it or expectations beyond coexistence.
It was something he wouldn’t have taken for granted.
Except Lighter learned there are other kinds of sins left to him—smaller, quieter ones that leave no bruises but still manage to feel more dangerous than entering a Hollow without a Proxy.
Like doing the laundry.
Earlier today, he had decided to tackle the pile that’s been accumulating in the hamper over the last week. Lighter doesn’t mind; chores like this remind him that life can be as simple as sorting lights from darks, measuring detergent, and letting the machine hum away the hours.
He’s done this more times than he cares to count. Laundry duty rotated like everything else with the Sons of Calydon. The girls never batted an eye at handing over their delicates, and neither did he. Lighter doesn’t flush when he dumps the hamper’s contents onto the floor of the small laundry nook. He separates items methodically: Thiren-modified clothes that accommodate your tail comfortably, his own sweat-stained work clothes, a few bed linens that have seen better days.
But then there’s the something that catches his eye amid the jumble—a scrap of black lace, delicate and designed to be noticed before it’s removed. Lighter recognizes it immediately, and it hits like a delayed punch, pulling him back to that night.
He’d been on the job, while his charge was midway through her segment on a late-night talk show. Lighter had positioned himself backstage, out of the camera’s glare but close enough to intervene if needed. It was one of those idle stretches where he could let his guard drop just a fraction.
Sometime later, his phone had vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out without thinking, thumbing open the notification from you because that’s what he did, always.
The image took a while to load in the Knock Knock thread. Lighter had initially assumed this was just another baking experiment fail that you shared with him on occasion. He liked those—your whimsical messages always made his time on the clock less of a drag.
But the moment the photo showed up, his brain short-circuited.
It was you, unmistakably, captured in a mirror selfie. Your shirt was rucked up, baring the soft swell of your breasts where your pert nipples peaked in the cool air of what he now knew was your bedroom. One hand held the phone at an angle that framed everything just so, while the other tugged teasingly at the waistband of those black racy panties, pulling them low enough to hint at the curve of your hips, the shadow between your thighs.
Your ears were perked forward, tail a blurred arc in the background like it couldn’t contain your excitement, and your expression—that sly, inviting smile, eyes half-lidded with mischief—made it clear this was meant for someone who wasn’t him.
Lighter had only glanced, as he told you later. That wasn’t a lie, exactly. He’d swiped the app closed almost immediately the moment his brain processed what he was seeing. But that glance had seared itself into his memory, replaying in flashes during quiet moments: the way your skin looked under the warm light, the delicate filigree of the lace against your fingers, and the confidence in your pose that contrasted so sharply with the flustered apologies that followed.
Now, holding that same pair of panties in the laundry pile, he feels that image resurface with a vengeance.
His fingers brush the fabric, and it’s like a direct line to that mental snapshot. Heat coils low in his gut, a reminder that he’s not as detached as he’d like to pretend. He’s not embarrassed—that would imply shame, and there’s none of that here.
What he feels is worse: a sharp, aching want that he has no right to.
You’re his roommate, his friend in this fragile domestic setup. You’ve trusted him with your space, your routines, and now, unwittingly, with this glimpse of your intimacy. Seeing the crumpled lace now only amplifies the dissonance, and makes him aware of how it’s touched your skin in moments he wasn’t meant to witness.
Lighter exhales slowly, forcing his grip to loosen as he tosses the panties into the delicates bag with the rest. He tells himself it’s nothing, just fabric, just a chore. But as he starts the washer, the rhythmic churn of the machine does little to drown out the thoughts circling his mind.
He wonders if you wore them that day, if they’re carrying traces of your scent from the bakery—sugar and flour mingling with something warmer, headier. He shakes his head. This isn’t him; he doesn’t indulge in things like that. By the time you get home later, the laundry will be done. He’ll greet you, ask about your day, and keep the rest locked away where it belongs.
Lighter manages the restraint for all of five minutes after the washer kicks into its spin cycle. The delicates bag sits there on the counter, but his eyes keep drifting back to it like a magnet he can’t ignore. He tells himself to finish the chore—sort the dry load, fold everything neatly, leave your things on your bed as always. That’s the routine he’s clung to these past months.
But the tension in his body is a live wire, coiled tighter than it’s been in years. Not since the underground ring, where adrenaline and pain blurred into something primal. This is different, though—hotter, more insidious.
He fishes the black lace panties out of the bag before he can second-guess it, the fabric cool and soft against his callused fingers. It’s you invading his thoughts with that damned photo, and now this tangible reminder in his hands.
Lighter’s pulse hammers in his ears as he glances toward the apartment door down the hall, half-expecting you to burst in early from your shift. The place is silent, save for the continues whirr of the washing machine. No one’s here. No one will know.
He shouldn’t. God, he knows he shouldn’t. This is another sin to add to the ledger, smaller than blood but somehow dirtier. The Sons of Calydon preach loyalty, protection, and a code that keeps the chaos at bay. If Big Daddy or Caesar or any of them found out he was perving on his roommate like this, stealing her underwear to get off... fuck, they’d kick him out and strip him of the Champion title in a blink of an eye.
This was disgusting. Pathetic. A betrayal of the trust you’ve given him so freely.
But the ache in his cock is insistent, straining against his sweats, and the mental image of you—tits bared, fingers teasing that lace down your hips—won’t fucking leave him alone.
It’s been days of this torture, pretending normalcy while his brain replays it on loop. He needs to dispel it and purge the tension before it snaps him in half. Just this once. Then he can toss your panties in the next wash cycle, put them away, and bury this deeper than the ghosts of his past.
