miaoiruma

[miaoiruma]

LOVE IS IN THE AIR !!

#tord larsson

[miaoiruma]

when i first made this i hated it like it was off and now im like “this is my greatest gouache creation”

surely there was a better way to photograph this but now im away from home so …

sigh i wish i had some art mutuals appear out of nowhere

#tord larsson #weeee are soo back babyyy

[miaoiruma]

I have nothing to say

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @thehistoriangirl @silcoitus @juniper-sunny

[miaoiruma]

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

#miguel o'hara #reader insert

[miaoiruma]

#miguel o'hara

[miaoiruma]

this blog going active for miguel o’hara. just u guys wait. im going to be feral. rabid. i dont care if hes actually a loser in reality. i want him.

[miaoiruma]

When I realise I have read all of the Peter Ballard x reader stories

#peter ballard

[miaoiruma]

I love their height difference so much! <3 

Viktor sometimes joking around about it, comming up with the worst jokes possible and Roxy trying her best to act annoyed but she ends up failing evertime. 

Viktor: “You gotta hand it to short people, because they usually cant reach it” 

Roxy: “Shut up”  

#viktor #!!! i lov

[miaoiruma]

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when Gekko's Wingman plants or defuses a spike, it is ABSOLUTELY illegal to kill it.

#gekko #valorant gekko #valorant #valorant meme #but seriously it should be illegal to kill it #like an unwritten valorant rule or something

[miaoiruma]

don't know what i wanted - kishibe x f!reader

cw: brief mention of violence, injury, trauma (not graphic), hurt/comfort, injury recovery, established relationship. brief mention of having children (no decision or plans made/no pregnancy mention), consumption of alcohol/cigarettes, explicit sexual content (oral sex f! receiving, fingering, hand jobs, vaginal sex), - NSFW, MDNI

word count: 12.8k

a/n: this is technically a sequel to one of my earlier devil hunter!reader x kishibe fics but can be read as a standalone fic as well! this fic takes place after kishibe's injury when he was in his 20s, but reader-character is his partner as opposed to quanxi. the fic essentially covers the aftermath of the injury & how they recover together. hope you enjoy my loves, thanks for reading! thank you so much to this anon who helped inspire the plot of this fic

if you prefer to read on ao3, it is published here

___

“Stay still,” you mumble, frowning as Kishibe pulls his head back when you try to unwrap the gauze by his jaw. He has a frown of his own etched on his face, eyes shut and lips pulled tight with discomfort – you’d feel pity for him if he weren’t being so damn uncooperative. “You’re gonna tear your stitches.”

Your couch, despite serving as Kishibe’s resting place while he recovers from his injury, is likely not the most appropriate place to carry out some fairly intensive first-aid. However, you have no other choice since he refuses to go to the doctor to change his bandages. 

One fucking hospital visit was enough, he’d muttered then, still drenched in his own blood, and you hadn’t the heart to argue with him. 

That was two weeks ago now – fourteen days of sleeplessness, of antibiotics and pain medication and bruise balm for his ribs, of waiting until the dead of night to cry so that he doesn’t hear you. 

You’re grateful that you weren’t there to witness it. It’s selfish, you’re well aware of that, but you’re not sure how you would have been able to cope if you had the images of the attack replaying in your head over and over, tormenting you both. 

“Thought you’d be nice to me,” he grumbles, and although he can’t really smile with his injury you can still hear one in his voice. “Your bedside manner is lacking today.”

“I tried being nice at first. You told me to ‘ act like normal and stop treating me like I’m dying ’, so that’s what I’m doing,” you counter, carefully grabbing the corner of the medical tape. 

He winces but doesn’t budge. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“A direct quote, I’m afraid. And that was before they administered the morphine, so you can’t even blame it on that.”

You pull the tape gently, exposing the stitches and bruised skin. Kishibe tenses underneath you, every muscle in his body going rigid, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

It breaks your heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers. His voice is quieter now since talking too much can be painful. “Bring back the tough bedside manner. I take back my complaint; I need to be humbled.”

You blink, trying to fix your expression into one that’s more impassive. 

“I’m just focusing on the stitches. I need to be careful at this part,” you say, knowing that both of you recognise the lie for what it is. 

This feels foolish. It’s everything you feared about getting involved with another devil hunter. You’re supposed to be unshakeable, callous to all loss, utterly focused on the mission. You’re supposed to be tough.

Instead, you’re close to tears at the thought of what would have happened if the strike had landed just a few inches lower.

Things were supposed to be different. You were supposed to do this whole hunter thing by yourself. This was never the plan; to factor another person into your life in such a significant way, to value their well-being as highly as you do your own. 

But he makes your days interesting. He’s kind at heart and values you as an equal as well as a partner. He always seems grateful to even be near you, and so you’ll happily tend to his wounds and keep him company, and even let him smoke indoors once the window is cracked. 

You remove the old gauze carefully, clean the stitches according to the nurse's directions, and replace it with fresh bandages while Kishibe stays still, eyes squeezed shut.

“Nearly done,” you reassure him softly, applying the medical tape at a careful angle, “nearly done, I promise … and … there. All clean.”

He opens his eyes and lifts a hand to his cheek. He’s not going to tug at the gauze, he knows better than that, but he ghosts his fingers over the bandages as if to check they’re really there.

You smile and lean in closer to press a kiss to his forehead, feeling the breath catch in his throat as you pull back. 

“It’s gonna make me ugly, y’know,” he says, letting out an amused scoff. 

“More ugly?” you gasp. He lifts up his hand to playfully flick your nose. 

Joking around like this is one of the only ways you know how to distract him, to show him this change is not going to upset things irreversibly. The last thing he wants is for you to be walking on eggshells around him. For his recovery to be a success he needs support, normalcy – he needs you to be yourself. 

“Yep," he agrees. "A nasty scar to complete the whole image.”

You scoff and climb into his lap, feeling him sink back into the couch cushions, muscles releasing their tension. His injuries are almost entirely confined to the upper half of his body but you still move with incredible care and gentleness as if he’ll break underneath your touch. Sensing your hesitation, he wraps a strong arm around you, pulling you closer. It’s easy to melt against him. 

“You know I could never find you ugly,” you reply with a chuckle, nestling against his shoulder. “I tried really hard, too. When we first got partnered up, I used to stare at you for hours trying to trick myself into finding you gross, but no luck. You’re stubbornly handsome and always will be. It’s a flaw of yours.”

“A flaw?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice muffled against his sweatshirt. “It’s really fucking annoying, actually.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Ah, I can live with annoying .”

Even after the absolute chaos of the past fortnight, he still smells wonderful. Fresh and clean and familiar, with something deeper in there that draws you in even after smelling it a thousand times — it’s him. 

You hum thoughtfully. “I’m glad, because for a while there it was really inconvenient. Wanting to fuck your annoying partner is not something they teach you about during training.”

“But did they tell how inconvenient it is to keep fucking him afterwards?”

You laugh a little, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier with every passing moment. 

With Kishibe’s health taken care of for now, you feel at ease. The sensation of being wrapped in his broad arms takes you back to the first night you fell asleep beside him, where you let go of your worries and concerns, trading them for a brief window of serenity. 

It’s a type of comfort that you thought you could never have, a blessing only available to other people and never to devil hunters. 

“Nah, I just kinda accepted it at that point.”

He says something in response, but you fall asleep before you hear it. 

___

The pancake batter sizzles as it hits the pan, bubbles forming on the surface after a few moments on the heat – you finally got the temperature just right, and so you pour another serving alongside it for good measure.

Phew. You burnt the last one, and don’t have enough eggs for another batch.

This is your fourth time making pancakes this week since they’re a nice, soft food that can be easily cut up into tiny bites. They don’t cause too much strain to Kishibe’s jaw and you can flavour them with fruits and chocolate. Best of all, they’re significantly more appealing than the nutri-shakes the hospital supplied when he was discharged.

He took one sip before saying he’d rather you punch him directly on his dislocated shoulder than make him drink that shit again. 

As if on cue, Kishibe’s voice calls out from the living room. 

“Smells nice out there,” and it really does; the warm aroma of baked goods wafts through the air along with a hint of freshness from the fruits you prepared. It finally masks the smell of the smoke from the unsalvagable first batch. “Need any help?”

The offer sounds innocuous at first, but the desperation buried in the words tells you that he’s on the verge of disobeying his doctor’s orders.

“You’re on bed rest!” you shout back, stealing a chocolate chip from the bag on the countertop. The sweetness is enough to tempt you to grab another; this time, you pour a small handful and tip it into your mouth, savouring the taste. 

You flip the pancakes with a spatula only to wince as the metal burns your finger – you hadn’t realised that you’d left it so close to the heat. You drop the spatula and it clatters against the tiled floor. 

You groan, choosing to go clean the utensil before tending to your hand. It’s only a small injury but you grimace nonetheless as the pain starts to build, aching and throbbing. An angry welt forms on your fingertip. 

It was careless on your part, but it’s not surprising that your attention span is somewhat lacking as of late. You run your hand under some cold water and get lost in the sensation. 

Four days have passed since you last changed Kishibe’s bandages and two days since his most recent check-up (which you finally convinced him to attend), and things haven’t gone … smoothly, to say the least.

The doctor had kindly but firmly informed you both that in order for Kishibe to proceed to the next step in recovery, he needed to play it safe over the coming week. Unfortunately for him, playing it safe means that he has to actually get some rest.  

A lot of rest. 

He hadn’t even complained when receiving the news – he just sat there, utterly motionless, with displeasure and annoyance radiating off him like a fever. It worried you. This whole thing hasn’t been easy on you but it’s not exactly a walk in the park for him, either. He might pretend otherwise, but he doesn’t like to be benched. He’d do more to help you if he could.

