A/N: gif relevant cuz this mf gets his hand privileges revoked 💀 I have finally finished it QuQ getting Buggy to admit his sub desires to you for anon is here! I really hope it is what you wanted and that you enjoy 🤍 there's lots of filth but there's also a lot of them being sweet dorks together and painfully in love because I couldn't help myself whoops
Word Count: ~8.5k
Warnings: feminine leaning afab!reader (no pronouns), NSFW my dude, very sub side of switch!Buggy, face sitting, oral (both receiving), light restraining, praise, degradation, edging, p in v, creampie, brat taming im p sure (Buggy doesn't mean to be a brat, petulance is just in his soul), takes a little to get to the sex but then it just keeps happening lol
Enjoy turning the clown into even more of a hot mess 🤡
Part 1
~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~
Buggy is, for once, at the door to your shared room, kicking off his shoes for the night, right when the last colors of sunset begin to fade and no later. His hat is pulled off and thrown with little care for where it lands and his gloves are yanked off and flung away. He stomps over to where you sit on the bed with heavy feet, plops you fully onto the bed with a complaining grunt, and flops his full weight on top of you with spread limbs. You would be chastising him right now, but all the air left your lungs when he belly-flopped you into the mattress. A few forceful breaths re-inflate your lungs, but by the time you have your words prepared, Buggy is finished with his prolonged and dramatic sigh, and he greets you with a “heya, sweetcheeks” that barely makes it out of the comforter engulfing his face.
Gods, you love this silly little man.
“Hello, lovebug,” you reply with a fond giggle. “I’d ask how you’re doing but the dramatic entrance told me everything.”
Another complaining grunt is his response.
“Sounds about right. How about this?” You shimmy yourself a touch so you can fully move your arms and slither them under his coat. Your fingers touch his sides before sweeping in and trailing next to his spine all the way up his back. You dig them in just enough to create resistance then you drag them all the way back down to the small of his back. You feel his shiver in your own body and bask in his happy sigh. “How about you let me take care of you tonight? You really need to spend some time relaxing before your body falls to pieces that won’t listen to you anymore. I don’t wanna have to put you together like a figurine again; you don’t come with assembly instructions.”
Something that sounds like “needing a waxing” vibrates into the mattress.
“You’re gonna have to repeat that one, Bubs.”
With a huff to let you know what an absurd effort you’re making him go through, Buggy turns his head to lay with his mouth next to your ear. “I said ‘sleep is relaxing’, dumbass.”
You easily ignore his toothless insult. You begin massaging the muscles under your hands on his lower back to ease him up some more. “Well, yeah, and that’s why I want to help you sleep like the dead.”
Ever a man with his mind frolicking in the gutter, Buggy gets some new found pep. He breaks out the rough whisper he knows you love to say, “And how do you plan on doing that, sweet treat?”
You turn to him and inch in close enough to speak against his lips, “Why waste time telling you when I can show you?”
Buggy’s pressing his lips to yours before you finish the final word. The kiss is full of ease with its slow rhythm and syrupy movements. You pull back to tease his lips with a brush of your own and take a moment to savor breathing the same air. Buggy won’t let you stop for long; his impatience for your touch always becomes all consuming after he gets that first taste. He’s still gaining more energy back and using it to put more strength into his movements. He props himself up on one elbow and his opposite hand slides over to palm the base of your skull. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin behind one ear and his fingers easily reach to the other, leaving you completely at his control. He gently sucks your bottom lip before giving it a hungry nip, and it comes back to you that you’re supposed to be leading this night somewhere.
When you go to pull away, Buggy’s hand keeps you exactly where he wants you. He responds to your attempted escape by teasing his tongue between your lips. This man clearly knows how weak you are for him, because you couldn’t keep yourself from deepening the kiss if you tried. Why would you ever deny yourself these moments where you could taste each other’s want on the smooth slide of tingling tongues? Wait. No. Focus.
“C’mon, gorgeous,” he breathes out in response to another attempt to pull back, this one weaker. “Don’t you wanna be my good little slut?” You let out a high-pitched moan into his mouth at that, internally cursing him for being so hot. “I need my cock-hungry pretty baby to make me feel good. Didn’t you want to be my cocksleeve? My little toy to fuck whenever and however I want?”
Yes, yes you did. You loathe your past self for giving him that ammunition to use against you right now. Without meaning to, you spread your legs fully, making space for his hips to shimmy flush to your center. He rewards you with firm grinds of the thick bulge straining against his pants. His movements are unhurried, letting you focus on every moment and the way his cock drags on your heat, reminding you of every time it had you drunk on pleasure before. The promise it gives you is mouthwatering. You realize that you may have miscalculated. You had thought his brain would be too fried from the week to use your soft spots against you, but here he is, getting you wet and pliant with one deep kiss and some choice words. What a bastard.
You try pulling away again and are met with the same result. Fine then.
Buggy squawks and flinches back when you pinch his side. He splits at the waist to keep his lower half on you and floats his upper body out of your attack range. The look he gives you is absolutely seething, but you would not be moved. You remain unimpressed.
“I did pull back multiple times. What if I had to sneeze and you made me headbutt you?” you reason, knowing it was too obvious that you were enjoying yourself to pretend otherwise. The way your legs are still happily hooked around his hips would be all the argument he needs against you.
“You always do those little prep inhales and reel back like you’re getting an exorcism. Would’ve given me plenty of time to get out of the line of fire,” Buggy grouses, crossing his arms to give you his most petulant pout.
You make an exaggerated gasp and distort your voice to sound tearful when you say, “I thought you loved me for my dramatic sneezes! Have you been lying to me this whole time?”
“Every. single. day,” he deadpans.
“And here I was,” you begin, shoving his legs off and standing from the bed, “Ready to play doting housewife for you and undress you with kisses and massages and love!” You turn your back to him to really sell the soap opera scene. Using the word “love” may have been a little bit underhanded; you both have been skittering around saying your first “I love you”s, only daring to use the weighted word indirectly. Even so, it was always easy to see how hearing the word from your lips would make him forget everything else and seek another hit of it from you.
“Aw come on, baby,” he draws out, already switching from pouting brat to placating lover. “We can still do that right?”
There is a lot of frantic rustling behind you. You peek at him over your shoulder, only allowing yourself to turn enough to see him in the corner of your eye. He is popped back together and is sitting up on his knees. He had skooched himself to the edge of the bed right behind you, where he is now giving you his best puppy dog face. You’re able to hold out just long enough for him to start wondering if your anger was all play before you spin around and chirp, “Only if you make a deal with me!”
Buggy flings himself back out on the bed and groans, “Fiiiiiiiiine.”