Lighter retreats to his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that makes his stomach twist. The space is sparse but functional. Bed by the window, weights in the corner, manga volumes Caesar loaned so he “wouldn’t get bored in the city” stacked on the nightstand.
There wasn’t much room for indulgence here, usually. But as Lighter sinks onto the edge of the mattress, the panties clutched in one hand, today proves to be different from the rest. His free hand palms himself through his sweats, giving a rough squeeze that draws a low groan from his throat. He was already hard, leaking precum that darkens the fabric.
Shame burns hot in his chest, mingling with lust until it’s a toxic cocktail he can’t stop drinking. You’re so good to him—cooking extra portions for his late nights, sharing your silly baking stories, making this apartment feel like something close to home.
And here he is, defiling that with this filthy act.
He shoves his sweats down just enough to free his cock, thick and veined, throbbing in the cool air. The head is slick and flushed dark with need. Lighter wraps the lace around his shaft, the delicate fabric a stark contrast to his rough grip. It’s wrong, so fucking wrong. Yet the lace drags against his skin anyway, soft and teasing as he bites back a curse, hips bucking into his hand.
In his mind, it’s you. Not just the photo, but more—vivid, feverish fantasies he hasn’t allowed himself until now. You on your knees in this very room, vulpine ears twitching as you look up at him with that sly smile. He’d tangle his fingers in your hair, guide your mouth onto his cock, and watch those lips stretch around him.
“Fuck,” he mutters raggedly, pumping faster. The lace catches on the ridges as it sends sparks up his spine. He’d be gentle at first—always gentle with you—but then you’d moan, and he’d lose it, thrusting deeper, feeling your throat tighten around him.
Or he could have you bent over the kitchen counter, where you bake those late-night treats. He’d hike up your skirt, yank these same panties aside and bury himself inside you. Your tail would thrash, brushing his thighs as he pounds into you, one hand on your hip, the other reaching around to pinch those pert nipples until you cry out. Sugar and yeast would cling to your skin, mixing with your sweat, and he’d lick it off your neck before biting down just hard enough to mark.
It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting. A protector turned predator in his own head, and the shame of it makes his balls tighten, the orgasm building fast and relentless. His strokes turn sloppy, the lace abrading his skin just enough to hurt, a punishment he deserves. Lighter thinks of your face in that photo and twists it, imagines you whispering his name instead of whoever it was meant for.
Lighter... please...
That’s what breaks him. A guttural moan rips from his chest as he comes, hot spurts coating the lace, soaking through the delicate threads. His vision blurs and his body shudders with the cresting release. Finallly, the tension embedded in his bones uncoils in waves that leave him breathless and hollow.
For a long moment, Lighter sits there with his cock softening in his hand, the ruined panties a sticky mess. Reality crashes back in, prompted by the continuous ringing of the washer down the hall letting him know the cycle’s done. Shame floods him full throttle now.
What the fuck has he done?
He cleans up quickly rinses the lace in the sink, scrubs until there’s no trace left, then tosses it back into the delicates bag like nothing happened. By the time this next load finishes, he’ll fold it all, place your things on your bed, and greet you with that same nod when you get home.
But unlike laundry, this secret is a stain he can’t wash out.
You’ve been feeling off for a week now.
At first, you tell yourself it’s nothing. Just one of those days where you wake up irritated with no clear cause, your tail flicking against the mattress like it’s got a mind of its own, and your ears twitching at every small sound.
By midday, you can’t stay still for long. Standing feels wrong. Sitting feels worse. Even familiar routines itch under your skin.
The bakery has been busy lately—too many early mornings with the constant warmth of ovens pressing in from all sides. By the time you’re halfway through your shift, sweat beads along your spine despite the cool room, and there’s a faint, uncomfortable heat pooling low in your body.
It’s distracting. Enough that you fumble an order you’ve made a hundred times before.
“Hey,” your boss says gently, appearing at your side. She’s a Rabbit Thiren with long, fluffy ears and sharp eyes, and she’s been doing this long enough to notice things others miss. “You alright?”
You open your mouth to answer and sway instead.
“Whoa—easy.” Her nose twitches as she steadies you, eyes lingering on your form for a beat longer than necessary. The look on her face then shifts from concern to something more knowing.
“…Have you been feeling feverish?”
“Just tired, I think,” you admit. “My sleep quality’s shit lately.”
She hums softly. “When was the last time you tracked… you know. Your cycle.”
Your stomach sinks.
“Oh.”
Her ears twitch. “You might be coming into heat. I can smell the beginnings already.”
Thank god the afternoon rush has already come and gone because that explains too much, all at once. The restlessness. The heat under your skin. The way your thoughts keep circling the same empty spaces without landing anywhere solid. You do the math quickly in your head and grimace.
“It should be around now,” you mutter. “I just—forgot, I guess.”
Your boss winces in sympathy. “That’ll do it. Especially if you haven’t been using suppressants yet. Pre-heat sickness can be rough.”
You sigh, disgruntled more than embarrassed. Of all the times to lose track of it…
“Yeah. Guess that explains why I feel like garbage.”
“No shame in it,” she reassures, already waving you toward the back. “Go home early. Get what you need. You don’t want this sneaking up on you while you’re stuck on your feet all day.”
You hesitate, pride flaring briefly before the lightheadedness makes the decision for you.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
When you step outside, the air feels cooler but sharper, every sensation turned up just a notch too high. By the time you’ve bought the necessary supplies and make it home, you’re fully aware of your own body in a way you haven’t been in months.