As if it weren’t bad enough that he can’t hunt devils or even pay a visit to headquarters, now, he’s rendered completely and utterly defenceless, unable to even make himself a meal without assistance. It goes against every survival instinct in his body.

Part of you wishes he wouldn’t be so stubborn about saying on the couch. You had offered to share your bed with him - expected it, even - but he refused. Hurt at first, you hadn’t brought it up again, but once he understood your reaction he explained it was because his meds make him toss and turn in his sleep. He didn’t want to wake you. 

Then you offered to take the couch instead since he’s the one recovering, after all. Again, he turned that down, but you didn’t take that refusal as much to heart as the first one.

This setup - him staying on the couch, allowing you your own space - seems to be the one bit of independence he can hold onto, the one way he thinks he’s making your life easier amongst all of this.

The buzzing of a timer startles you out of your trance, and you turn off the tap to go pour yourself a coffee.

You plate the pancakes and chop some berries and fruits to serve alongside them, angling the knife so it doesn’t put too much pressure on your finger. In spite of this, the burn starts to sting once again, the pain sharp and angry. You give up halfway through. Taking the plates in hand, you turn to bring them into your living room.

When you enter the room you see Kishibe already standing. His arms are folded casually across his chest despite the damage he sustained to his shoulder and ribs. He’s pacing slowly, fixated on the wall to your left-hand side – from the looks of it, he’s browsing the books on the shelf behind the couch. He seems to be scanning the titles with interest.

Something’s … different. In a strange way, a sort of déja vu that you can’t quite place.

As he spots you, head turning in your direction, you know from the look on his face what he’s about to offer. You cut him off before he can do so.

“Don’t need any help!” you inform him. “I can carry the plates – you’re supposed to be resting .”

“Not what I was gonna say, smartass,” he huffs in amusement, until his eyes flicker down to your hands and you know he can see how you’re favouring one side over the other, gingerly holding one of the plates so as not to aggravate your burn. He lifts his gaze up, a question written on his face as he regards you. 

Playing ignorant, you choose not to address it. “So what were you gonna say, then?”

He’s not going to drop it entirely, of that you’re certain, but he does concede a little. He straightens his posture, a glint in his eye, and tells you, “I was thinking we could eat at the table tonight?”

His tone is light and ebullient, his demeanour carefree in a way you haven’t seen from him in a long time. He had spent the past two days in what could only be described as a pit of despair, and so to see this change now ... it stops you in your tracks. 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“Can we eat at the table?” he repeats. “Just this once.” 

It seems harmless, but you’re not sure if it’s wise. The instructions from the doctor were for Kishibe to minimise unnecessary movement and stay well-rested.

(He had also been told to try and eliminate stress as much as possible, but the two of you had laughed at the last part.)

Still, you’re not sure if this is a good idea; the last thing you want is to set back his recovery, even at his own request. 

“Please?” he follows up. The word stings you as much as the burn. “I just want to have a meal together like we always do. Just once, and then I’ll go back to bed. And I’ll shut the fuck up from here on - I won’t complain about the bandages or the shitty nutri-shakes or the exercises for my shoulder or whatever it is they want me to do - I won’t say a word about any of it,” he pauses and breathes in, breathes out. “Just a half an hour of being normal. Please.”

Looking at him now, it’s plain to see how being confined and restricted has eaten away at him.

You come to a decision quickly, happy that this won’t do too much harm. If anything, this might help his recovery somewhat. 

“... for half an hour only,” you direct slowly, not breaking eye contact, “and absolutely no unnecessary movement. If you try to pick up the plates or push in chairs or anything, I’ll give you a matching scar on the other cheek.”

“Oh, I assumed as much,” he answers quickly, and millimetre by millimetre, his expression lifts into something that looks a lot more like him – like how he looked when you walked in the room, like how he’s looked at you since you first got partnered up together. Even with the bandages, you can see his lips quirk upwards; the closest thing to a smile as he can manage. “And I agree.”

He lets you carry the plates in without objection, and you eat your meal together in blissful silence. 

It’s been a while since someone other than you has eaten at this table.

By the time you’re halfway through the stack of pancakes, some colour has returned to Kishibe’s complexion. 

"Fuck, these are the best yet,” he says after a particularly big forkful, “which makes me a little confused, because I could hear you swearing for about fifteen minutes while you were making them.”

“Well, I burnt the first couple,” you point out, taking a few orange slices and setting them down on your plate, “which I’m sure you know since the smoke alarm is a rat bastard.”

“That's not all you burnt,” Kishibe remarks as he takes a sip of water. 

You lift your head. “Hmm?”

He sets down his glass and takes your hand, flipping it so your palm is facing upwards. “I saw you holding the plates funny,” he frowns when he spots the welt on the tip of your index finger. “What happened?” 

You can’t help but laugh. Kishibe was nearly eviscerated a few weeks ago, yet he’s here worrying about a burn that will fade in its entirety before the month is out. 

“I burned it on the spatula,” you answer as he strokes circles on your palm with his thumb, “it was my own fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

His eyes flicker up to yours and you wish you chose your words more carefully.

It was my fault.

Wasn’t paying attention. 

My fault.

In amongst the near-constant worrying about his health and the gratitude at the fact he’s still alive, you can sometimes forget that it wasn’t only Kishibe who got hurt that day.

You open your mouth to say something but with a near-imperceptible shake of his head, he tells you that it’s not necessary.

“Did you put any burn gel on?” he asks then, moving on as if nothing happened. 

You try to take your hand back but he clasps it gently. “No, not yet.”

He raises his eyebrows with mock surprise and you chuckle, letting your head fall back with a groan, predicting what’s coming next.

“Don’t start," you warn him. 

He scoffs. “This coming from the person you gave me a lecture on how to properly care for wounds not two days ago-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take care of the damn burn-”

“ - and about the importance of recovery and taking proper medical advice - ”

“Fucking hell, I’m doing it!” you exclaim with a laugh, pushing back your chair and letting go of his hand. “Who knew you could whip out the guilt trips like that?”

He shakes his head and shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “Not a guilt trip. Just pointing out the similarities.”

You stand up to leave but before going to the kitchen cabinet to fish out your heavily-used first aid kit, you lean down, tilt his face towards your own and press a soft kiss to his lips. 

“You’re insufferable.”

He kisses you back. “Yeah, but you knew that already.”

---

He looks so … unlike himself. Hooked up to all these different machines, with gauze covering most of his upper body, he could be anyone. 

You thought there’d be some recognition within you, some moment where you see him in the hospital bed and just know it’s him, but you don’t feel anything of the sort. It could be a stranger lying there for all you know. His face is covered, the clothes aren’t his, there are no distinguishing factors at all that make you think that the person in front of you is Kishibe. 

Maybe they were wrong? 

The Division officials might have made a mistake. The scene was chaos; there were so many people running around, so many casualties, it would have been easy for them to misidentify a person in an ambulance, to have shouted the wrong name by accident. 

Maybe this isn’t him. Maybe he’s fine. He could be still at the scene helping to clear up, administering first-aid to the survivors …

But then you spot it – hanging on a coat rack in the corner of the hospital room is his jacket, torn and bloodied but still his. You walk over to it, movements so slow and mindless it’s as if you’re possessed. 

You barely register the low buzzing of the machines. Even when they emit a loud beeping sound every now and then you can’t bring yourself to look at them directly. He’s being kept alive by these machines. 

You stand by the coat rack and reach out a trembling hand. Some dust - no, it’s black, so it’s soot - starts to fall softly to the floor, almost like snow, and it stains your hand as you pull back the fabric to search for something. You rifle through the side pockets looking for it even though you know he never keeps it there, checking every nook and cranny –

There it is. His battered old lighter. It’s in the left-hand breast pocket, as always, but that was the last place you searched.

Your fingertips touch metal, tracing the outline of the lighter as your eyes start to sting. You breathe in through gritted teeth as you slip the lighter out of the pocket, clutching it in your palm as if it’s made of solid gold, and you turn it over to make sure it’s his. 

You make a choked sound that thankfully catches in your throat before it turns into a sob. 

You can’t cry here. The hospital is full of other hunters, milling about to try and find and identify any survivors. You can’t break down in front of them. 

Although personal relationships between two partners aren't banned or even all that rare, displaying such open, raw vulnerability in front of everyone … it would mark you for death. To let other hunters see you weep for Kishibe would mean that, in their eyes, you have become weak, soft, unfit for this line of work. They would never trust you on a mission, and being untrusted while out in the field is a guaranteed death sentence. 

A few tears might be excusable, but you know that the cry you just suppressed would have burst out like a dam breaking. It would have made it very clear that your relationship goes beyond that of coworkers.

It’s funny though, in a way; if they outright asked you just what your relationship actually is , you wouldn’t be able to tell them. You know it’s not casual – not anymore. The pit of agony in your stomach tells you that you’re even farther gone than you’d assumed.

But it’s not defined, either, and likely never can be.

You hear some people shuffle outside the hospital room as the door handle turns. You hastily raise your hand to your face and wipe at some tears that are threatening to spill, slipping Kishibe’s lighter into your own pocket as you do so.

Two nurses stride in and start to record some of the figures displayed on the machines, paying absolutely no attention to you. There’s a single chair in the corner of the room and so you go to sit down before your legs buckle underneath you.

You were warned it was going to be bad, and the hushed voices around you tell you that it can’t be good news. 

When you arrived at the hospital they had asked if he had any family, if you could contact them, that they should really be here for this. They said that if he has any hope of survival, he needs support.

You can only hope that when he wakes, you’ll be enough. 

___

Kishibe is no longer on bed rest, and he is delighted. 