“It’s one you’ll like, I promise,” you soothe. You ease Buggy to sit up at the edge of the bed, laughing at the way he’d sway too far into whichever direction you pulled him, staying just one step removed from going dead weight. Once he’s settled into his spot, you take a moment to examine him. It doesn’t go unnoticed to you that his back is hunched forward under the weight of his exhaustion. Though his eyes are playful, they also hold dark bags, which peek out around his makeup. Your heart aches for him. Even when he is overworked and needing sleep, he’s taking the time to goof around with you and listen to your requests. You’d make sure he had the best sleep of his life tonight. You’d get him all clean and cozy and ready for bed and then you’d make him cum so hard that his brain blue screens. Truly a proper recipe for a good night’s rest.
“How’d you take off your gloves at the door but not your coat?” you ask, pushing said coat off his strong shoulders. He helps you by pulling out his arms. While your eyes admire any new skin exposed to you, Buggy keeps his eyes on your face.
“Can’t feel you through the gloves,” he explains. Oh, wow, that’s actually really sweet- “You ever try to enjoy tits and ass through fabric? Doesn’t work as well.”
You puff out an exasperated laugh. Yep, there’s your Buggy.
Before you move on to take off his scarf, you brush your fingertips along his neck and jaw to enjoy the warmth of his skin and the scratch of his stubble. Once the cloth is gone, you begin using your lips instead. He reaches out to hold your hips in a practiced welcome when you settle into his lap. Anywhere your kissing moves, Buggy opens himself up to your touch. You nose his jaw up for his head to fall back and kiss your way along his pulse. Your hand comes up to support the other side of his neck, your thumb admiring the shape of his adams apple. Your other hand hooks into his shirt’s collar and pulls it aside for more access. By the time you follow his collarbone to his shoulder, your kisses are open-mouthed, sucking and licking at his skin. When you move back over to the base of his neck, you feel his throat bob from a heavy swallow then vibrate under your thumb with his pleased hum.
Eager kisses lead you up to his ear, which you greet with a nip. Pulling back, you blow cool air on him to light up the damp trail you left behind. While your lips explore him, his hands explore you. They had started at your hips and are now massaging indulgently at your chest. Like everything else, the motion is not rushed, which perfectly compliments the teasing way he thumbs your nipples through your shirt.
After a sweet kiss to his temple, you undo his bandana, exposing his beautiful blue hair. You guide his head down to rest against your sternum so you can more easily take out the pins and ties keeping his hair in place. Buggy hums in pleasure from the relief in his scalp once his waves of long hair all fall free. You help soothe it further by massaging your fingers from the nape of his neck, around to temples, up to crown, and back down again. You always love when you can play with his hair; it’s become covetously soft in your care and you’ve become addicted to the faint smell of shampoo topped with ocean spray that came from it.
Buggy’s hands move from your chest so he can wrap you in a loose hug. He mindlessly massages your lower back and ass while you tend to him. The break from your kissing lets him regain enough thought to ask, “You gonna let me know about the terms I’ve agreed to or am I supposed to start guessing?”
You give him a sweet giggle and kiss the top of his head. While moving on to unclasp his many belts, you reply, “If you insist then I guess I’ll tell you.” Even his shirt has belts, what is this? Yeah, they look nice, but each one is one more step between you and getting him naked. “What you’re gonna do-” you don’t miss his shiver at the sternness in your tone “-is lay there and enjoy what I give you.” You soften up just a touch. “I’m here to make you feel better. I need you to trust that.”
“Of course I do,” he says, almost offended. He earns a kiss with the ease and earnestness of his response.
Finally, all the belts are undone and his shirt is opened. Buggy pops his arms off so you can easily push it off of him without the rest of his body moving an inch. He reassembles while your hands work on touching every new stretch of skin. You’d never tire of feeling his abs twitch under your touch or tracing the contours of his body. You get bolder, scratching pink lines through the light texture of his blue chest hair. It matches his stubble in a handsome blue, slightly darker than the hair on his head.
With a grip on his hair, you ease Buggy’s head off of your chest. He moans at the pull of it on his tender scalp and hopes you think it's from discomfort. The way you turn your hand so it pulls firmer, earning more sounds, lets him know he’s not fooling you. He finds that he doesn’t care when he sees the appraising look you’re giving him.
Now that he’s sat up, you get back to work on marking him up. There’s a gentle, tingling scratch of hair against the skin of your face while you work him over. Buggy is slowly and surely falling apart between your dominating hand and worshiping lips. Where before he felt the need to muster the energy to meet you for pleasure, he is now surrendering to let you control when and how he feels it. He lets himself lean into your grip and keeps himself relaxed, only moving his hips in mindless grinds. Having this man offer you free access to himself is winding you up quickly. You needed to get this moving along. You could take all the time you wanted soon. After smearing a few more kisses across his chest, you get up to work on getting him out of his pants.
“Come on, Bugs, let’s get you out of the rest of those clothes,” you coo, moving back to stand in front of him.
“You want me naked~” Buggy taunts in a singsong voice like a schoolyard bully, giving you the cheekiest grin. He holds out his arms (making grabby hands of course) for you to pull him up. With a sturdy heave, you get the sleepy clown back on his feet.
“You’ve found me out,” you whisper in fake shame. “Whatever will I do?”
“Well, toots, you can buy my silence with kisses,” he offers.
After giving many quick kisses all over his face, many with exaggerated “mwah!”s to get more giggles out of him, you move on to his pants. Buggy stays quiet and pliant while you undid them and pull them down to his ankles, following them down to the floor. You are happy to see that familiar bulge more clearly while he’s just in his boxers. You kiss along his length through them, making it twitch eagerly. His hand comes to rest on your head, letting you know how much he wants you to stay there. You look up at him, making eye contact, before pulling back and pulling his boxers down to join his pants. You think it’s cute the way his breath still catches from seeing you like this. It’s also cute the way his hands move to your shoulders to help him balance while you take off his pants and boxers then pull each sock off of his feet.
Buggy settles himself to recline on the pillows at the head of the bed, legs crossed at the ankles and hands behind his head. He eats up the way your eyes scrape over every inch of his spread out body. It isn’t lost on him the way your eyes always gravitate towards the prize laying heavy on his stomach, highlighted by a deep blue happy trail and trimmed curls. “Your turn, sweet cheeks,” he prompts.
“Not so fast,” you say, turning away from him and going to grab some items on the dresser. You turn back holding out a cloth and bowl of water to answer Buggy’s raised brow. He is not happy with your answer.
“Come ooooon,” he complains. “Aren’t you used to the makeup by now?”
“Yeah, I thought that was obvious,” you respond, gesturing to the marks he’s left on your face and chest. “But our skin will be happier without it and you’ll feel better sleeping clean and without a whole stage show’s paint on your pillow.”
“But I want you on me now,” he growls.
Okay that greedy tone almost won you over, but you could use his weak spots too.
“I also..” you had wanted to only play shy but found that the feeling became genuine. “I also want to see you bare faced tonight.” Buggy narrows his eyes so you continue. “Don’t get me wrong, the makeup is sexy - like obviously, you’ve seen how I get - but you’re handsome without it too. And sometimes all I wanna see is you.”