That’s right. This was why you’d been trying to get with that Wolf Thiren a month ago. Why you’d felt confident enough to send something reckless to keep his attention just long enough to bridge the gap to your next heat. You’d always been good at planning ahead.
Except your plans hadn’t just fallen apart.
They’d detonated—right into your roommate’s inbox.
And now you were going to endure this heat miserable and alone, because seduction required a clarity of mind you no longer possessed. You’d been so distracted by the fallout of sending Lighter that photo that you’d forgotten the most basic contingency: surviving the season at all.
You get home and prepare like this is a siege.
Water bottles lined up within arm’s reach. Easy food that won’t turn your stomach. Cooling packs shoved into the freezer just in case. You were also stocked up heavily on lube and batteries for any… toys you’ll need to use. You inventory everything twice, because this is the one situation where overpreparing actually feels sane.
At least you won’t be caught off guard.
Lighter, mercifully, is away for a few days. His client’s press tour has dragged him out of the city, which means the apartment is yours alone for now. You don’t know if your heat will be finished by the time he returns, but you cling to the hope anyway. It’s easier to endure discomfort than the thought of navigating this with your roommate present, no matter how unflappable he is.
You change into the lightest clothes you own: a loose tank, cotton shorts that won’t trap heat. Your tail swishes irritably as you crawl into bed, curling on your side like some half-feral creature trying to ride out an illness. The room is dim, curtains drawn, the quiet punctuated only by the distant hum of city traffic.
Your phone buzzes.
You groan, half-expecting it to be another message you don’t have the energy to deal with—but when you check, it’s actually your roommate himself .
Lighter: Blazewood is exactly as thrilling as you’d expect.
Lighter: Which is to say, not at all.
You huff a small laugh despite yourself and type back.
Me: Aren’t you from Blazewood though?
Lighter: Exactly why I feel qualified to complain about it.
You smile at the screen. The conversation drifts easily after that—him complaining about how living in the city has made him unused to the desert heat, you responding with dry sympathy and a few jokes about him missing decent takeout.
You set the phone down eventually, still smiling faintly, and stare up at the ceiling. Whatever comes next, you’re oddly grateful for this small normalcy. For the quiet proof that you and Lighter have, somehow, moved past The Incident.
At least on the surface.
You roll onto your side and let yourself rest—hoping, perhaps foolishly, that when he comes home, this will all already be behind you.
Except it’s not as easy as you’d hoped.
You wake up tangled in your sheets, disoriented enough that for a moment you don’t know where you are or how long you’ve been there. The dim glow of your nightstand clock blinks accusingly—12:03 AM. Midnight.
Grogginess clouds your thoughts as you fumble for your phone, the screen’s light stabbing at your eyes. No missed alarms? You swear you’d set one for dinner time—to take the suppressant before things escalated. But the hours must have slipped away in that uneasy nap, your body betraying you by crashing hard after the pre-heat haze.
Now it’s too late; suppressants are preventive, not curative. Taking one mid-surge would only make the symptoms worse. You’re committed now, stuck riding this out the old-fashioned way.
A low whine escapes your throat as you shift, the movement sending a fresh gush of slick between your thighs. Your pussy throbs with an insistent, painful emptiness, clit swollen and hypersensitive even without touch.
It’s been years since you’ve gone through a heat solo and you’ve forgotten just how brutal it is. The restlessness from earlier has amplified into agony. Your tail lashes against the mattress, ears pinned flat against your head as sweat trickles down your neck. Every breath feels too hot, too shallow, your body screaming for relief that fingers alone won’t provide.
Shakily, you reach for the drawer of your nightstand to pull out a vibrator. One of the stronger ones, ridged and curved for that extra edge. You peel off your soiled shorts and underwear with a hiss, the cool air hitting your slick folds like a tease that only heightens the ache. Slick coats your inner thighs, proof of how far gone you are. You switch the toy on, the low buzz cutting through the silence, and press it directly to your clit.
The vibration hits like lightning, ripping a gasp from your lips as your hips buck involuntarily.
It’s intense, almost too much at first, but the pain of need overrides any overstimulation. You circle the tip around your clit, chasing that sweet spot, your free hand fisting the sheets as waves of pleasure-pain crash over you.
Your body arches as you grind against the toy. It’s mechanical, desperate; you come fast and hard in a shuddering release that floods you with temporary bliss, slick spilling anew as your walls clench around nothing.
But it’s not enough.
Heats like this demand more. Solo play is a bandage on a gaping wound, providing spurts of relief but no true satisfaction. As you catch your breath in the dark, your mind starts to wander, filling the void with hazy fantasies to push you toward the next orgasm.
At first, it’s generic—a faceless, broad-shouldered Thiren your biology craves. You’d imagine him pinning you down, his knot swelling to lock inside you, filling that aching emptiness until you’re mindless and sated. But the image shifts unbidden, the features sharpening into something familiar.
Dark teal hair, tousled from a long day. A lopsided smile that quirks just so, the one he gives when he’s teasing about your baking disasters or thanking you for dinner.
Lighter.
God, no—your brain stutters, but the thought sticks, heat flushing your cheeks even as your body responds. You press the vibrator harder against your clit, dipping the tip lower to tease your entrance, imagining it’s his fingers instead.
Broad, callused from years of fighting, sliding into you with that quiet confidence he carries everywhere. He’d be gentle but firm, stretching you open while his other hand strokes your tail, your ears, murmuring in that gravelly voice.
“Easy,” he’d say, like he does when he steadies you after a long shift. But then he’d see how wet you are, how desperately you need it, and that restraint would crack.