He’s definitely not out of the woods yet - he’s still on a list of meds as long as your arm - and he’s been ordered to only engage in the lowest-of-low impact activities; walking, essentially, and maybe cooking a quick meal or two. Nevertheless, he welcomed the news with open arms. He expected it would bring him a degree of freedom and independence he’d spent the past few weeks yearning for. 

This morning, however, you’re discovering that this may not be the easiest milestone to have reached. Success and improvement aren’t guaranteed and he’s struggling more than he anticipated he would. He gets fatigued easily - walking from the kitchen down the hallway has his muscles aching and his body weak - and everything hurts. The many weeks spent without exertion have taken their toll. 

He’s at the stage in his recovery where the long-term effects of his injuries are starting to make themselves known. It’s too soon to tell for sure, but it looks as though his shoulder might be damaged permanently; as he tries to reach above his head he winces in pain, even more intense than in previous weeks. The resulting hit to his morale is tough to see. 

He tries to put on a brave face, but you can see right through it.

“Looks like you’re finally going to be the stronger one,” he jokes half-heartedly as you support him on his way back to the couch. He’s bearing most of the weight himself, but using your shoulder to keep steady. “Take this as my concession.”

“I was always the stronger one,” you mumble, lowering yourself down to let him sit. 

He collapses onto the couch, face twisted in pain. “ Mentally stronger,” he concedes. “And emotionally, I guess. Better socially, too, if you count having to put up with the brass. But I think I’d have put up a good fight for the title of physically strongest.”

You scoff as you release him. “Even with your best fight, I’d have left with a clean sweep.”

With his good arm, he clutches his chest dramatically as if gravely offended.

“Would lying to you be nice?” you ask fondly, arranging the cushions on the couch so he can sit more comfortably. “I thought you were sick of the sugarcoating?”

Laughing, he drops his arm. “Guess not.”

“Good,” you smile, watching as he settles himself. “I like when you’re agreeable.”

He chuckles again. “Ever thought of being a doctor? You’d be good at it, if you gave up shit-talking your patients.”

“Well, my patients would probably be more reasonable,” you say with a yawn, subtly rolling out an ache in your shoulder from supporting Kishibe up and down the hallway. “I wouldn’t have to shit talk them as much.”

Even in this hypothetical context, it’s funny to think of a world in which you and Kishibe work normal jobs. People become devil hunters for two reasons: revenge or necessity, and sometimes both. But over time, those reasons start to twist and change, becoming stronger or weaker or more obscure, and through the course of their career, hunters often collect new motivations. 

For you now, it’s just that you’re good at what you do - as good as your partner, if not better - and so you rarely let yourself think about what could have been had you chosen differently. It seems pointless. 

“And if you leave, then what would I do?” Kishibe pipes up with a grin. It’s a little strained since you know he’s in considerable pain, but he does look as though he’s entertained by all these impossible scenarios. “When you’re off being a big-shot doctor - can’t really be a hunter then, can I?"

You sit down cross-legged next to the couch, a place you’ve spent countless hours as of late. If you checked, you’d probably find an indentation on the carpet. “Why can’t you be a hunter? They’ll just give you a new partner.”

He makes a noise somewhere between disagreement and disgust. You laugh, feeling a little bemused; you’re far from being his first partner, and he’s not yours, either. You’re not sure where he got this strong distaste towards the idea of working with someone new. It’s bound to happen eventually. 

You take his hand in your own and give it a squeeze.

“Ah, I don’t think I’d want a new partner,” he admits casually. “I think I’m set.”

You arch a brow. “You know you won’t have to sleep with them, right? You can just work with them?” 

“Wait, really?” comes his sarcastic retort, his expression taking on a forced and sudden seriousness. “Holy shit, that changes things. Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”

You release his hand for dramatic effect only for him to stubbornly take it back.

“... you’d really quit if I couldn’t be your partner anymore?” you ask after a moment has passed. The question gnaws at you, allowing your mind to revisit the prospects you had locked away in a box somewhere in its depths. You try to keep your face impassive as you can. 

He nods as though there’s no need for him to even consider it. “Yeah, pretty sure.”

“And do what instead?” 

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Male modelling?” 

You roll your eyes. “Be serious.”

“Ouch, first of all,” he huffs, only to be met with an amused glance from you, “and secondly – I’m not sure, really. I haven’t thought it through.” Well, that makes two of you, at least. “I just know that it … I know we’re told not to rely on our partners to the point of it becoming self-sacrificial, but the thing is - I think I’m gone past that point. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. So, I just don’t think I could trust anyone as much as I do you.”

Something’s at the tip of your tongue; something that scares you. 

You don’t say it. Instead, you just enjoy the easy silence, both of you indulging in the frivolous what if’s in your own minds.

The quietness is soon interrupted by the sound of an alarm buzzing in the kitchen

“Time for your meds,” you announce. You get to your feet and ignore your own fatigue.

“The ones that taste like shit?”

You shake your head. “Nah, the little tiny ones you can knock back with water.”

“What a relief,” he sighs, eyes following you as you head out to the kitchen. “Thanks, doc."

___

It’s not always so easy for Kishibe to keep things light-hearted. As the week progresses and his injuries show no signs of improvement, he has taken to napping during the day, more to let the time pass by quicker than anything else.

He seems less willing to do the exercises the doctors assigned him, and the tasks that he once begged you to let him do no longer carry the same appeal. He eats a meal with you at the table, chats for a few minutes, then returns to the living room. Afterwards, he stays quiet unless spoken to. 

You know it has absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s not any form of silent treatment – in fact, you can see how he uses his very limited social battery to chat with you over dinner. His eyes still show fondness when he looks your way. He still kisses the crown of your head when you embrace him. 

He’s just struggling. And you are too.

You’re reading a book - or trying to, at least - as Kishibe sleeps off the morning’s unsuccessful attempts at stretching out his shoulder. Your eyes are unfocused, the page before you blurry. You find yourself thinking of that first morning you woke up next to him.

When you woke up in your bed, rays of sunshine streaming through the curtains, you knew Kishibe was lying by your side. You didn’t even have to roll over to confirm it; you could smell his aftershave.

It’s not that you forgot - neither of you had too much to drink the night before - but it all felt so surreal that part of you thought it was a dream. But you felt so grounded that morning, Kishibe’s arm draped over your waist, and you knew it was all real from the soft sounds of his breathing next to you. 

“You up?” he mumbled, his voice laced with sleep as it often is during your early-morning missions.

“Just about.”

“Will I get breakfast?” he asked as he suppressed a yawn. He made no attempt to move his hand away. 

“I can get it. You paid for the cab,” you replied, not moving away from him either. 

The cab. Last night. The cab you took home from the bar, to sleep with your partner, to make a decision with irreversible consequences.

Though funnily enough, the regret hadn’t hit you yet. You half-expected to wake up in a cold sweat, having come to the realisation that entertaining your feelings for Kishibe was the stupidest mistake you ever made. 

But you didn’t feel anything of the sort. This was … easier than you had expected. It was like a piece of your day-to-day routine you hadn’t realised you were missing.

You rolled out of bed and looked at him, his hair touseled from sleep and a satisfied smile on his face, and it took only that one glance to make you crawl back under the covers and let him take you apart over and over again.

The pattern continued over the following weeks, months. You worked as normal, bickered as you always did, and then went home together most nights. Your dynamic didn’t change all that much, except maybe for the fact that you were a little gentler with each other – not in the field, of course, but in the mornings when you woke up with bloodshot eyes and tired limbs. 

Of course, relationships don’t tend to work on that trajectory; the idea that you can just coexist forever without anything ever changing. Happy as you were, you knew things wouldn’t continue undefined, unexplored. Something would come along to disrupt things. Something big, something you weren’t prepared for – 

Just then, Kishibe stirs. You drop your book to your lap, ready to leap up to assist if needed, but he falls back into a restless sleep after a few moments pass. 

Despite everything, you smile. His morale may have taken a hit but he’s still trying, trying every single day, to get better. That hard work can’t just be for nothing. You’ll both see improvement soon.

You’ve gotten this far together, you think to yourself, and he just might make an optimist out of you yet. 

You thought he fell back asleep, but … 

He says it so softly that he could just be sleep-talking, but the words cut clear through the air, repeating in your mind on a loop until you can no longer think of anything else.

“Love you.”

___

It’s a bad night for Kishibe. 

Yesterday was his first attempt at sharing your bed, a fairly significant milestone in itself, but the pain kept him awake all through the night, tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. Though you swore that you didn’t mind (and you meant it), he’s returned to the couch this evening and there was no convincing him otherwise. He stayed silent while you tried to argue your case.

However, you weren’t about to let him isolate himself indefinitely or stand idly by as he wallowed in his own imagined failures, and so tonight, you decided to stay with him. 

You’re curled up in an armchair on the other side of the room, wrapped in a blanket and resting your head against the velvet cushion behind you, watching in silence as his face twists in pain to the point it’s almost unrecognisable, clutching his sides as his aching muscles try to heal themselves. 

His breath sounds torn and ragged as it leaves him, but apart from that, he makes no verbal signs of discomfort. You start to worry that he’s holding back for your benefit. 

Obviously, you don’t want to hear the sounds of his suffering, but the idea that he’s trying to act tough or unbreakable or any of that other bullshit you stopped caring about long ago … 

He sucks in a shallow breath and his hands ball into fists, his knuckles turning white as he does so. 

You catch a glimpse of the clock above the window; it’s just after two a.m., which explains why it’s been a few hours since you’ve heard the sound of traffic or footsteps from the street below floating through the cracked window. You rub your tired eyes with the back of your hand. 

Ordinarily, you’d be in bed by now, but you can’t bring yourself to leave. The thought of him being here alone in the dark, sweating bullets as he tries to struggle through the pain … you know you wouldn’t be able to get a wink of sleep. 

Just then, Kishibe makes his first utterance of pain; a low sound that gets caught in his throat, but you still hear it. 