He relents easily, trying to hide the blush that burns up his cheeks and down his neck. You reward him by making very quick progress of getting him fresh faced and cleaning the smears off of your own face and body, before moving onto your clothes.
You’d like to say that you were sexy in the way that you stripped yourself, but the reality is that you were quick and unchoreographed in your rush to get back to Buggy. He’d never complain though; there’s already plenty of your mouth watering strip teases filed away in his mind. There was also a rush in knowing how quickly you want to touch him again. And in the way the rush has your tits and ass jiggling.
Buggy reaches out to welcome you back into his lap, but is blindsided when you move to grab and spread his ankles instead. The way you crawl in between his legs is slow and maddening. Where’s that impatience that had you tearing off your clothes? Buggy can’t lie, he does love the way you’re kissing up his legs and the way it lets him savor how your body moves and curves. His worn body and thumping heart are addicted to the way you’re touching him. The problem is that he’s having trouble thinking of anything beyond the way his cock throbs angrily at the lack of attention.
The whispers, nips, and kisses that you layer on his thighs stay just on the right side of ticklish. Buggy’s hands follow your movements, brushing into your hair and tugging gently whenever you find a particularly sensitive spot. You keep at it until his thighs are twitching and jumping to your touch and he’s lost control of the pace of his breath. It’s only then that you begin teasing his cock with soft lips and cold blown air. You mix in firm, sedate licks to keep hinting at the relief your mouth could bring.
Buggy detaches his hands and begins to trail them down your sides. He’s hoping that playing you with his fingers would urge you along. Beyond that, he needs to feel how slick and warm you are and get his mind ready for the feeling that would soon slide over his aching cock by sinking his fingers into your plush grip. You quickly stop his plot by plopping your hips flush to the bed so that he can get no further than groping your ass.
“Ah ah ah, I didn’t say you could touch me yet,” you reprimand. Buggy whines back at you and you nip his upper inner thigh. “Hands,” you command, holding your own out. Even with his protests, he detaches his hands and floats them to your own. You link your fingers together with his then shove his hands down into the mattress, leaning your weight on them.
With him disarmed, you focus back to winding him up. Taking his head into your mouth, you begin swirling your tongue. Buggy manages to keep his hips from pushing more of him into you, but they shake with the effort. You turn your head to the side and begin massaging his head into the inside of your cheek, careful to keep your teeth off of him. He bites out curses and looks down at you to burn the image of your cheek bulging from his cock into his mind forever. He begins to let his hips lead the movements pressing out your cheek, so you pull him back out of your mouth.
“Fuck, don’t stop,” Buggy pleads. He needs to keep feeling you or he’s sure he’ll go insane.
“I didn’t hear you say please,” you snark at him. He starts chanting the word for you in hopes to fix his mistake and earn your mouth back, but you’re already decided on the matter. Instead of sucking on him again, you simply nose around his hips and crotch to tease him, using what you could with your hands occupied restraining him. You found you enjoyed it; he smells strongly of clean skin and sex and the new method of touching him lets your brain notice new details to cherish. “It’s too late, silly clown,” you taunt.
When he can take no more, Buggy detaches an arm and bends it around the back of your neck. He pulls you into him by the crook of his elbow and growls out, “more”. You glare up at him before quickly taking him back into your mouth, all the way to the back of your throat, grinding his head there while sucking harshly and gripping his balls.
Buggy yelps out an apology, the sensation way too much to process so suddenly. His arm flies back to him and you ease your grip on him. You soothe him with a few gentle bobs of your head before popping off and leaving a kiss to the soft skin on the underside of his cock. That sharp hit to his nerves chased by the tender touch fogs up his mind.
“I’ll do what you want, please tell me what you want,” he begs.
“What I want-” you’re crawling your way back up his body, “-is for you to be honest with me. Tell me what you’ve been hiding this whole time.”
Buggy’s face scrunches in genuine confusion. “I’m not hiding anything from you.”
“You sure?” you press. You lean towards his lips, which gently part in anticipation of a kiss. The moment before your lips brush, when you feel his stuttered breath, you change course and ghost your lips across his jaw to his ear. “But it would make me so happy if you just told me,” you whisper. “You usually make me feel so good.” You can feel him listening intently. “You don’t want to be good for me?” He stills completely. “Don’t you want to be my good little toy?” His whole body shivers beneath you. You kiss and suck your way down his neck and he leans his head away to give you as much access as possible. “Just say it baby and I’ll make you feel good.”
If you weren’t so busy buried in his neck, you would see the breathtaking mix of apprehension and need flaring in his bright eyes while he debates how to answer you.
“I want you to use me. I-” he trails off and looks away, losing his nerve.
You begin gently petting his hair and placing kisses on the side of his face. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” He looks back at you and his shining eyes and furrowed brow plead for the promise that you’re telling the truth. You give him a firm kiss on the lips, which he eagerly returns with a small suckle to your bottom lip. You pull back to check in, looking into his eyes, before encouraging him again. “Keep going, lovely. I wanna hear it.”
Buggy tenses once more before he seems to let his resistance break and fall out of every muscle, leaving him limp and prone amongst the pillows and sheets. “I want to be your toy - I want you to take charge and do what you want to me. I want.. I want to follow your orders.”
The kiss you gift him is ravenous, and he fills with relief. “You’re so good to me, baby,” you praise, and that relief triples.
You reassuringly squeeze his captive hands and lead your way back down his body with your lips. The transition helps relax him and loosens his mind again. As you get back to your sweet torture, he keeps reaching downward not remembering that his hands aren't there then whining when he doesn’t reach your head. You switch his hands to being clamped between your knees so you can scratch your nails down his thighs, using just enough pressure to leave long pink trails. Taking it further, you move your mouth away from his dick to work across his v-line. Buggy gets more fussy at the lack of attention on his cock, squirming and whimpering below you.
Mouth still busy on his soft skin, you use one hand to palm over his balls to the underside of his dick and curl your hand closed around him, one finger at a time. You angle his cock upright, enjoying the feeling of his precum beginning to trail down across your fingers. Your mouth changed course back closer to him, emptying his mind of any thoughts but “yes, yes, yes-”. He blanks out completely when your blazing hot tongue drags across his balls during a squeeze and a pump of his dick. The relief is short lived when your grip loosens and stills and your mouth leaves him completely. His head snaps down to see why you stopped and he sees that you’re already giving him a malicious smirk. Your eyes stay on his when you pucker your lips to blow on his aching tip. His head snaps back sharply, the movement exaggerated by his hair.
“You’re going so sloooow,” Buggy complains, frustrated. “I thought you were gonna take care of me.” He sounds impressively sulky.