You whimper, thighs trembling as you fuck yourself with the toy now, thrusting it in shallowly while the vibrations buzz against your clit. In your mind, Lighter hovers over you with his sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes, that lopsided grin turning hungry as he sinks into you.
No knot, but fuck, he’d make up for it with stamina, pounding into you deep and relentless, one hand on your hip to hold you in place while the other teases your nipples. Your tail would wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he’d groan your name, burying his face in your neck to breathe you in.
A pang of guilt flickers at the edges of your thoughts, but it’s drowned out by your building release. It’s wrong—he’s your roommate, your friend—but that only makes it spurs you on. You come again with a cry, back arching off the bed, the toy buried deep as your walls flutter around it.
The room spins gently, a post-climax dizziness that leaves you boneless and temporarily sated. You slump back against the pillows, your vibrator discarded beside you on the damp sheets. It’s a fragile peace, one you know won’t last, but for now, you savor it as you reach for a water bottle.
The cool liquid slides down your throat, quenching a thirst you hadn’t fully registered. You drink greedily, half the bottle gone before you set it down and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
But as the hydration hits your system, your baser instincts begin to stir awake. The emptiness returns, manifesting as a deep, gnawing yearning not just for physical release, but for connection. For a mate’s presence, their scent wrapping around you, grounding you in the chaos of your cycle.
Logically, you know you don’t have one, but your body rebels against the thought, hormones flooding your veins with irrational insistence. You need it. Need him. Someone. Anyone.
No—not anyone.
Your tail flicks restlessly as you slide out of bed on unsteady legs, slick trickling down your thighs in a fresh wave that makes you whimper. You’re naked from the waist down, tank top clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, but modesty doesn’t register in this heat-addled state.
Disorientation clouds everything; the apartment feels too big, too empty. Sounds are muffled, like cotton in your ears, and your phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand.
The caller ID flashes with Lighter’s name across the screen.
But you don’t notice, too lost in the primal pull guiding you toward the hallway.
You trudge toward his room on autopilot, frowning when you try the knob and it twists all the way. Why would his door be unlocked? He must have forgotten in the rush of packing for the trip, or maybe it’s just habit—trusting you as much as you trust him. Either way, it’s ajar just enough for you to nudge it open with your shoulder, and the moment you cross the threshold, his scent hits you like a tidal wave.
Spicy and musky, like smoked cedar mingled with desert sand and a hint of leather from his gear. It’s the scent of safety, of quiet evenings sharing takeout and late-night fixes around the apartment.
Your legs buckle beneath you, knees weakening as a gush of slick floods your core. A needy whine escapes your lips, ears flattening as you stagger forward, inhaling deeply. It’s comforting, wrapping around your frayed nerves like a balm, but it only amplifies the ache, turning satisfaction into torment once more.
The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of city lights filtering through the blinds, but your enhanced senses pick out details: the sparse furniture, weights in the corner, books on the nightstand. And there, on the neatly made bed is a stack of folded clothes.
You don’t think; you just act, crawling onto the mattress and curling into the pile. A soft shirt, sweats, maybe a hoodie. Whatever it is, you bury your face in them, breathing him in deeply.
Lighter’s scent envelops you like a security blanket, making you feel protected even in his absence. Your tail curls around the bundle, hugging it to your chest as you nuzzle deeper. A contented purr rumbles in your throat despite the lingering need. You’ve forgotten all about the toys back in your room, mind too fogged to care.
Your fingers find your slick folds easily, parting them with a gasp as you circle your clit, the touch electric in the haze of his aroma. It’s sloppy; dipping two fingers inside yourself, thrusting shallowly while your thumb rubs frantic circles above.
Slick coats your hand, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, but all you can focus on is Lighter: how safe he makes you feel, how even just the ghost of his presence chases away the isolation of your raging heat.
Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that white sparks dance behind your lids. The fantasy has solidified now: Lighter above you gazing at your poor form with eyes half-lidded, that deep voice murmuring your name as his hips roll in the same rhythm as your fingers. You can almost feel the weight of him pinning you to the mattress, the heat of his breath against your ear.
A broken sound escapes you when the pleasure starts to crest again. But then you hear it.
The sound of your name.
For one disoriented heartbeat you think it’s part of the fantasy, another cruel trick of your heat-drunk brain. But the voice comes again, laced with something that sounds dangerously close to shock.
“…hey.”
You freeze.
Your fingers are still buried inside you. Your tail is still wrapped tight around the bundle of his clothes. Your face is still pressed into the soft cotton of his shirt, nose buried in the collar where his scent is strongest.
And Lighter is standing in the open doorway of his own bedroom.
He hasn’t moved past the threshold. Leather jacket still zipped, duffel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched on his nose even in the middle of the night. The faint glow from the hallway spills around him, turning his silhouette into something almost unreal.
His eyes—visible now that he’s slowly, carefully pushing the sunglasses up into his hair—are wide. There is no disgust in there, but there was confusion. His gaze locks on you like he’s forgotten how blinking works.
You should scream. You should scramble off the bed, yank the sheets over yourself, stammer apologies until your voice gives out. But your body refuses to obey. The heat has you pinned in place, slick still leaking around your fingers, clit throbbing with the orgasm that was so close a second ago.
You can’t even pull your hand free. The humiliation is there—searing, and white-hot—but it’s tangled up with the scent of him, the reality of him, and your traitorous cunt clenches hard around your fingers at the sight.
“Lighter,” you bleat. “You’re… you’re supposed to be at work.”