You shrug off the blanket and rise up from your chair, quietly pacing across the room. You sit down on your haunches by the sofa and Kishibe opens his eyes – exhausted, bloodshot eyes that have something of an apology in them. 

He opens his mouth to say something but you just reach your hand out to cup his cheek. Your thumb traces slow, soothing circles and he leans into the touch, almost mesmerised by the movement. You don’t say anything, don’t try to crowd him or lay next to him or get him to talk unnecessarily; your touch alone is enough reassurance. His gaze softens. 

It’s been a week since he told you that he loved you. It’s been six days and twelve hours since you said it back. Neither of you has said it since, but you don’t really need to. This is enough.

The only perceptible sounds in the room are that of the two of you breathing and the tick-tick-ticking of the clock behind you, but you can easily tune that out, choosing instead to focus on how Kishibe’s chest is now rising and falling at a much steadier pace, on how the divot between his brows has fully relaxed. 

Your thumb gently grazes over the reddened skin on his cheek but he feels no pain from it – he told you before that the scar by his jaw is as close to fully healed as he’ll get it. His eyes flutter shut as you keep up your gentle caresses, but you don’t stop. You keep going as if it’s offering some comfort to you as well. 

This started out as a bad night, but it just might turn into one of those rare occasions where Kishibe gets more sleep than you do. 

And you don’t mind at all.

___

Kishibe finishes his first complete set of exercises the following morning.

Two days later and he can walk unsupported, up and down the hallways – it tires him out, but he can do it. He sleeps the full night in your bed afterwards.

He’s more proactive, too, in his recovery. He’ll make an effort to keep to a schedule, which certainly helps to keep him from falling back into that pit of despair. He responds better to feedback from doctors. That familiar glint in his eye returns, as does his sense of humour. He starts to smile more. 

As the days pass, his progress becomes more and more apparent - an exercise here, an independent task there - and it all adds up to a far more encouraging picture than what was painted at the beginning.

It’s not all good news, of course; there are still signs of long-term damage to his shoulder. His range of movement will likely never be the same.

But crucially, his outlook has changed. He no longer carries himself like a burden. 

As a result, you’re sleeping through the night again – it’s easier to wake up in the mornings knowing your day will have a sense of normalcy. 

Though come to think of it … it’s hard to pin down what ‘normalcy’ will even look like from this point on. 

As he continues to improve, you find yourself considering it more and more. Will it involve you going back to work? Or will it be both of you returning to life as Devil Hunters, living life exclusively in the short-term, never planning or aspiring to anything else? 

You doubt that’s even possible. Maybe ‘normal’ isn’t something that is casual, unlabelled. Maybe ‘normal’ isn’t about just hooking up and going your separate ways the next morning. 

Maybe it hasn’t been like that for a while now. 

___

“You take good care of me, y’know?” 

You lift your head, surprised; you thought Kishibe was asleep. It’s midday and he’s stretched out in your bed - he had the last of his stitches from surgery removed yesterday; the new medication makes him drowsy - and the last time you glanced in his direction, his eyes were closed. 

“Whatcha mean?” 

You ask the question through a mouthful of piping-hot vegetable soup, having made yourself a bowl while he napped. Sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed with a book in your other hand, you have the bowl carefully perched on your lap – eating in bed is not a common occurrence at your place, but you don’t like leaving Kishibe unaccompanied while the meds are wearing off. This way, you’re within reaching distance of him should anything happen. 

“Everything okay?” you follow up when you don’t get an answer. 

“Yeah, all okay,” he mumbles, his voice sleepy but still achingly fond. His eyes are still closed, a lazy grin on his face; you have to imagine that it still hurts for him to smile, but he seems to take some novelty in the fact that he can do it at all. “I was just saying: you take good care of me. Really good care.”

You chuckle softly as you take another sip of the broth. All it took was his stitches being removed and the sentimentality just starts pouring out. 

“Is this because of that stuff you were saying last week?” you ask amusedly, recalling his reluctant praise for your first-aid skills and how he said you’d make a great doctor . “About me quitting and getting into medicine?”

“Maybe?” he answers with the lilt of a question. He sounds a little hazy, almost unsure of whether he even knows himself. 

Now properly awake, he starts to sit up in bed, clasping his hands behind his head as his lower back stays supported by pillows – again, likely pushing the boundaries of his comfort, but he seems unperturbed by it. 

Despite the fact that he’s only wearing a t-shirt and that the windows are thrown open to allow some fresh air into the room, his cheeks are flushed pink. His hair is messy, too, the soft black strands pushed back as though he’s run a hand through it. 

He smiles at you as you eat, eyes scanning your face. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was trying to commit it to memory. 

It takes a while for realisation seems to dawn on him, for him to figure out what he had initially meant to tell you.

“I just … wanted to tell you you’re great at this,” he says then, with considerably more determination this time. “At all of this. And to say how much I appreciate it. To thank you, as if that’s even enough.”

You lower the spoon from your lips and shoot him a bemused look. 

“You a little stoned off the pain meds, huh?” you tease. “They got you on the good stuff?”

He laughs. “Yep, a bit.”

“Knew it.”

“But I’m still telling the truth,” he continues with a shrug, and he sounds so sure of himself, “pain meds or no pain meds.”

“Always honest to an absolute fault,” you remark quietly, stirring distractedly as he gives you a wry smirk. 

And it’s true.

His honesty wasn’t the easiest thing to get used to at first. Teasing and flirtation aside, when it came down to it, Kishibe could be blunt – to the extent that it caused quite a few spats in the early days of your partnership. 

However, somewhat reluctantly and without any conscious decision on your part, you got used to it over time. It went from aggravating to just annoying to tolerable , and now, you figure that his honesty is more of a virtue than anything else. 

In your line of work especially, you can’t rely on someone who sugarcoats things and builds up a false sense of security. Dependability is everything. You’d rather hear the truth from him than something that could get you killed.

He’s an honest hunter. Part of you wonders if outside of work, he’s picking up some of your bad habits.

You slide off the bed and set your bowl down on the nightstand as his gaze follows you. When you return, you hop up next to him, laying down by his side. He shuffles over to make space and you pull the covers up halfway, staying on your side, propped up on an elbow and resting your chin against your hand. 

Then, you just look at him, taking in the relative peacefulness that he hasn’t been able to enjoy in so long. 

“Okay, in the spirit of honesty,” you begin, smiling to match the expression on his face. “Want to tell me how I’ve been taking good care of you?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

“Oh, always.”

“Well now who’s being honest?”

You raise your eyebrows as a means to challenge him; he relents with a laugh. 

“Fine, fine. Want to hear me sing your praises?” 

You nod instantly and he rolls his eyes without any malice. With a fond shake of his head, he starts to speak. 

“Okay, where to start? I mean, I suppose firstly; you’re here all the time. I like that I can go to sleep at night and then wake up in the mornings, knowing that you’re here.”

You snort at the candour and his straightforward delivery. “Is this your way of telling me to back off? Because I won’t be offended. Too much, anyway.”

Kishibe barks out a laugh. 

“Nah, the opposite, actually,” he corrects you, his eyes twinkling, but then grimaces in pain as he rolls out a kink in his shoulder. You shift over to go and help him, but thankfully, the jolt of discomfort passes as soon as it hits. You return to resting on your elbow but stay a little closer this time. 

“I want you here as much as possible,” he says then, a softness to the words. “So I can take good care of you, too.”

Oh. Huh. You truthfully weren’t expecting that.

You chuckle, unable to think of any other way to respond. Ignoring the heat creeping up your neck, you try not to read too much into it. 

“You do take good care of me — saved me from that pack of fiends back in January, for one. Talked me out of signing a contract with that Devil, for another -” 

He shakes his head by means of interruption, clearly dissatisfied with the angle you’re taking. 

“I don’t just mean work stuff. I mean … I don’t know, doing extra stuff.”

Your brow furrows in confusion.  

“Like more than what partners do?” you ask, genuinely curious. It’s hard to think of anything he could do for you that he hasn’t already done. You share a relationship of equals; you’ve never wanted for anything.

“More than what partners do,” he agrees, tilting his head to the side. “I meant … like what husbands do.” 

Oh.

Oh. 

You blink at him. He blinks back. Neither one of you says anything else. 

An unfamiliar sensation rushes through you like a wave, starting in your chest and spreading up and out to your limbs, and it’s such a strong, visceral feeling that you have no idea how you can’t place it. 

Surely something this intense has a name? 

Kishibe looks far more composed than you feel, far more composed than he arguably should be considering what was just said. 

Other than his light blush and the way his pupils are just a little blown out, he seems unruffled. 

You, on the other hand, are decidedly not . 

Then, before you can even begin to formulate something resembling an answer, he ups the stakes once again. 

“Move in with me,” Kishibe says, phrasing it as a statement rather than a question, and it’s as though a year’s worth of unspoken words are hitting you at once.

In a way, you suppose they are.

Unable to do anything else, you sit up straight, lips parting helplessly while no words come out. 

If Kishibe is concerned by your lack of response, he doesn’t show it. He stays where he’s sitting, patiently awaiting an answer without so much as an anxious fidget.

An answer. 

Your answer.

You search for one desperately, trying to pick just one decipherable thought amongst the thousands rushing through your mind right now …

But before one comes to you, a lightbulb goes off. You don’t have to give an answer – no, you shouldn’t give one, considering that Kishibe’s on medication, recovering from weeks of pain and rehabilitation, and he’s not thinking things through right now. 

Of course, you think to yourself as the waves start to subside, this isn’t an official offer. He’ll forget all about this in the morning. 

Rather than stress him out with complications or details or promises that he may not even be aware he’s making, you decide to give him an out. To give him the opportunity to revisit this another time.  