“If you’re not happy with my services,” you start in a measured tone, moving forward until you are nose to nose, “then you can take care of yourself.” His face pales. You look down at his dick in your hand thoughtfully before saying, “Better yet I can just steal your cock and run off to the showers to take care of myself.”
“No!” Buggy wants it to come out like an order but it is definitely an anxious plea.
“Oh, so you’re telling me I can’t?” He shrinks even more under your glare, making you feel powerful.
“Just stay in here, pleeeease, need to see you feel good,” Buggy begs, voice small. “Don’t even need to cum, just need you.”
You aren’t supposed to give in unless on your own time, but knowing that he’s only thinking of your pleasure is making you weak.
“I thought you wanted to be my good little toy and good toys don’t whine and make demands. They are happy with what they’re given if their owners give them anything at all.” He whimpers. “Right now you’re more of a fucking brat.”
“Noooooo,” his broken complaint sounded delicious, but the look on his face was nearing too close to real distress.
“No?” You mock. You look down at him with a condescending pout. Your eyes bore into his, needing to notice every little detail of his next reaction. “Oh, baby, if you’re not a brat then you’re just a pussy-hungry slut.”
Buggy shuts his eyes and moans loudly at your words. The sound of his own voice calling you a cock-hungry slut many times over echoes from his memories. He didn’t think having his own insults turned on him would feel so invigorating. It’s clear to you that that is much more what he wants to be for you. Your slut; not your brat. How sweet. When all his layers are peeled back he only wants to please.
“That’s okay you sick little thing. You just can’t help it, can you?” He shakes his head with those gorgeous, shining eyes pleading at you. “If you’re so hungry, I guess I gotta feed you so you can shut. up.”
Before his mind even realizes that you began moving, you flip around and sit directly on his face. Your strong thighs are clamping his arms down to his sides, leaving his hands to be snatched up in your own again. You’ve positioned yourself so his mouth is at your clit and his nose is teasing your entrance. He gives a thick inhale and presses his tongue out to lap at you with a satisfied moan.
“Much better,” you groan, completely self-satisfied.
You waste no time before you begin rocking your hips. The room fills with the sloppy sounds of him licking and sucking at you, overly enthusiastic about having your pussy in his face.
“Now stick out that tongue for me,” you order, giving him his only warning before you drop much of your weight down to get the best pressure of his tongue, nose, and chin against you. The sensation has you clenching against the surface of his nose, getting it wet. You switch between a few long grinds from cupid’s bow to chin and making sharp circles of your clit on his tongue.
Buggy barely gets any time to fully breathe and he loves it. His head has become a murky swirl of your addicting taste and smell and the lovely sounds of you moaning for him. It sends pleasure prickling through him, making him burn with need, but he’s sure he’d stay on this painful precipice forever if it meant you kept using him to feel good. Buggy’s moans are becoming slurred whines as he gets drunk off your pussy. He was trying so hard to be perfect for you. He would stiffen his tongue to grind back into you or curl the end up for you to use on your clit. He’s ignoring his nerves at having his nose be an active participant, because he feels the way you follow its pressure. His hands are clamped on yours, floating in front of you to give you better leverage to move. He’s done good to not pull either of them away and give his leaking cock the relief it desperately needs. He deserves a reward.
You bring his hands in to place them on your breasts, where they need no direction to start working you. The warm, grounding pressure of them kneading your breasts is broken up by little circles, pinches, and pulls to your nipples that send tingles to your spine and straight down to your clit. Once they’re settled on you, you curl forward to place your head back in front of his red, twitching dick. You put your elbows down by Buggy’s sides and take advantage of the fact that he’s too lost between your legs to notice where you’ve put your face.
Buggy arches and yelps when you blow strong, cold air on his head and tease your fingertips along his Apollo's belt. His utter excitement at your attention shows in his bucking hips and pressing face. His whole body is buzzing with the thought, “I did good!”
“Your mouth is fucking good, perfect for an eager slut” you praise. Buggy keens loudly into you, sending strong vibrations through your pussy. “I’ll have to steal your head as my seat more often.” You flick your tongue on his frenulum, earning a strong twitch. “I’ll hunt you down any time I need to cum and force you down under me,” you promise in a husky voice.
Finally, you slide him into your mouth and moan at the familiar taste and weight and heat. He’s as sensitive as you’ve ever seen him, hips and cock jerking. You tease a hand down to cup his balls and feel them pull tight while his dick starts a familiar pulse, his voice going wild in your ears. Oh?
“Not so fast, stupid doll,” you warn, moving your hand to make a tight ring around the base of his cock. “Thought you could just cum without getting me off first?”
Buggy tries to get out apologies but his mouth is too busy buried in your pussy.
“I’m touching you as a reward. Don’t get greedy,” you scold. Then you’re putting him back in your mouth and he’s sobbing under your cunt. You couldn’t do anything more than light sucking and trailing your hands on him before you’d have to pull back and keep him from cumming. Each time, he’d try to apologize and each time he would look and sound more and more pathetic. By the time you feel the pressure of your own orgasm pulsing throughout your hips, he’s shaking like a leaf.
The crackling complaint Buggy let out when you pulled yourself off of his face was heartbroken. His fingers slipped and pulled as they made their way from your breasts down to your hips, where they weakly tried to pull you back down on him.
“Shhh sweet boy,” you soothed, placing your hands reassuringly over his, “I’m just gonna use your cock now, gotta give that pretty face a break.”
That quickly distracts him from the loss of your touch, if his urgent pleas and raised hips are anything to go by. You get down to his hips and lean forward slightly, gripping firmly onto each of his warm thighs for stability. You admire the lines that twist over them as his muscles move and react to you. Feeling a little bit sadistic, you grip them hard enough to bruise and hover just close enough to his cock so that he feels the heat of you there but only the ghost of your touch.
“Please touch me,” he begs. “So close, need to feel you-”
Buggy continues to babble and you continue to hover, delighting in the way his dick would sometimes jump up to tap your entrance, electrifying both of you. He squirms under the strength and weight of your grasp on his thighs, trying to chase you with his hips. Suddenly, he splits his legs off above your grip and is finally able to grind fully into you, gliding smoothly through the thick mix of slick, spit, and precum between you. An absurdly hot groan rushes out of him, starting as all exhale before morphing into a loud tone supported by a rumble in his chest. Your mind blanks with your own gasping moan before you recenter yourself and let your dead weight drop on him, shoving his hips deeply down into the mattress.
You had angled your hips to save your clit from all pressure but the tap of his balls when they bounced up from the impact, but Buggy was given no such mercy. The first hit between your weight and the bed presses his cock near painfully between the two of you, but he can’t deny the way the feeling sent prickles across his every nerve and the relief after it let up has him baring his teeth in his bid to not cum. Instead of nice grinds, you simply oscillate your weight around your hips to keep giving him too much stimulation but not the right kind.
“Am I not doing good enough for you?” you ask, voice carrying a warning that he better answer properly.