He exhales through his nose, a short, unsteady sound.
“Client’s press junket got pushed up, so we wrapped up early. I texted. Even called you. Twice.” His voice comes out carefully, like he’s talking someone down from a ledge. “You didn’t answer.”
And now he is presented with the reason why.
Another wave of slick drips down your thigh. You whimper and his gaze flicks down, then back up to your face so fast it’s almost comical if the situation weren’t so mortifying.
The door clicks shut behind him, soft but final.
“You’re in heat,” Lighter says. Not a question. A statement. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You nod jerkily. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming collision of need and embarrassment. How could you ever begin to explain this?
“I forgot it was going to hit today…. I didn’t mean to—” Your voice cracks. “I just… needed… your scent. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead Lighter drops the duffel to the floor with a muted thud. Then, slowly, he shrugs out of the leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the desk chair. The movement is deliberate, almost gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you.
“You don’t need to apologize.” His voice is rougher now, frayed at the edges. “Not for this.”
You swallow hard. “I’m on your bed. With your clothes. Touching myself. That’s—”
“Instinct,” he cuts in quietly. “You’re not thinking straight. I’m pretty sure heats make you do that. We have a Cat Thiren back at HQ, you know.”
He takes another step closer. Close enough that you can see the way his throat works when he swallows. He’s trying to stay calm. You can smell it—his own arousal spiking beneath the careful control, sharp and smoky.
Your fingers twitch inside you, and a fresh whimper slips out.
Lighter’s jaw clenches.
“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs. “Say the word and I’ll go crash on the couch. Lock the door behind me. You won’t see me until morning.”
Your heart hammers so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
But the thought of him walking away—of losing his scent, his presence, the only thing that’s made the last hour bearable—feels worse than the heat itself.
You shake your head with a whine.
“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please don’t go.”
Something flickers across his face. Relief, maybe, or hunger, or both.
He crosses the last few steps to the edge of the bed in silence. He doesn’t touch you just yet. But he looks down at you with those steady eyes, taking in the mess you’ve made of yourself on his sheets.
Then, very slowly, he reaches out.
His knuckles brush your ankle, the leather a foreign yet sweet sensation against your skin. You shiver hard, thighs falling open another fraction without conscious thought.
“Tell me what you need,” he pleads, and his eyes are so earnest, you can’t help but answer.
“You. Just… you.”
Lighter exhales, long and ragged, like he’s been holding his breath for years.
Then he leans down, plants one knee on the mattress, and removes his gloves.
Moments later, his knuckles linger against your ankle for one more heartbeat—giving you every last second to pull back—then his hand slides higher, that warm palm smoothing up the trembling length of your calf. He moves like he’s handling something fragile and explosive all at once.
“Still with me?”
You nod frantically, ears twitching, tail lashing once against the sheets before curling tight around his wrist like it’s trying to anchor him there.
Lighter lets out another long breath before settling fully onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. He doesn’t crowd you—he kneels between your spread thighs instead, broad shoulders blocking out the faint hallway light, leaving you both in soft shadow.
His fingers—those big, scarred, calloused ones you’ve watched fix cabinet hinges and stir soup without thinking—hover just above your slick-soaked folds.
“Look at me,” he says quietly.
You do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but the expression behind them is steady. Kind. The same look he gives you when you burn toast at 2 a.m. and he wordlessly scrapes it into the trash for you.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he tells you. “We stop the second you say. Even if it’s just ‘stop’. Even if it’s just a look. Okay?”
Your throat works. “Okay.”
He nods once. Then, finally, he touches you.
Two fingers glide through your folds, gathering slick without pressing inside. You jolt anyway, a sharp whine punching out of you before Lighter shushes you gently. His free hand settles on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing arcs over the sensitive skin.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
The endearment hits like a spark. You’ve never heard him say anything like it before—not to you, not to anyone—and it makes your cunt clench hard around nothing. More slick spills out; he groans under his breath when he feels it.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mutters. “That’s it. Let it happen. You’re doing so good already.”
He circles your clit with the pads of his fingers—light at first, then firmer when your hips buck up into his hand. You’re already so close from earlier that it doesn’t take long. Your thighs tremble, nails digging into the sheets.
“Lighter—please—”
“I know, baby. I know.” His voice stays calm, even as his breathing gets rougher. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
You do. You shatter with a choked cry, walls fluttering around nothing while his fingers keep rubbing slow, steady circles through the aftershocks. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, hips twitching away and then back again in confused need.
When the tremors of your body subside, he leans down and presses the softest kiss to the inside of your knee. “Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking good.”
The praise sinks into you like warm honey. You’re still mortified that he walked in on you like this, dripping all over his bed and scent-marking his clothes like some desperate animal. But every time the shame tries to rise, he does something gentle—strokes your tail, murmurs reassurances, looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—and it melts away again.
He keeps touching you slowly and patiently. Two fingers sliding inside once more, curling just right, thumb brushing your clit in lazy figure-eights. You’re sensitive, overshot, but the heat won’t let you stop. You need more. Always more.
Lighter is more than aware.
“You want my fingers deeper?” he asks, voice dropping into something silkier. “Want me to fuck you open nice and slow until you can take three?”
You whimper, nodding as your hips rock down to meet his hand.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Y-yes, please. Deeper—”
He obliges. Another finger slides in, stretching you carefully, scissoring just enough to make you see stars. His free hand pets your ears, scratches lightly behind them until you’re purring through the moans.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Look at you, taking me so well. Bet you’d look even prettier stretched around my cock, huh? All full and needy and dripping for me.”