You twist to the side to look at him, hoping your face doesn’t betray you. He looks back expectantly. 

“Maybe you should get some sleep-”

“I don’t need sleep,” he objects, frowning now. “I’m being serious. This isn’t the drugs talking - well, maybe part of it is, I don’t know … but I’ve been thinking about this for a while.” 

You laugh softly, marvelling at the absurdity of this conversation. “You want me to move in with you?”

He nods. “And, to be completely honest, I want a lot more than that.”

You know it’s a bad idea to push further, but your curiosity wins out. “Like what?”

“I want to marry you,” he answers matter-of-factly, and your heart goes from beating too fast to stopping entirely. “I want to wake up next to you in the mornings. I want to see you before we go to sleep every night. And if we get there and decide it’s something we can do, I want to have babies with you and see them grow up in a house we own together. I want to stay with you every day until we’re old as shit and you really do find me ugly.”

He stops speaking like he’s run out of breath. Similarly, you feel as though you can’t get enough air into your lungs. 

You hadn’t realised that you’d started trembling. 

What he’s saying … it sounds like an indulgence. Something that’s so normal for so many, but so unbelievably idealised in your own mind that you hadn’t even allowed yourself to hope for it.

How can you possibly plan for your lives together when you can only take things week-by-week, grateful for every morning you wake up unscathed?

But now … Kishibe isn’t unscathed. The worst-case scenario actually happened, but instead of running away when faced with the harsh truth of your mortality, you both got through it. You stayed by his side, caring for and comforting him. He, in turn, placed his trust in you, entirely and without hesitation. And you know that things would be the same if the roles were reversed. 

But that doesn’t mean … you’ve never even thought about … how could you begin to take on all of those responsibilities …

Almost as if he’s reading your mind, he elaborates.

“But I don’t mean - I don’t want to force you into a life you don’t want, or anything like that. We don’t need to do it the traditional way. I don’t care about the official papers or the white picket fence or any of that bullshit, and the kids thing is a whole other conversation too, and … shit, I didn’t mean this to pressure you,” he says, and you know he really means it. “It’s just … I don’t know … with everything that’s gone on, I think I’d regret it if I didn’t say it.”

As the words sink in, something inside you clicks into place.

So that’s the feeling you just experienced: true regret.

Regret that you hadn’t said something like this earlier. 

Regret that you’d lived a whole life without even allowing yourself a glimpse at the other possibilities. 

Regret that it took Kishibe nearly dying to get this far, that you had wasted so long pointlessly holding back the inevitable.

But with the regret came a sense of relief as well, relief so great that it feels like a deep breath after being held underwater. Relief that offers your racing mind some much-needed clarity.

You look at him with a smile and his shoulders relax. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

He exhales - you hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath - and nods slowly. “Okay, good,” he says gently. “Is that your answer?”

You shake your head once. “Not quite; I do want you to get some sleep first. I need to be a thousand per cent sure this isn’t influenced by those meds. Then I’ll give the official answer,” you finish, ensuring the words are delivered softly so he knows it isn’t a rejection.

Thankfully, he doesn’t interpret it as one. “Fair enough. Can’t argue there.”

You lean over to kiss him then hop out of bed to let him rest, picking up the bowl to take back to the kitchen. In preparation for his nap, he settles himself in amongst the pillows and blankets, beaming from ear to ear. 

“See you soon, doc.”

You head out, laughing, and just as you’re about to close the door behind you, you call out over your shoulder. 

“If this is going to happen, you need to do some serious work on those godawful pet names.”

___

At some point that night, Kishibe wakes next to you. He’d been in and out of sleep all day and you’d dozed off hours around midnight, but you’re not sure what time it is when your eyes open instinctually at the sound of him stirring. 

The air feels heavy but warm, almost like an embrace. 

“You awake?” he asks softly, but his words are clear and crisp. The medication’s worn off. 

You don’t roll over, don’t shift in place. You stay lying there, staring at the ceiling, feeling your eyes inexplicably prickle with tears.

Happy tears, for once in your life.  

“Mhmm,” you agree softly once you’ve cleared your throat. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s okay.”

The only visibility in the room is from the moonlight trickling through a small opening in the curtains; not enough for you to see his face, but you know he means it from those two words alone. 

It’s time to make good on your promise. 

“You’re really sure?” you ask then. “About what you said, earlier?”

A beat of silence.

“Yeah. I meant it.”

Another moment of pure quiet, slow and sedated, without so much as the sound of a car passing outside. 

You breathe in deeply. 

“Then yes. My answer’s yes.” 

___

It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment at which Kishibe officially moved in. You both agreed that it was better for him to move into your place as opposed to finding somewhere new - he practically lives here already, plus you hate packing - and for lack of an official move-in date, today seems as good as any. Kishibe has finally been given the all-clear: a clean bill of health, with minimal long-term damage. The relief is so profound you could cry. 

And so tonight, you’ll toast his recovery and celebrate the move, celebrate getting to this point together, celebrate the good habits you’ve picked up from each other and the fact that you’re not as terrible at this as you once feared. 

Kishibe doesn’t have much left back at his old apartment, which makes the move-in process short and sweet. This morning he had gone back to hand in his key to the landlord, packed a suitcase with the few belongings that he hadn’t already moved over, and arrived back at your door with a smile on his face and an expensive bottle of whiskey in hand. 

Now, he’s in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Your offers to help him are pointedly ignored. In his words, he wants to start repaying the favour for all you’ve done – you explain that he doesn’t need to repay anything but he’s typically insistent – and, truth be told, it’s nice to sit back with a glass of whiskey while a meal is served to you. 

You enjoy the delicious smells wafting through the kitchen, the sight of Kishibe humming along to one of his vinyls as it spins in the record player on the countertop. You laugh as he tries (and fails) to hit one of the high notes.

He, in turn, appreciates the look on your face when he serves up the dish in front of you. He marvels at your strength, your resilience. He never imagined he’d be grateful for almost dying.

Hours pass with the two of you eating, talking, drinking, acknowledging your mutual ignorance over the course of your partnership - you think back to a time long before his injury when Quanxi mailed a package intended for him to your address, assuming that the two of you were already living together - and you feel your heart swell at how your little apartment is, for the first time, full of laughter and levity. 

After the meal has been enjoyed and the kitchen cleaned spotless by a highly-motivated Kishibe, you retire to the couch for the evening to sit together, not to rest. In a perfect world, that couch will never need to be slept on again. 

As you settle on the couch, you don’t miss how Kishibe’s gaze lingers on you – the later the hour gets, the more heated glances the two of you share. You feel a pleasant heat creep up your neck as his eyes trail downward.

You mindlessly flick through the channels, settling on some shitty murder mystery you have no intention of actually watching. He wraps his arms around you and you lean your head back against his shoulder, draping his arm over your waist. 

You hadn’t realised that the hem of your t-shirt had lifted a couple of inches until a few minutes later when you feel his fingertips graze against the exposed skin by your hip. It’s only the lightest of touches but it feels incendiary . 

Your enthusiastic reaction is understandable since you obviously haven’t been able to share any physical intimacy since his injury. His health, understandably, took priority, but now you’re now far more reactive to his touch after months of going without it. He notices.

Testing the waters, you push back against him and feel him already half-hard against your lower back. 

“I know what you’re doing,” he murmurs softly, his breath hot against the back of your neck. Your laugh is saccharine, playing innocent. 

You missed feeling him like this. You’d gotten so used to this type of intimacy, so familiar with each other’s bodies.  

Bored of the movie you’d barely been pretending to watch, you crane your neck around to press your lips to his jawline, only barely skimming the sensitive skin. He makes a gruff sound of approval that catches in his throat, and before the moment has passed, he has you lifted up and around onto his lap, pulling you in for a heated kiss. 

Wasting no time, apparently.

It hadn’t taken much to get him going, but then again, it has been a while — you can’t fault him for his eagerness when you're just as excited yourself. 

You return his kiss, eager and hungry as his tongue pushes into your mouth. This is far messier than usual – in the past, you’ve taken your time with soft, languid kisses, gentle caresses, but this is different; heated, urgent, as though you physically can’t stand the absence of his touch. 

With immense self-control you pull back, looking with hooded eyes as a thin string of saliva connects your mouth to his.

“Bed,” you choke out, the whisper barely audible as it leaves you, but he responds without question. He helps you up from the couch and grasps your hand firmly as you head down the hallway.

Once the bedroom door closes behind you, he half-guides, half-pulls you onto the bed with him. You don’t even have time to gasp. Within a matter of seconds, he’s lying on his back in the centre of the bed as you hastily move to straddle him, the movements a little unpolished and frenzied but you’re past the point of caring about appearances.

Your lips are so close to his that you share a breath before he pulls you in for another messy kiss. You grind down on his clothed cock and he shudders, grabbing your hips and grinding back, marvelling at the fact that he can finally, finally touch you like this again. 

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve fucking missed this?” he whispers into the shell of your ear, having moved his kiss-swollen lips to nip and suckle at your pulse point until you can feel his mark against it. “Weeks and weeks of having to look without being able to touch,” you tug his shirt up a few inches, mirroring his earlier movements on the couch. You gently drag your nails over his lower stomach, over his hips, running your fingers around the waistband of his pants, “… fucking hell, fuck, I missed this so fucking much …”

You want to hear more. Every word sends shivers down your spine, goosebumps prickling on your skin, and so you push him a little more; “how badly did you want to touch?” 

He laughs disbelievingly, the sound canting up into a sharp gasp when you slip your hand fully into his pants, cupping the bulge in his underwear. “W-well,” another shaky pant, “it’s … shit, it’s most of what I thought about the past month,” a groan this time, “...at least .”

“Mm?”