“N-no I love it, I was just-”
“Just what?” you interrupt, hand moving from bruising his thigh to cup his balls, adding to the threat in your tone.
“Couldn’t think! S-sorry, I’m sorry -hhhanh- ” Buggy keeps his apologies streaming because he can’t stop disobeying you - he can’t help making tight little movements of his hips against you to feel more of you.
“Having trouble being the one fucked stupid, little whore?” you goad. “Don’t like being so pussy-whipped you can’t think like a person anymore?”
“I love it,” he moans, fiercer than you expected. “Need it -hahh- need you, I’m yours, need to be yours.”
Fuck, you need to get him inside you; you were too close to cumming empty from hearing him talk like that. You keep the hand on his balls, starting to fondle them, and use the other to line him up with your entrance. You can already feel bliss curling in your toes as his fat head presses at you, but Buggy does the last thing you expect - he pulls back.
“No!” his voice breaks and you whip around, scared that something was wrong. He’s staring at you with wide, wet eyes. “Turn around, please, please, wanna see you.” You relaxed knowing he wasn’t hurt or scared or uncomfortable. He begins to have trouble looking at you, turning his head away shyly and letting some of his hair sweep over to shield his face. “Want you to look at me.”
You’re getting whiplash after being thrown from panic to overwhelmed with affection so quickly. You move slowly and smoothly when you turn yourself around and slink your body down over him. You rest on your elbows and slowly lower your hips back down to him, this time grinding his head against your clit generously. Buggy’s head spins between the fire you’re tending in him and the loving way you hold his face and brush away his hair.
“You sure you can take it, honey?” you ask softly. “You can’t even look at me right now.”
“I can!” he asserts, needing to prove himself to you. He turns his face to yours and flicks his gaze to your eyes and away a few times before he’s able to lock eyes with you. You pet his face and continue your smooth grinding, taking the time to look at him like he wants you to. Buggy’s face is the most beautiful shade of pathetic you’d ever seen; shimmering tear tracks highlight skin that is pink and flushed and damp with sweat. The color of his cheeks brings out the ruby color of his nose and you can’t resist brushing your own nose against it. He tries to flinch back but you follow him. When he turns his face away, you lure him back to you with sweet kisses. When he faces you again, you intensify the stable grinding you’ve kept up to nudge him a little closer to the edge once again.
“So pretty,” you whisper, reverent and honest. Your eyes are looking right into his, seeing him in a way that has him feeling worshiped. Loving fingers map out the structure of his cheekbones and jaw, moving on to chart his lips. They kiss at your fingertips sweetly. “I have the prettiest toy on the seas. Better than any other treasure.”
He perks up at that, giving you a moan and bucking hips.
“You wanna be my treasure?” you ask, getting an immediate, breathy “yes” from him.
“Well I love every bit of my treasures, from their gems to their dents,” you tell him. “After they’ve caught my eye with their beauty, the only thing they need to do to stay my treasures is let me care for every piece of them.” You brush your noses together again, staring at him pointedly. “Can you do that for me?”
There’s real conflict in Buggy’s eyes and you slow your hips to let him think. After a few long breaths, his whole body tenses and he nudges his nose back into yours in a hesitant eskimo kiss.
You turn your head and crash your lips on his in a consuming kiss full of teeth and tongue and praises. You’re bursting with your pride and love from his show of trust and he’s lost in the flood of your acceptance. Your hips are insistent again and, without breaking the kiss, you reach down and, at last, guide his cock into you.
Buggy cranes his head back again, so you switch to sucking and biting his neck. You can’t taste or feel enough of him, he’s not close enough. Even when he’s deep enough to lick at your cervix you need more of him. Even though he’s wedged you open enough for you to feel the pressure of it in your hips. Even though he’s crammed between your legs, ringing in your ears, sinking under your nails, sitting on your tongue, filling your breath - none of it is enough, so you keep taking more from him.
Though his hands have found their way onto your hips countless times, this grip felt foreign. Normally they’d hold firm and sure and guide you to move just how he needs you to. Right now, his grip is somehow tighter even though it’s all pawing and clawing. He has no control on how you fuck him, he’s just desperately trying to hold on for the ride and grasp more you - he’d do absolutely anything if it meant he’d get a single bit closer to you - to knowing nothing in this world other than every inch, every sound, every feeling that you have to offer. And then he’d beg for even more.
“Talk to me, treasure, tell me how you feel,” you urge.
“I -mngh!- I-I feel-” Buggy gasps out. It’s clear he’s trying to listen to you but that pretty little head of his is scrambled. He keeps his foggy eyes on you in an attempt to focus, despite how much they want to roll back behind fluttering lids. He pants and moans a few more times before licking his lips and trying again. “-’s good, so good, s-so -uungh- s’gooooood -hahh-”
“That’s my good man, my perfect treasure, my sweet love,” you coo somewhere between a whisper and a moan. The way he’s stretching you open, rubbing at you with his hot cockhead is fraying your control. The freedom to call him “love” sends flutters through your chest. Buggy is just as desperate for the claim, each time he hears the word a keening whine answers it.
“Please, please, need you to cum,” he pants. “Can’t -hhah- c-can’t-”
“You can and you will.” The command leaves no room for argument.
You’re getting so close, feeling the promise of your release in the tingle of your fingers, the heat searing through your trembling thighs, and the tight gripping in your body all the way from your throat to your pussy. The feelings pulse stronger with each clap of your hips to Buggy, each time his thick cock shoves you open and lights up every buzzing nerve that it rubs through your walls.
“Fuck, love, you can cum.” He feels your lips form the words against his racing pulse. It’s hard to keep track of what you’re saying through the white out in your head and the heat licking through your entire body. Your words rush out desperately, trying to get your scattered thoughts to him through a heavy tongue and a lack of air. “You’re so, so good, feel so good, gonna cum so fucking hard, love it so much, fuck, love how you make me feel so good-”
“Thank you thank you thank you thank you-” he gasps out on loop as his hips stutter and his cock jumps, filling you up. His pathetic thanks and the feeling of him releasing into you send you over the edge and everything burns so good. Your body involuntarily bucks and trembles on him for a few seconds where you have no say. You find yourself caving into him under the weight of your clenching muscles. Every clench of your cunt around him feels long and gripping and lets your swollen walls feel him with a little more detail. You make small, slow circles of your hips to wring out his climax, which seems never ending. Rush after rush of hot cum fills you until it’s spilling back into his lap, but his hands still encourage your movements and his body still shakes and trembles and he still babbles praises into your shoulder. Even when the aftershocks are settling to fewer and further between, he lets out a pathetic whine any time you stop moving in an attempt to give him some respite. After indulging him in another minute of overstimulation, you slowly lift off of him, receiving an upset groan. You hush him with trailing hands and sweet kisses, which he happily returns.