The filthy words make your brain short-circuit. Your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, and he groans like his restraint is hanging on by a thread.
“Fuck, you like that. Don’t you?”
You’re beyond shame now. “Yes… Yes. Need it…”
“Need what?” he coaxes, thumb pressing harder on your clit. “Tell me exactly.”
Your voice cracks. “Your cock. Inside me. Please. I can’t… I need you—”
For the first time since he walked in, something flickers across his face—real conflict. His jaw ticks, eyes searching yours like he’s looking for any sign of hesitation, any sign that the heat is speaking for you instead of you speaking through it.
“You sure?” he asks quietly. “This isn’t just the heat talking?”
You don’t answer with words.
Instead you surge up, fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and yank him down.
Your mouths crash together; messy, desperate. You taste salt and smoke and him, and it’s better than any fantasy. Lighter groans into your mouth as his restraint finally starts to fracture. His fingers slip out of you; you whine at the loss, but then his hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding under your tank top to palm your breasts, thumbs brushing over hard nipples.
He kisses like he fights: controlled until he isn’t. Then it’s filthy—open-mouthed, licking into you, sucking on your tongue until you’re trembling again. You bite his bottom lip; he growls, hips jerking forward so you can feel how hard he is through his pants.
When you finally break apart, both of you are panting.
“Fuck,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours. “Are you really sure?”
Even through the haze of arousal, his discretion makes your heart flutter. But instead of answering, you tug harder on his hair, dragging his mouth back to yours for one more bruising kiss before you whisper against his lips:
“Take your clothes off. Now.”
That’s what finally breaks him.
Lighter tosses his sunglasses onto the nightstand and pulls back just enough to yank his shirt over his head—muscles flexing, a collection of scars catching the dim light. He shoves his pants and boxers down in the same impatient sweep. His cock springs free moments later, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip. You stare as your cunt throbs with fresh need.
Lighter settles back between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He notches the fleshy tip against you and pauses.
“Last chance,” he chuckles, but there’s little mirth in it. “Tell me no and we stop.”
You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe.
He exhales a shaky laugh—half relief, half surrender.
Then he pushes in.
He sinks in agonizingly slow like he’s savoring every flutter of your walls as they stretch to take him. The head of his cock pops past the tight ring of muscle and then it’s just heat, pressure, fullness, until his hips finally press flush to yours and he’s buried to the hilt. The size of him overwhelming you so much that if not for your heat-laden slick, you would’ve struggled.
You choke on a sound that’s equal parts a sob and a moan. Your nails dig into his shoulders; your tail lashes wildly before coiling around his waist like it’s trying to keep him exactly where he is. He’s so deep you swear you can feel him in your guts.
Lighter stills, breathing hard through his nose, forehead pressed to yours. His hands bracket your head, thumbs stroking along the base of your twitching ears in slow, soothing circles.
“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasps. His voice is wrecked, but the gentleness is still there.
You nod frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Not from pain. From relief. From finally having something—someone—to fill the screaming void that’s been clawing at you for hours.
“Words,” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your damp cheek. “Need to hear you.”
“Y-yes,” you gasp. “Please—move. Please move, Lighter, I can’t—”
He kisses you then, a soft press of his lips that makes you purr. But then he takes it deeper. Hungrier. His tongue slides against yours in lazy strokes while his hips give the smallest experimental roll.
You keen into his mouth.
That’s all the permission he needs.
Lighter pulls out halfway then snaps back in with a wet, filthy sound that makes your whole body jolt. Every thrust dragging against every sensitive spot inside you until your vision whites out at the edges.
But he doesn’t stop there.
His hands are everywhere. One palms your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple in time with his hips. The other slides down your side, grips your hip, then slips under to cup the curve of your ass—lifting you just enough to change the angle so he hits deeper, harder. His calloused fingers knead the base of your tail until you’re arching, purring brokenly against his throat.
Lighter kisses your neck. Your jaw. The sensitive spot behind your ear that makes your toes curl. When he nips lightly at the shell of your ear you whine so loud it echoes off the walls.
“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans against your skin. “So pretty when you’re falling apart for me.”
He shifts—hooks one of your legs higher over his hip, opening you wider—and the next thrust punches a scream out of you. The headboard starts to knock against the wall in steady rhythm.
You’re drooling now; dazed with spit slicking the corner of your lips. Every thrust drives another helpless sound from your throat. Your nails rake down his back and he hisses witch each pass, but it only makes him fuck you harder.
“That’s it,” he pants, low and filthy-sweet. “Let it out, baby. Let me hear how good it feels. You’re taking me so fucking well—look at you, all messy and needy just for me.”
You try to answer but all that comes out is a garbled moan. Your cunt clenches hard around him; he curses under his breath, hips stuttering for a second before he finds the rhythm again. He moves like he’s trying to imprint himself inside you, and you’ll gladly let him leave his mark.
Lighter’s laces your fingers together, and pins it above your head. The other slides between your bodies, calloused thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, relentless circles. The dual sensation—his cock splitting you open, his thumb working your swollen clit—snaps something inside you.
You come so hard your vision blacks out for a second. Walls spasming, gushing slick around him, soaking the sheets, his thighs, everything. Your whole body seizes and your back bows off the bed as a broken cry ripping from your throat.
Lighter doesn’t stop.
He fucks you through it—slows just enough to drag it out, to make every aftershock feel like another peak. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your whimpers, kissing you sloppy and deep while he murmurs praise against your lips.
“Good girl. So fucking good. Coming so pretty around my cock—gonna make you do it again, yeah? Gonna keep fucking this sweet little cunt until you can’t think straight.”