You lean in to kiss his neck, clouding his thoughts even further. He makes an admirable attempt at continuing; “yeah … spent every night thinking about the thousand different ways I want to touch you,” you nip his earlobe with your teeth, “... lick you, fuck you,” he swallows thickly. “And how could I not?”

You straighten up, giving yourself a moment to catch your breath. “What do you mean?”

His breath is heavy as you start to stroke him through his underwear. You feel a bit mean for making it so hard for him to reply, but his shaky moans and the way his muscles tense as you touch him are too much to resist. 

To his credit, he gives his answer. “How could I not feel that way when I was there on the couch, thinking about you in our bed? Imagining being able to just reach my hand down and make you come on my fingers, imagining how good you’d taste … knowing you were just down the hallway … holy fuck, it nearly killed me.” 

“Nearly killed you, huh?”

He nods, letting out a short laugh. “Part of the reason I insisted on the couch.”

You yelp with surprise as he hauls you further up his body – you remember his strength all too well, but hadn’t expected him to regain most of it so quickly. 

“And you know what I wanted most of all?” he asks once you’ve steadied yourself against his shoulders, pressing a kiss to your forehead before helping you tug off your shirt.  

Once your upper half is bare you shake your head to answer his question, going to open the buttons of his shirt with unsteady hands. You get the top one open, then the second, then the third - 

His grin turns salacious. “For you to sit on my face.” 

That’s enough to shock you into halting your movement. Your whole body heats, anticipation crackling through you. “I - what?” 

His large hands rest against your bare hips before moving up, up, up over your waist and ribs and finally, your breasts, cupping them in his hands and running his thumbs over your peaked nipples.  

“… for you to sit on my face, please ?” 

A giggle slips out in spite of everything. 

Months of not getting to touch like this, and that’s what he wants to do first? You’re not going to object too strongly, but; “I didn’t … I just … don’t you want me to do something for you?”

He smiles again, looking up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, as though he could devour you right now and it would be the best thing that ever happened to him. “This is for me.”

Well, no use in arguing any further. Wordlessly, you shrug off your skirt and underwear, tossing them on the floor as Kishibe’s eyes stay locked at the apex of your thighs. He lays his head back down on the pillow, practically beaming. 

You move to the top of the mattress, using the headboard for leverage as you angle yourself over him, thighs caging his head. Too far gone to feel any self-consciousness about your vulnerable position and how evidently wet you already are, you spread your legs further and slowly lower yourself over his mouth, feeling his breath against your soaking folds. Shaking already, you approach and just about feel him – 

You half-expected him to tease, but he doesn’t; as soon as you’re close enough, he cranes his neck to run his tongue all the way through your entrance, slow and deliberate. 

It’s hot, almost unbearably so, and you can’t help but cry out as your head falls back involuntarily. His movements stay slow and tantalising as he savours the taste of you, eating you out in a way that could almost be described as leisurely . 

Any words of praise you want to give him die a sudden death, caught at the back of your throat as keens and gasps and broken fractions of syllables are the only sounds that escape – you can only hope they are sufficient in getting your point across. 

They do. He groans his approval, spreading you open with his thumbs, marvelling as your thighs start to tremble with every motion he makes. Your fingers hurt from how tightly you’re gripping the headboard.

Your back arches, desperate to seek more of the sensation that’s sending sparks through your entire body, but he’s careful and methodical in the way he takes you apart. He takes his time, sucking your throbbing clit into his mouth and applying just enough pressure that the build is steady but aching. You start to rock back and forth against the wet heat, trying to resist the urge to ride his face.

He suddenly pulls his mouth away and you almost weep at the loss of contact.

“You don’t have to be careful with me, y’know,” he points out, the lower half of his face drenched already, “I’ve got a full bill of health, so please don’t hold back on my account.”

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly, and your clit gives an answering throb when he presses a closed-mouth kiss to it. 

“I wanna see you squirm on top of me,” he answers, low and heated now, and so you do what’s asked of you. 

Sinking back down on him, you start to writhe as his tongue presses flat against your folds, dragging up to circle the bundle of nerves, focusing solely on getting you as close to the edge as possible.

It goes from feeling too careful to too much . Too intense. It feels like a hot ball of fire building in your core, with every probe of Kishibe’s tongue stoking the flames. 

Then, just as easily as breathing, it goes from too much to just perfect. 

You weren’t expecting the feeling of his stubble against your thighs at this angle to be so uniquely pleasant. It stings a little as you rise and fall, yes, but it adds a whole new sensation that makes you keen almost pathetically, desperate for everything he’s giving you. Every lick against your slick flesh makes you throb, your swollen clit grateful for the friction. 

You sink your fingers into his soft hair. “More, fuck, please. I need more.”

He uses his hands to gently push your lower back, prompting you to bend and change the angle which makes his nose graze against your clit. You feel one, then two fingers slip inside you and work you open, the pressure building in your core as your body desperately chases release, moving in whatever way necessary in order to get it. 

Just as you feel yourself approach the edge, you distantly hear Kishibe mumble something between your thighs. As good as the vibrations feel, you raise yourself up to hear him speak.

“Can you - can you -” he mumbles, the words slurring. 

“Hmm?” you ask, a little cruelly, running a hand through his hair and admiring the view beneath you. 

“Ride me?” he asks. “Please, please fucking ride me … I know it’s not suave or cool to beg, but please, I need to know what you feel like around me. Fuck, I missed it so much.”

You don’t answer with words, instead moving down his body until you’ve reached his thighs. You straddle them, and when you pull him in for another heated kiss. you can taste yourself on his mouth. He moans into it, thrusting his hips up between your spread thighs, and you decide he’s wearing far too many clothes. 

You unbutton his pants with one hand, keeping the other at the back of his neck as you deepen the kiss. He opens his mouth and gasps into the kiss as you take him out of his underwear, his cock so hard it seems almost painful as it bobs against his stomach. He shudders when you slip your hand from his neck down his torso, index finger tracing his chest before you take him in your hand, giving his shaft a few lazy pumps to tease him.

“Please?” he asks once more, pupils blown out with desire, and you don’t feel like denying him (or yourself) for much longer.

You position your hips until they’re seated above his, your fingers still loosely wrapped around his cock which twitches against your touch, and you only let go of it to brace yourself on his shoulders.

You circle your hips so the head of his cock rubs against your slit; when it catches against your clit you let out a shocked mewl.

He smiles up at you. You smile back, and then you sink down onto him.

“Oh fu-u-uck,” he groans with every inch that slips inside, struggling to keep from bucking up into the heat enveloping him. “How … how do you feel even fucking better than I remembered?”

You feel the stretch even though you’re soaked, but it’s not unpleasant given how well he prepared you. 

He lets you set the pace as you ride him, pulling yourself up until he’s almost slipping out before sinking back down to the hilt, your slick walls coating his cock. 

For you, too, it feels better than you remembered. Even though you’re arguably more desperate, more fervent tonight than you have been before, time seems to move slower. It no longer feels as though these are just stolen moments that you need to savour before they’re gone forever.

This feels nothing like that – this feels wonderful, unending. 

You quicken the pace as his hips start to buck up into yours. He seems as though he’s resisting the urge to start erratically thrusting up into you, rutting into the heat that’s enveloping him so perfectly. He bites his lower lip hard. 

“Can’t believe … fuck …” he whispers, looking up at you with something that can only be described as pure reverence. “... can’t believe I get to have this. Get to have you.”

With that, all measure of self-control is out the window; you speed up your motions and he fucks into you desperately, hands gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure you’ll still feel it tomorrow. Every cell in your body seems to burn hot as you lose yourself in the sensation. 

“S-so good, so, so good …”

When his thrusts turn sloppy and his words start to slur, you know he’s approaching his peak. 

It’s close, you can tell it’s close …

However, you reach yours first; the orgasm hit you out of nowhere, the usual build-up lost to the overwhelming sensation. Your vision goes white as you throw your head back, crying out his name over and over again until it echoes in your ears. Unending pleasure wracks your body and happily, you let it. 

All it took was that sight – you, repeating his name like a prayer as you come undone above him – and he’s spilling inside you with a low groan. 

You hear your own name falling repeatedly from his lips as he thrusts as deep as he can, ignoring the aftershocks that start when you keep pulsing around him. He’s so beautiful like this it nearly hurts you. 

Exhausted, your upper body collapses against his chest and he wraps his arms around you, pressing your sweat-damp foreheads together as he gives a few more shallow thrusts. 

He doesn’t pull out for a little while longer, and when he finally does, he keeps you tucked against him in a tender embrace, filling the room with words of praise. 

How wonderful you are, how perfect. How loved. 

The two of you have all the time in the world, and you’re more than content to spend it this way. 

___

When you wake up the next morning, you immediately notice that Kishibe isn’t in bed next to you. Your heart sinks as you roll over – his side of the bed is still warm so he can’t have gone too far, but you didn’t even hear him leave. 

You sit up with a start. 

Was this too much? Is he panicking? Is the reality too different from the fantasy you both had come up with?

But before your worries escalate to something more, you pick up some soft sounds coming from the kitchen; pots and pans clanging gently, as if someone’s trying to use them as quietly as possible without waking you. 

The faint scent of coffee hits you then, wafting through the gap in the door, along with an aroma you’ve become very familiar with over the past while.

Pancakes.

You let out a short, relieved chuckle. It’s second nature for you to expect the worst and it will take a lot of unlearning, but you figure that there’s no better person to experience that with than your partner.

You yawn as you slide out of bed - you didn’t get much sleep last night, after all - before shrugging on a robe and padding down the hall. 

“Really leaning into the domesticity, are we?” you call out as you enter the kitchen, spotting Kishibe by the stove with a frying pan in hand. True to form, he has two mugs of coffee ready and holds one out to you as you approach – you accept it with a grateful squeeze of his hand, lifting the cup to your lips and savouring the bittersweet taste. It doesn’t go unnoticed that he picked your favourite mug.