When his breathing is finally steady, you take a moment to check him over. His face is so relaxed he actually looks knocked out, but he does hum in response to your light squeeze on his shoulder. Buggy’s lashes have always been beautiful, but they look especially nice sending shadows across his cheek bones. His hair is a wild mess around him, and it feels silky between your fingers when you detangle it. His broad chest is still moving a bit fast with his breath, but each rise is a bit larger and longer. You admire the way his breathing moves the red spots and pink streaks decorating him, especially enjoying their contrast to his blue chest hair. His throat bobbing on a heavy swallow points your attention back upwards, and you admire the way his dark stubble makes his jaw even sharper. A little higher, you notice how red and swollen his lips are and how shining tear tracks dry across his face. You’d never seen him so fucked out. It looks gorgeous on him.
Since Buggy is calm and settling, it’s time to get up and clean you both up a bit. This time he communicates his displeasure at your absence with a petulant grunt. You turn back with a raised brow to sass him but break out in laughter instead when you see he couldn't even muster the energy to turn his head toward you. You don’t think this man has even opened his eyes since before he came.
“Don’t worry, love, I’m just getting a towel to clean up.”
A begrudging grunt.
Good enough.
After quickly taking care of yourself, you reappear with a warm, damp towel. The moment Buggy feels your weight back on the bed, he musters all of his remaining strength and pulls you on top of him. You giggle while he grumbles something into your shoulder.
“One more time, Bugs.”
He sighs like you are the most unreasonable person he has ever met, and you laugh at the deja vu you’re feeling. His lips move up to your ear and you hum happily at the tingles his breath leaves behind. “You took too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Sorry, your highness. Just trying to make sure we don’t wake up sticky in a puddle. Now come on, it’s your turn.”
On the third attempt to pull back, he finally lets you go (with yet another grumble) and you set to work on wiping him down. You begin with his face, enjoying the hum he lets out at the light warmth in the soft cloth, and move down to his neck. You spend a little bit of extra time on his shoulders and chest, massaging between swipes of the towel. He obnoxiously flings each arm at you when you are ready for them, just to hear you laugh another time. He enjoys the emptiness of his head while you move to his calves and work your way up. On his thighs and stomach, you sprinkle sweet kisses that leave his heart feeling gooey. He falls in love with you all over again when you blow a raspberry on his side to rouse him once he gets too close to dozing off.
He thinks he is all out of aftershocks until he is savoring the last few when you finish cleaning him up. You leave a loving kiss on the sensitive skin just inside his hip bone, before standing up, again to a groan. Buggy was always touchy after sex (and honestly touchy in general; you’re surprised he doesn’t demand you to hold a detached hand at all hours) but this is something else. It has you thinking of how much you crave his affirming touch whenever he is pushy or rough with you during sex. You’re both lucky that you find his pouting endlessly endearing. Grabbing the blankets that had fallen from the foot of the bed, you finally make your way back to him.
“Took you long enough.” Buggy’s words are bratty, but his tone is sweet and starstruck. He’s making sure to enjoy the last bit of seeing you clearly before you turn off the light.
“Fine - next time I’ll throw you a towel and go find a clean hammock for myself,” you tease. “That should be much quicker.” You plop onto the bed next to Buggy, jostling him, and you fluff the blankets out over the two of you.
“Noooooooooo,” he whines. “You’d leave me to fend for myself like that? I’d die.” Even with the dark, the way you two move to intertwine is coordinated and sure, played out many times before.
“I’m pretty sure there’s cryptid in your bloodline; you should do just fine with survival,” you laugh, snuggling deeper into him. As always, a deep inhale of him (saltwater, spices, leather, smoke, musk) has you immersed in your safe space. “Aren’t you the self-proclaimed untamable man, oh great Captain Buggy?”
“I’ve been domesticated-” you guffaw “-and it’s all your fault so you need to take some responsibility for your actions.”
You settle your laughter and look to meet his gaze. By now your eyes have adjusted just enough for you to see the moonlight from the porthole reflecting in his eyes. The unguarded affection you spot in them stalls your breath.
“Okay.” The word promises much more than he had asked. The meaning seems to reach him, because he holds you just that much closer and plants a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
The brushing of the waves on the thick wooden sides of the ship guides your breath to deepen. The creaking of wooden boards and distant thunking of feet on the deck comfort you with their familiarity. Buggy is just barely hanging onto consciousness, trying to keep his fingers tracing nonsense patterns on your skin. The last things your mind holds onto are the warmth seeping from Buggy’s body, the gentleness of those calloused fingertips, and the sleepy slur of his tender mumble.
Sylus's expressions gives away nothing. Being a fiend he's hard to read and incredible at lying. He riles you up with teasing comments and smirks when you can't think of a comeback.
Its unfair really, he literally convinces people to trade souls, how were you supposed to compete? His comebacks leave you fumbling for words, as he revels in watching his words get under your skin. Its annoying. VERY annoying.
Albeit you try. Call him names, test his patience by repeating things, do anything and everything to get under his skin. But in the dealings with the fiend, the prince of lies always wins.
Its takes a while but you notice it. A chink in the armor, a flicker in the mirage. With your surmounting frustration, you finally finally recognise his 'tell'.
The tail moves.
You first realise it when you were disagreeing. Despite his unfazed retorts, his tail sweeps across the floor heavy and pouting. You say something and Sylus just chuckles, but the tail reacts instantly, swaying like a slighted puppy. You purse your lips trying not to laugh. Given his gait you realise Sylus has no idea that his tail is brooding.
He arches his eyebrow and waits for you to fumble but you just nod, failing to hide your grin "whatever you say, sweetie." You say nonchalantly, turning away, the smile ever-present.
Sylus frowns. hm, he thinks, why did you just sound like him?
He tries baiting you again later. But its like you can tell that you're getting to him. In mid banter, he sees your gaze float past him, pinning on his- OH. Oh.
Eventually you feel bad at how much it really gives away. When you're trying to annoy him, it stomps lightly, like a bunny stomping its hind legs. It tenses when if your tone is harsh and makes circles in the air when excited. It all but wags to show joy at this point.
Its cute, endearing even.
Meh, maybe you'll just let the fiend puppy be good at comebacks.
The palace swells with dawn heat and quiet purpose. You wake to silk-soft light and the faint scratch of a pen. Zuko sits at the low table, hair loose, crown forgotten, posture alert in a robe gone skewed at one shoulder. Books form a disciplined semicircle around him: Fatherhood for Firelords; The Royal Birth Protocol; Gentle Breathing for Labor Partners; A Treatise on Infant Soothing Traditions. Thin ribbons mark pages; marginalia marches in a soldier’s hand.
He senses you and turns, the line of his mouth breaking into something tender. “My queen,” he murmurs, the words a habit, the tone a vow. He rises, pours tea you like exactly how you like it, and brings it with both hands as if it’s precious. You set a palm on the slope of your stomach; he tracks the motion with reverence and the nerves of a former soldier scanning the horizon for trouble.