You’re a drooling, trembling mess beneath him. Tears streak down your cheeks; he kisses them away without breaking rhythm.
“Again,” he growls softly. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me another one. I know you’ve got more in you.”
His hips snap harder, the wet slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room.
“Never,” he promises, his breath hot against your throat.
Lighter angles his hips just right—hits that spot again—and you shatter a second time, harder than the first. Your scream muffles against his shoulder as you bite down, nails sinking into his back, cunt milking him in frantic pulses.
He breathes out a broken moan of his own and finally lets himself go.
His rhythm stutters. Hips slamming once, twice, then burying deep as he comes with a ragged curse, spilling hot and thick inside you. You feel every pulse and it drags your own orgasm out longer until you’re both shaking, panting, clinging to each other like the world might end if you let go.
Lighter doesn’t pull out right away.
Instead he stays buried, softening slowly as he presses lazy kisses to your damp forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. His hands stroke down your sides soothingly before petting your ears and tail until your trembling eases into boneless exhaustion.
“You okay?” he whispers hoarsely.
You manage a tiny, wrecked nod. Then, barely audible:
“…stay inside. Please.”
He exhales a soft laugh against your hair.
“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” he murmurs.
He shifts carefully, rolling you both so you’re tucked against his chest, still connected, his arms wrapped around you like he’s shielding you from the rest of the world.
The heat still simmers under your skin.
But for the first time in hours, it doesn’t feel like torture.
It feels like coming home.
Sunlight filters through the half-closed blinds in thin, golden slats, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets and the two bodies still tangled in them.
You wake slowly—lucid for the first time in what feels like forever.
The heat is still there, but it’s no longer a screaming inferno. Your body feels heavy, pleasantly sore, every muscle singing with the memory of last night. You can breathe without wanting to claw something apart. You can think.
And the first coherent thought that hits you is: oh god.
Lighter is asleep beside you, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm slung possessively across your waist. His dark teal hair is a disaster and there are fresh marks blooming across his throat and shoulders: your bite marks, red-purple lovebites, long parallel scratches down his back where your claws had dug in when he’d fucked you through your third (fourth?) orgasm. You can feel the mirror image on your own body—his teeth on your neck, your collarbone, the faint imprint of his fingers bruised into your hips and thighs.
You stare at the ceiling for a long second, mortification rising like steam.
You need to get out of here before he wakes up. Before you have to look him in the eye and remember how you begged for his cock, how you sobbed his name. You start to inch toward the edge of the mattress, trying not to jostle him. One foot touches the floor—
A large hand shoots out, snags your wrist, and yanks.
You squeak as the world flips. One second you’re sitting up; the next you’re flat on your back again, Lighter looms over you, knees bracketing your hips, forearms braced on either side of your head. His eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep, but they’re focused enough and there’s a tiny, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Going somewhere?” he asks, voice rough from disuse.
Your ears flatten. Your face burns so hot you’re sure it’s visible from orbit.
“I—um. Bathroom. Water. Normal things.”
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t budge an inch. “You’re cute when you’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking,” you mutter, even as your tail curls nervously around his thigh. “I’m… strategically retreating.”
He huffs a soft, fond laugh and the sound does dangerous things to your already fragile composure.
Then he sobers.
“Hey,” Lighter says gently. “We should talk. Before the next wave hits.”
You swallow before nodding along.
He shifts his weight, settling more comfortably between your legs. Just close enough that you can feel his warmth, smell that familiar mix of smoked cedar and leather and now, unmistakably, you.
“So,” he starts. “The photo from back then.”
You wince. “Yeah. About that. It… wasn’t meant for you.”
“I think we both know that already.” He traces a thumb along the edge of one of the bites on your shoulder. “Who was it for? If you don’t mind me asking.”
You exhale through your nose. “Some Wolf Thiren I met a couple months back. Thought he’d be… convenient. For this.” You gesture vaguely at your own body. “I was trying to line up a heat partner. Got cocky. Sent it to the wrong thread. And then the heat hit early and I forgot every contingency plan I ever had because I was too busy being mortified that you saw my tits.”
He breathes out a quiet laugh.
“Understandable.”
You blink. “That’s it? No… judgment? No ‘what the hell were you thinking’?”
He shrugs. “You’re an adult. You were trying to take care of yourself. Heat’s rough enough without adding shame on top of it.” His thumb brushes over the bruise on your hip. “And in the end… you got a mate, right?”
Your brain short-circuits.
“M-mate?” you sputter. Your ears flick straight up, then pin back again. “I—I mean… technically? Maybe? But you don’t have to—”
He raises one brow. “You kept moaning it last night. ‘Mate.’ ‘My mate.’ ‘Please, Lighter, my mate—’”
You slap both hands over your face with a muffled scream.
“Oh my god. Kill me now.”
He smiles before peeling your hands away so he can look at you. His expression is soft in a way you’ve never seen before.
“I’m not complaining,” he says. “I liked hearing it.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “…You did?”
“Yeah.” Lighter leans down, presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your mouth. “A lot.”
Your heart does something ridiculous in your chest.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. “So. How long do I have to file for leave?”
You blink. “What?”
“Well obviously I can’t let you deal with this alone now.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m your mate, right?”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“Why do you keep saying that!!!”
“Because I’m your mate,” he deadpans.
You make a strangled noise and bury your face in his chest. He laughs again and wraps both arms around you, rolling so you’re tucked against him instead.
When your mortification finally eases enough to speak, your voice is small.