“Indulge me?” he asks as he flips a pancake, taking a sip of his own brew, and you make a sound of agreement. 

“Never said it was a bad thing,” you add with a smile, blowing softly to cool down the drink before taking a seat at the little table in the corner. He has it set for breakfast - a cup of sugar, a little jug of milk, some sliced fruits are laid out in front of you, along with cutlery and plates - and he even has the newspaper folded on the table despite neither one of you ever reading it.

To say that it’s endearing is an understatement; you’ve earned one or two clichés of domestic life. 

He joins you once the pancakes are finished - “ how the hell did you manage to not burn a single one?” - and pulls his chair closer to yours. He glances at you when you take the first bite, almost self-conscious in the way he watches you eat, looking relieved when you hum your approval.

“So,” he begins, after taking a bite of his own. “Think you’ll be going to work on Monday?”

Though his tone is conversational, you know the question is loaded. It’s not accusatory in the slightest - you know he will respect whatever decision you arrive at as long as you come home to him afterwards - but he just needs to know, to prepare for whatever course you both choose to take. 

You think for a moment. You assume, based on the trajectory this conversation has taken, that you’ll need to look at other prospects. You’re not sure if you’ll quit outright – if that’s even possible – but you think it might be time for an extended hiatus in the devil-hunting department. 

The Division would have no hesitation in replacing you should you get injured or be killed in action – they can cope without you for a few months. Or longer. 

“I think I’ll call in sick,” you reply in between sips of coffee. 

“Really?” he queries with a grin, turning to face you – you can’t help but match it. “‘Cos I think I will too.”

You nod confidently, feeling your heart swell in your chest.

“Sounds like a plan.”

#kishibe #reader insert #op i love this #♥️♥️

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⌛️., m1u iruma (☆´3｀) layouts!¡ like/rb

req by: @k0rek1yos

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could i request baby making with chamber? so much foreplay, multiple orgasms with the hottest dirty talk, breeding-kink-ish and the best aftercare?🥹

i really love your writing!!

CHAMBER x FEM!READER

tw// NSFW Themes (sex), unprotected sex, poorly google translated French, lap-sitting, spanking, Vincent casually sexualizing fem-bodied reader in a public setting, choking, light BDSM, breeding kink brain rotted Vincent, dirty talking, sub reader, dom Vincent, oral (both giving and receiving) aftercare.

by Sanyulmi via Twitter

Everyone in the protocol celebrated their off days differently. Pheonix spent his time trying to get at different girls or—Jett. Yoru spent his time with games or taking a ride out to the garden. Raze would spend time with Killjoy, etc!

Your days were different, though. You often found yourself out of the country or at a resort somewhere in France. The warm air, the exquisite food selection, and the company of Vincent Fabron. He was the man generous enough to spoil you any chance he got. He simply adored you. Vincent would do anything to put a smile on your face. Vacations became the norm at the very beginning of your relationship with him. As soon as his bank account blew up from his sales of weapons, Vincent became Chamber. It was quickly dubbed to be the perfect relationship.

Now, what about the future?

Vincent always dreamed of starting a family with you. He wondered how your children would look and how he would fair as a dad. He was a man that could do anything since he wasn’t sentenced to endlessly working to provide. The dream of being able to spend time with his family.

It was a Friday morning when he finally came to his senses. The two of you have been planning parenthood for a while but there was no set date of when you’d try for a baby. It was just something that…would happen. He was also tied up with his scheme with mirror Vincent. Another thing was that he didn’t want to pull you away from the protocol if you were truly enjoying your time with them. He was very considerate.

Until…he wasn’t.

Sometimes you were just too hard to resist.

The French man found himself staring at you, respectfully. You two were relaxing on the beach together and you were just an arm’s length away from each other. He watched as you took off the silk kimono, revealing a bikini that left nothing to the imagination. It brought together your breasts for flattering cleavage. The bikini bottom was a high-rise thong that made your waist look small and your hips curvy. You hadn’t been paying Vincent any mind the whole time until you decided to finally get up.

You turned around. “Vince, I think I’m gonna go in the water for a bit-“ You trailed off when you saw his smug face that was previously staring at your ass. “Vincent.” You narrowed your eyes. The sudden shift in your tone caused him to snap out of his daze. His eyes then rose upward to your breasts. So shameless.

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms and breaking the line of sight. “What are you doing?” You asked, unamused at his behavior. He wasn’t the gentleman he always portrayed himself to be. You knew him best.

“Oh, me? I am just enjoying the view.”

A giggle left your mouth. “Oh really? I believe the beach is over there but for some reason, you just can’t keep your eyes off of me.” You placed your hands under your breasts making them jiggle just a bit. He wanted you so badly. “There are things in this world that are far more beautiful than this beach.” He took a sip of the nearby cocktail that was sitting on the end table beside him.

“Mmm. Who knew I could have found someone so romantic.” You smiled softly before eyeing him once more. “Are you not hot wearing all of that?” You saw that he was still wearing his usual attire. A suit. At the beach.

You loved his look but he was the only one dressing like that…apart from the bodyguards that were just out of sight.

“Of course, mon amour, you know I have my suits made to be breathable,” Vincent muttered as he adjusted the umbrella over his head for more shade. “Well, can you help me finish putting on some sunscreen?” You grabbed the bottle you had previously been using before politely giving it to him.

“Anything for you.”

You smirked at Vincent before sitting on his lap with your back to him. You brushed your hair out of the way, revealing the exposed skin of your back. You heard him fiddling around with the bottle, removing his gloves before applying it accordingly. The process was normal at first until he would get to your lower back. His hands were roaming a little…too much. You felt his fingertips dig themselves into your waist before his hands firmly found themselves gripping your hips. Your perfect baby-bearing hips.

Was it true that some men become more attracted to women based on their ability to carry children? Maybe…but for Vincent, it was very true! You were the only woman worthy of carrying his seed.

“Mmm. You don’t miss a meal, do you, Mon trésor?” He muttered under his breath, taking in every ounce of you. Perverse thoughts filled his mind as he undressed you even more with his eyes. His comment took you by surprise, almost making you jump at his words. “Vincent?! We’re in public.” You absentmindedly shifted your weight beneath him. The friction began making his pants tighten. “Oh, l know, sweetheart but I hardly get to enjoy you until we have time alone like this. I miss it so very much~”

“Maybe later if you’re good.” You remove yourself from his lap. The expression he made was almost cute. He definitely missed you in more ways than one. It wasn’t something he could control either. His eyes always lingered on you, every day of the week.

You then left Vincent to be by himself for a little bit. Not only could he be smothering sometimes, but it was also just nice to be able to explore some parts of the resort by yourself. It wasn’t long before your husband caught up to you, finally dressing in appropriate attire for the weather. At the sight of him, you couldn’t help but place your hands on your cheeks and smile like a complete idiot.

“Aww, Vince, you look so cute.” You remarked as you made your way over to him. Although embarrassed, Vincent smiled as well. It was always nice having a pretty woman call him “cute”. “Well, mademoiselle, I do have to admit that I was getting a little warm.” Vincent sighed, eyes lingering once again on your exposed assets. He wanted nothing more than to just fondle your breasts, not caring who was looking. “Just in time for dinner as well.” You snapped him out of his daze. You knew Vincent to be more engaging than this but you just assumed he was probably tired from traveling.

The two of you made a reservation at a nearby restaurant. It was much fancier than anything you’d eat at, personally, but you could never say no to thoughtful gestures.

The evening began well. The two of you were seated quickly by the staff because of Vincent’s status so you were happy. There was a scheduled performance so he had a booth reserved where you could sit side by side instead of just across from one another. That was when Vincent’s behavior finally began to make sense to you.

When you received the menu to order, you felt his hand creep up your thigh, beneath the table. “Vincent.” You placed your hand over his. “The night’s almost over, can’t you wait a little?” But your statement was ignored by him gingerly rubbing your inner thigh. His fingertips just brushed the crotch of your bikini bottoms.

No one was able to see, not when the waiter that had come by to deliver your pitcher of water…before promptly spilling it on you!

You instantly lose the feeling of pleasure as the cold water washed over your chest, dripping into your lap. It was too much water to make a scene to stop the performance, but it was enough to soak you. Now you want to change.

“I-I’m so sorry, Miss!” The young waitress began apologizing profusely. It was clear that she was new, so you wouldn’t hold it against her. “Oh, it’s alright, I guess.” You muttered, beginning to shiver as well.

You had been expecting Vincent to intimidate the young lady. This was a 5-star restaurant and he paid a lot to bring you here but…he was distracted. Again.

He watched the cold water stimulate your breasts. It hardened your nipples so much that they were practically poking through your bikini top. It felt like it was only the two of you in the room. The subtle movements of your breasts jiggling as you receive the towel from the manager to dry yourself. He saw you turn towards him, mouthing something he couldn’t hear. You noticed his eyes were looking at you at all.

“—…cent…”

“…Vincent!”

Finally, Vincent made appropriate eye contact. “Do you think we can maybe go back to the hotel so that I can change? My swimsuit is really clingy to my skin.” You instinctively pulled up the strap and let it go to slap your skin, making your breasts bounce once again.

“U-Um, chérie, you’re right. Let’s go to the room and come back.” The French man cleared his throat before helping you out of the booth. You smiled at the manager before asking her to hold your booth until the two of you came back.

Upon entering the room, Vincent quickly broke off from you, locking himself in the bathroom. ‘What’s with him?’ You thought to yourself. Although dumbfounded, you carried on, undressing and looking for something super cute to match Vincent. When he exited the bathroom, he was met with a pleasant surprise.

Your damp, naked body.