“Read me one,” you say, easing to the window seat. Lotus leaves stipple the pond below, turtle-ducks drifting like amiable thoughts.
He obeys. “Bonding in the First Thousand Days,” he reads, then pauses, flushing. “It recommends… singing.” He coughs. “And skin-to-skin contact. And low, steady speech.”
“You do low and steady,” you tease, taking a cautious sip. “The singing can be a private audience.”
He kneels without ceremony and slides his warm palm beneath your robe to cradle your belly. He lowers his head until amber eyes meet silk. “Little ember,” he whispers, voice husky-soft. “Your mother is the bravest person I know. I don’t deserve her or you. I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to.” He presses a kiss just left of your navel. “I will fail. I will apologize. I will try again, better.”
You card fingers through his hair. “Tell them about pies.”
His mouth tilts. “I make pies now. I will keep making pies until I get them right. We will eat them on the veranda and pretend the council meeting I canceled wasn’t important.”
A contraction seizes you fast, clean, deep. Your breath snags. Your hand clamps around his wrist.
He stills. “Is it—” He inhales, resets, becomes calm. “Breathe with me,” he says, already counting, thumb tapping your pulse. “In. Two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four, five, six.”
“Doctors,” he calls over his shoulder, voice quiet but iron-lined. “To the lotus hall.” Footsteps ripple down corridors. “Ten paces,” he adds, and when the royal physicians arrive, he looks them in the eye. “Maintain distance. No crowding. We observe, we listen.” They nod and instantly adopt a ten-step orbit, solemn and faintly comedic in their precision. Zuko doesn’t smile.
The wave passes. Relief opens your ribcage. He doesn’t stand until your shoulders unlock. “Practice contraction,” the head physician says after palpating, voice careful. “No dilation.”
Zuko exhales and then changes the world by inches. He drafts an order “from the baby”: meetings halved, recesses extended, naps sovereign. He engineers a softer route through the garden—stairs rerouted, thresholds eased. He instructs the kitchen on your cravings and forbids chili oil in any room you enter. He thinks through the night: guard rotations quieter, lantern light dimmed to amber, a warmer blanket hidden under your usual one for when you pretend you’re not cold.
He feeds you with his fingers between scrolls: mango slices, steamed buns, mandarin segments soaked in jasmine syrup. He tastes the edge of your knuckles when you tease syrup over them. His eyes go fierce and tender at once when the baby kicks under his palm, like a warrior.
In bed he becomes a harbor. He tucks himself behind you, one arm under your head, the other banded over your belly, palm spreading low. He rubs small circles that quiet the pull at your back. He hums—not a battle chant, not the breath count of a kata—just a thread of melody he’d deny if asked. He tells stories of a boy who learned what not to be, and of a man who builds policy like shelter. He apologizes for the things he cannot prevent, promises to stand between you and the rest.
“Do you ever stop guarding?” you murmur into his forearm.
He thinks. “When you sleep,” he says. “And even then… less than I should.”
The baby kicks; he startles, then laughs under his breath, raw delight cracking the last shell. He lowers his mouth. “I see you,” he says to your belly. “I hear you.” He looks up at you, emotion clean and bright. “I’m here.”
He returns to the books, but he reads them differently now. Not like manuals against disaster. Like invitations to tenderness. He underlines sentences about patience, writes notes like slower here, listen more. He pins an old ribbon from his exile days between pages and leaves it there, a bridge between the boy sleeping in alleys and the man whispering into your skin.
By week’s end the ten-pace rule has become a palace ballet, your cravings a kitchen liturgy, Zuko’s hand on your belly the court’s quiet center. He doesn’t sing where anyone can hear it. He sings into your shoulder, into the place his breath warms your neck, into the world you’re making—a soft anthem no fire can scorch.
Aang x Reader
The meadow behind the rebuilt temple gleams with dew, wind rolling grass into silver rivers. Aang has already spread a blanket, corners aligned with the cardinal directions like a small blessing. Appa dozes nearby, tail a carved cloud. Momo is a crumble of fluff in the sun.
“Sweetheart,” Aang says, offering his hand as you step down from the bison’s saddle. His thumb rubs the back of your knuckles, an absent rhythm he’s done since the day he learned you liked it. He guides you to the blanket.
He has gathered fruit like pear, starfruit, dragonfruit, a handful of wild strawberries in a palm-sized bowl. A slim book on fatherhood lies facedown on the basket, spine gentle with use. He flops beside you and immediately rearranges himself to mirror your angle, to cradle your head with his bicep, to make room for your belly with his bent knee. He kisses you—light first, then sure. His tastes like pear
He talks about life because life spills out of him when he’s happy. He describes the last meditation with the young air acolytes, how one asked if babies remember clouds from before they’re born. He paints a plan for toddler gliders that never leave the ground, bright fabric fins catching just enough wind to teach balance. He tells you about the mural he wants to paint on the south wall—blue swirls for laughter, yellow lines for promises kept, green for forgiveness.
I’ve been thinking about naps,” he admits, as if confessing mischief. “Not mine. Ours. Them. The book says routine matters.” He flips the slim manual. “But routine is just rhythm you can trust. I can do rhythm.”
“You live rhythm,” you say, thumbing the edge of his arrow.
He feeds you strawberries, eyes serious about catching any runaway juice. When a drip escapes, he chases it with his thumb
The air answers his mood; breeze gentles, clouds thin, sun warms without glare. He doesn’t do it on purpose. He simply is, and the world often agrees.
The twins kick at the same time—two swift thuds. Your gasp slides into a laugh you can’t hold.
Aang’s hands hover, then land on your belly, then lift, then hover again as if afraid too much touch could snap something vital. “Okay, okay. You okay? Breath? Any back pull? Do you want shade? Water? Snack?” He glances at Appa. “Extraction?”
“They’re saying hello,” you manage, taking his wrists and pressing his palms where tiny heels drum. His eyes go glossy. He lowers until his cheek rests on your stomach.
“Hello,” he says, voice a bell at dusk. “I love you already. Your mom is the bravest person I’ve ever met. I’ll teach you sky etiquette and ground stubbornness. We’ll practice falling and landing and laughing about both.” He kisses left, then right. “You go nowhere near real gliders until you can recite the wind from memory,” he adds, then shoots you a grin, sheepish. “And then… maybe very small ones.”
You raise a brow. “Monk-approved?”
“Monk-tolerated,” he whispers, scandalized by himself, and the babies kick again like a secret handshake. He cackles silently, presses his forehead to your belly, and breathes until the air hums. The grass around you leans in, a green audience sighing in contentment.
He reads from the book in the lull, his voice a soft hill. “It says sleep when the baby sleeps,” he muses, stroking your hairline with the back of a finger. “But you aren’t a baby. You’re… you. We’ll make our own rules and break the ones that don’t fit. We’ll nap when the wind does.”