“…Thank you. For not making this weird. For… everything.”
He hums, fingers carding gently through your hair, scratching lightly behind your ears until you melt against him.
“No problem,” he murmurs. “But I want you to know—I don’t do this with just anyone.”
You lift your head, look at him.
“Neither do I,” you admit.
His expression softens even further—if that’s possible—as he presses another kiss to your forehead.
“Good. We’ll sit down and talk it through properly once your heat’s passed,” he adds. “Figure out what this means. No pressure. No rush.”
You nod, throat tight with an emotion you can’t quite name.
“But for now,” he continues, voice dropping into something warmer, “we should probably shower. Eat real food. You’ve been running on snacks and orgasms for twelve hours.”
You snort despite yourself. “Romantic.”
“I try.” He grins and rolls off you, offering a hand. “Come on, mate. Up.”
You take his hand.
And when he pulls you to your feet, steadying you when your legs wobble, you think maybe this unexpected heat might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
(And yeah. The shower is definitely not just a shower.)
(But that’s a story for after breakfast.)
✦ afterword. YIPPEE you made it to the end of my most delusional fic ever... if you know me before reading this, you'd know how batshit insane i am for this man. this is actually the first time i've written smut for lighter bc I JUST COULDN'T BRING MYSELF TO DO IT BEFORE. i would always get too lighterpilled to focus on writing and nothing would come out of it... SO HUZZAH. i finally wrote something worthwhile??? ish?? for him T_T this is EXTREMELY self-indulgent and the fact that i lowkey slapped my selfship with him onto this is very obvious, but i tried to make it as reader-insert friendly as possible :3c thank you so much for giving this a chance!!
(also before any of you ask, no reader does not find out about the panty theft until much later LMFAO)
Oh lovelies, we're lacking of zzz men content. So here—
A few Headcanons for my favorite zzz men from me <3
Hugo being not much of a sweet tooth, yet also having hypoglycemic is a bit frustrating for him. And so if you ever mention that you want him to eat sweets when you're out on a walk with him in exchange you'll also share with him, he'll definitely tolerate it. Eating the sweets together with you. Why not?
Hugo will definitely whisper sweet nothings into your ear just to get a reaction out of you. He'll bask into your flustered face, like he knows how attractive his voice is. And he'll use it to his advantage. Especially when you say that you like his voice.
Harumasa is a clingy man. He'll cling to you, dramatically telling you that he's sick (when he's clearly not) just so you can get him off from work. And it works, sometimes. You'll oblige into this dramatic moments of his. Sometimes you don't, and by you rejecting the idea to help him, you'll earn a pouty harumasa.
Harumasa will definitely cuddle you to seek comfort from his nightmares, though at first, he wouldn't hug you to sleep. But don't be surprised if in the middle of the night you feel a pair of arms wrapped around you, a familiar smell of a shampoo product strokes your nostrils, along with a few hair strands tickling your collarbone and neck.
Lycaon is actually easily flustered if you push the right buttons. And if you successfully fluster him, you'll have his tail wagging behind him, his ears folded downwards along with his hand covering his mouth. Letting out an awkward cough. And you can tell he likes it from how his tail is wagging behind him, betraying his calm and composed façade.
Lycaon screams act of service and word of affirmation, he'll follow you around, holding your shopping bags, complimenting you everytime you show him your choice of clothings or accessories. Reassuring you that you look stunning in anything you wear. And he definitely will buy you flowers, a bouquet of flowers that reminds him of you. He'll also keep one flower with him at Victoria housekeeping just so he knows when he needs to buy a new bouquet for you.
Lighter will always have candies with him, lemon candies. Out of the blue he'll offer some to you because he doesn't know how to initiate conversations, he's a pathetic hopeless romantic man. Yet also inexperienced with romance, so he'll ask a few things from you on what to do when people went out on a date. Though, there are moments where he'll take you out around the outer ring, with his bike. Taking you out to view the stars outside New eridu.
Lighter is a simple man, he'll be a putty in your hands if you ever decide to treat his wounds after he's done fighting in the ring. You'll have him just sit there, eyes staring at you like a lovesick man as you treat his wound with such gentle gesture. He never got that treatment, you're the first, and will be the last that he'll ever let someone entering his comfort zone.
Seth is a cutie, easily flustered. Just tease him a bit you'll have him red. Flirt with him, he'll malfunction. A stuttering mess even. But there are times when he's so oblivious to your flirts that you literally have to tell him that you're flirting with him, and it will definitely, once again, fluster the poor boy.
Seth never let anyone touch his tail despite how fluffy it looks (look at it, like how can you not have the urge to touch it?) but if you ask him nicely, he'll let you. And by Gods is he obsessed with how gentle you are with it, especially when you decide to brush his tail? He'll shyly ask you to brush his tail next time you meet. If only you know that ever since you brush his tail the first time, he purposely stop taking care of it just so he could feel your touch again.
Wise too gentle, too forgiving sometimes. Yet also too dense to realize that someone loved him, it frustrates you with how oblivious he is. Or, ..maybe he doesn't. Maybe he hides his feelings too well. You just need to see deeper into his actions, maybe you'll see bits of his reciprocation of your love.
Wise have a protective instinct due to his older brother nature, so he's definitely protective when it comes to you. Despite his protective self, he also respects your personal space. But when it comes to cuddling session? Sorry to say he'll pout if you don't let him cuddle with you. He'll even go as far as sleeping on the couch if you reject his cuddles. You literally have to softly coax him back to bed, because he's not going back to the bed until you convince him to that you'll cuddle with him.