You drift. He continues not for himself but for you, annotating aloud. “It says prepare for less time with friends. That seems wrong. We’ll make new shapes for friendship. Picnics instead of journeys. Stories instead of battles. We’ll make the temple ring with visitors and tea.”
A cloud slides. You wake to soft rain. Aang has already twitched the blanket’s edge into a fly for shelter. You lie nose to nose under it, breath mingling
He kisses the tip of your nose. “I forgot to tell you,” he whispers, eyes bright in the dim. “Appa hummed in his sleep last night, and I think it harmonized with the wind through the bell tower. It sounded like—” He stops, listening. “Like now.”
The twins roll and settle. He rubs your calf idly, kneading away the ache behind your knee with the exact pressure you like because he notices and files everything under care. The rain fades to memory. He sits up, balances a pear on his forehead, and solemnly asks the babies for notes on his routine. You laugh so hard you curl, and he flutters his hands because laughter plus late pregnancy equals breath management equals his new holy calling.
He has always carried the world like a light thing he could swallow if it begged. Here, with your hand in his, with Appa a warm hill behind, with the twins drumming private percussion, he chooses a smaller, deeper burden.
“We’ll be okay,” he says, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist.
“We will,” you answer, sure because he is and you are and together you make the kind of certainty that doesn’t shout. You fall asleep to his heartbeat and wake to star-pricked sky, his shoulder your pillow,
Sokka x Reader
He kicks the door with his heel because his hands are full of plans. “Angel!” Sokka crows, skidding into the bedchamber with scrolls, a whiteboard, and two bowls that steam like promises. “I have returned from the front lines of Knowledge and Snacks.”
He unloads: The Practical Partner’s Guide; A Water Tribe Midwife’s Almanac, edges worn and loved; Pregnancy by the Numbers; Heartburn and You; a pocket notebook stuffed with tabs labeled Weird But True. He fans them like a deck. “We’re going to get so prepared the concept of Surprise writes an apology letter.”
He builds a command center. Hydration station left: water with a straw, ginger tea, mint tea, coconut water. Snack quadrant right: cut fruit aligned in perfect cubes, salted nuts, dried seaweed, crackers, pickles. Pillow fort at your back: optimal angle tested and retested, annotated. Whiteboard at the foot of the bed: Operation Stork Boomerang. Sub-ops march beneath: Snack Recon; Nap Watch; Heartburn Deterrence; Pillow Fortification; Foot Rub Initiative; Weird but True Pregnancy Facts (peer reviewed by Suki, Katara, and One Alarmed Herbalist Who Is Fine Now).
He taps the board with a flourish. “Item one: feet can go up a shoe size. Counter-op: new boots.” He produces a wrapped parcel. You narrow your eyes. “I measured while you slept,” he admits, unrepentant. “Extremely romantic, very sneaky, flawless execution.”
You lob a pillow. He catches it, bows, deposits it behind you. “Boundaries acknowledged, gracefully violated, lessons learned.”
He spears exactly three fruit cubes on a skewer and holds them up like an offering. “Open.” You do. He feeds you with theatrical care. He reads from the notebook between bites. “Weird but True: relaxin loosens joints—ha! I finally said it right—so we lower shelves and ban ladders. Weird but True: you might get a linea nigra, which is a line on your belly. I choose to view it as a tactical stripe. Weird but True: dreams get wild. If I appear as a sentient cactus, that is a reference to an incident sealed by treaty.”
“You signed that treaty,” you remind him.
“And I doodled a moustache on the cactus,” he confesses, contrite in theory, delighted in practice. He offers soup; you inhale aroma—ginger, scallion, something ocean-clean from home. “Anti-nausea broth. Patent pending.”
A contraction grips like a fist. Your breath hitches, hand flying to his wrist. The comedy drops from him without drama. He becomes presence: breath calm, eyes steady, voice low.
“Okay,” he says, sliding one hand to your low back, the other to your shoulder. “Four in, six out. We’ve got this. In—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four, five, six.” He breathes with you. He doesn’t narrate or problem-solve or turn it into a tactical lecture. He anchors. He waits. He counts time in a notebook without looking away from your face.
He stays exactly where you leaned on him until you shift, then he moves only to tuck a towel at your neck and slide water to your lips.
Suki appears, scans, nods approval. She tosses Sokka a bundle. He drops everything to catch it: a baby sling in deep blue, reinforced stitching, clever loops.
“For later,” he says, trying and failing to contain pride. He straps it on. “Demo?”
He kneels. His thumbs find the ache along your arches with unerring accuracy. He presses, circles, releases, reading micro-frowns like maps, adjusting pressure like tide. He kisses the inside of your ankle with an absentminded tenderness that detonates your heart. He leans and speaks to your belly, voice gone low tide, full moon.
“Hey, kid. I don’t bend. I make plans. I make soup. I make bridges when people say there’s no way across.” He swallows. “If you’re scared, I’ll sit with scared until it gets bored and leaves. Your mom? She’s braver than anyone I’ve met. My job is to make her laugh, keep her fed, and hold the line when she needs to put her sword down. You’ll learn two things from me: how to fix it, and how to admit you can’t, then love anyway.”
He feeds you broth, blowing each spoonful cool because of course he does. He has acquired the exact angle that lets you sip without heartburn, and he guards that angle like a trade secret. He adjusts the pillow by a hair’s breadth and then again, calibrating comfort like an engineer of clouds. He times practice contractions without announcing numbers you don’t want. He jokes when you want jokes, goes quiet when silence speaks truer, listens as if the sound of your breath is a map north depends on.
At dusk, he reads aloud from The Practical Partner’s Guide and annotates margins with SOKKA NOTES: ask Katara about swelling; ask Zuko if palace stairs can be ramped; draft snack schedule; practice humility; practice breathing; practice saying “I was wrong.” He draws a baby that looks like a potato. You wheeze. Tears come from nowhere because hormones have turned your body into weather. He does not flinch. He catches a tear with his thumb and kisses it off.
You doze to the scratch of his pen and his whisper: “Pack bag, pack snacks, pack decorative boomerang, remember to be here.” He underlines be here three times and then stops, looks at you, and writes it on the whiteboard under every other operation.
Later, you wake to the scent of cedar and the quiet of a room that’s learned how to care for you. Sokka has fallen asleep half-sitting, head lolling, pencil still in his hand, sling strapped on like muscle memory practicing future. You take the pencil, slide it away. He startles, then relaxes, eyes finding you first, scanning for distress, then softening into that lopsided grin that put a dent in destiny once and keeps doing it in the small ways now.
“Hey, Angel,” he whispers, as if you’re the secret to a good map he can’t quite explain. “We’re doing it.”
You are. He is. He will. He kisses your hairline, resets the pillow a quarter inch, and resumes standing guard over the gentlest battlefield he’s ever loved. He’s never been more dangerous to trouble, never more ridiculous, never more himself.