“There you are.” You sighed. “Do you remember what bag I put my other outfits in?” You bent over, rummaging around in different bags until you found what you were looking for. “Oh, here they are. They were in your bag.” You giggled to yourself. “How did that happ-“ You cut yourself off, feeling a presence behind you.

Vincent pressed his body up against yours from behind. His masculine arms enveloped your frame into his. Your ass ground up against his bulge. “Je suis désolé chérie but I just wanted to let you know how good you looked today.”

You hummed, leaning further into him. “Oh really? I could already tell you wanted to say something by how you were staring at me with those hungry eyes.”

A hand moved from your waist to one of your breasts, and his fingers brushed your nipples, gripping and twisting them to make them hard once again.

“Vincent! The dinner~!” You whined. “I know, sweetheart.” He replied, in a low voice. “You’ve been teasing me all day with that body of yours and I’ve held this feeling in all day.” Vincent removed his tie. He released you, allowing you to turn and face him. “Can we do it my way, now? It’s been all week.”

Your lips parted for just a moment. At first, you couldn’t remember exactly what he was referring to but in a split second, it came to mind. He wanted to do it without a condom. He didn’t particularly like the way it felt for him but he’d always wear them anyway. He proposed the idea of doing it without one because he wanted to feel your walls without any restraint.

“Fine, but we have to be fast. I don’t want to miss the show.” You said sweetly before Vincent promptly took both of your hands and put them together. He wrapped his tie around your wrists, making a cute bow on the front side for you to be satisfied with. You exhaled, lowering yourself to your knees where his growing cock was.

“Go ahead, don’t be shy.” He placed his hand on top of your head. Your face heated up as you meekly listened to him, pulling his dick out of the trousers. The tip was already strained with precum when you began to kiss it softly. Moans exited Vincent’s mouth when your soft plump lips came in contact with his cock. The gently placed hand on your head began to grip your hair.

You made swirls with your tongue before letting it deep into your mouth, touching the back of your throat. Your actions made him tremble and jerk at the pleasure. Saliva dripped down your chin and the sight of your pretty mouth wrapped around his dick was enough to make him cum for the first time. His load filled your mouth with most of it slipping down your throat.

Vincent pulled his dick out of your mouth. Now, he was really getting into it. “Is that all?” You managed to say. You whipped your mouth of any more contents and swallowed what was left. “We are only just getting started. You are good at what you do, you know.” He raised his hand to brush the strands of hair out of your face due to his roughness. “So, I’ve been told.” You remarked. Vincent chuckled. “I know it’s something I’ve said a lot by now.” He picked you up, placing you on the bed.

“I’m going to breed you so well, mon amore.” Vincent's smirk sent chills up your spine. The only thing you could do was patiently wait until you were bred, honestly. The two of you kissed passionately. It started innocently and progressed into something needier—hungry. You failed to quiet the moans coming out of your mouth when he moved to your collarbone and breasts. His teeth and tongue abused your tender skin, leaving marks that your co-workers would surely see very soon. “I can’t wait to fill your womb with my cum. I promise you will love it too, ma princesse.” His lips latched onto your nipple, sucking and enjoying the sight of you squirming at his pleasure. He sucked and played with your tits until they were so hard that just the wind was able to stimulate them.

“All day…” he began, his voice rumbling against your skin. “It’s taken so much out of me not to just rip those clothes off of you.” He chuckled. “And here you are, being a good girl and taking them off for me.” He resumed his actions, taking a hand and slipping it between your folds just to get an idea of how wet you were getting. “I better be the only one who can make you this wet.”

“Vince…” You whispered, squeezing your eyes shut. He was really just doing what he wanted with you. His kisses trailed down to your stomach and then your inner thighs. He spent a lot of time there, licking and teasing just above where your slick folds were. “Ahh, I remember you always being so tight. Even too tight for my tongue.” His thick wet muscle inserted itself inside. It was a combination of fingering and going down on you, consuming all the cream that dared to leak out. Your core was heating up between your legs. You didn’t have any control over your body. The only thing he wanted you to do was helplessly lay there and tremble at his touch.

“I want to hear how loud that pretty voice of yours can get.” Vincent declared against your skin. He ate you out nice and slow, edging you enough to drive you insane. “Vincent, baby, please!” You cried out, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to find your high so that you could finally cum. Your thighs closed around his head as you felt the euphoric warmth wash over your body. Broken moans left your mouth and when you finally released Vincent, his mouth was covered in your cream. “I can tell you’ve really been holding it in.” He cleaned up what was left. Now it was time for the main show.

Vincent crawled on top of you, releasing the buttons of his shirt, allowing you to see his abs and the glistening sweat that coated his skin. “You still want more…?” You mewled, stomach churning with nervousness and pleasure. “Of course, mon amore. I’ve yet to breed you.”

You instinctively began to fidget in your bondage. His eyes were still hungry and it felt like if he were an animal, he would ravage you. You felt his dick rubbing between your folds, pre-cum leaking out and wetting your entrance. The way you shied away and hid at times like this gave him the strength to penetrate you. The feeling he got inside was something closer to joy or happiness when he saw your innocent expressions become not so innocent…

He began slow, thrusting into you firmly, making you gasp and jump with every stroke. He knew you were enjoying his pace when you wrapped your legs around him and pulled him closer. Vincent couldn’t resist wrapping his hand around your neck, squeezing softly, and began to pick up the pace.

“You’re taking me so well, amore.”

The tip of his dick kissed your womb with fragments of his cum leaking inside. He was already getting close but he didn’t want to cum just yet.

You felt Vincent pull out. “I want to see that beautiful ass of yours.” He helped you turn over, effortlessly making your ass point up toward him. He took your cheeks in both hands, jiggling them so hard that the vibrations stimulate your pussy and make you wetter. It was abrupt but he would periodically slap them, just to see your reaction. He loved being the only person that could ever dream of doing this with you. Your cheeks turned red from the contact and now he was finally ready. He inserted himself inside once again. This time he was much more aggressive, pounding you much harder.

“V-Vincent!” You cried but he didn’t listen. The sound of your ass slapping against his pelvis was too intoxicating. “I have to breed you.” He said. “I need to get you pregnant with my kids.”

“You’re s-so selfish!” You whimpered. “You’re right, I’m so selfish.” He growled. “No one else can have you but me.” Years began to fill your eyes with overstimulation. Your core was burning and you couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I’m gonna cum…” You mumbled. Vincent chuckled deeply. “Then cum, beautiful. Squirt all over my big cock.”

Your body tensed up. Your nipples became hard and your eyes rolled back. You moaned loudly and the feeling of hyper-relaxation filled your body. You released your juices all over him. You felt his loud fill your womb as he grunted and gripped your ass cheeks while pushing himself further into you.

You were left speechless. You could definitely go another round but Vince seemed to be soft now. He was out of breath but the way he looked while tired made you blush. His face was red from blushing too. He was cute while flushed. “Oh my, what have I done to you?” The man sighed while eyeing you with an apologetic expression. He removed his tie from around your wrists.

“I think you should rest after that.” He suggested. You knitted your eyebrows together. “But the restaurant…” you whined. “Don’t worry, amore. We can go back tomorrow night, I promise.”

Vincent took it upon himself to run you a bath in the other room. He figured the warm water would soothe your holes and womb from what just occurred. It was a surprise but you actually needed help walking. Your left leg went numb from all the pleasure and he had to catch you from falling. He placed you in the tub and you thought that would be the end of it but he got in with you!

He was so very sweet, washing you in an innocent manner and even cuddling with you as you soaked. It was pretty much needed given everything that just happened. You hoped that this would satisfy him enough to finally enjoy the trip instead of being distracted by your ass breasts. He really made you smile sometimes when he was just being himself. You showered each other in kisses before exchanging “I love yous”.

“I love you, (y/n)!”

“I love you too, Vincent!”

#chamber #reader insert

[miaoiruma]

no one will know

#out of context rambling

[miaoiruma]

I had a really cute idea I've wanted to use for a while ago. What about Polnareff and "I'm gonna marry you one day." (Like the reader says that to him fondly 👉👈)

awee katie this is so adorable!! 💞 i am so thrilled you sent it to me, what a lovely and certainly romantic way to start out this little drabble collection of mine!! :) i hope you and everyone else finds enjoyment in it though it is rather small!!

jean pierre polnareff + reader = “i’m gonna marry you one day.”

the morning was bright and full of opportunity.. as well as people circulating on both commutes and adventures into the egyptian market. among them you would find jean pierre polnareff, on the search for a special gift for someone dear to him in his life. he felt a tinge of doubt towards his goal as he searched booth after booth for a sign, until it shimmered brilliantly with help from the sunlight in one of these in particular. the tender was away, but polnareff was now determined even more than before. “oi, salesman! salesman!! i’d like to make a purchase!!!”

even after his efforts were successful, he carried the gift around on his person for some time after as if it was his own and he was accustomed to keeping it. he wasn’t being selfish in doing so, he just wanted to wait for the right moment to give it to you. after all, the little box had an important role in the future of your relationship.

he gave it to you one night in the hotel room you stayed in, after he had began his evening routine of a tickle fight with you. the others, unfortunately containing paper thin walls in their rooms, dreaded the occasion as they could hear your fits of laughter and feet as they kicked the mattress. after some time, you both took a moment to breathe and his eyes began to grow heavy. shortly after, he collapsed almost dramatically at your side which would help in aiding his act. as per usual, he maneuvered himself around to hold you close to him, resting his head on your shoulder and planting a small kiss there before ‘trying’ to sleep.

“i’m gonna marry you one day.” your words came abruptly, causing the frenchman to nearly fall from the bed in shock. was now the right time to do this? he slowly released you to slip out from underneath the covers. you turned over to watch as he rummaged through his belongings. “i just now remembered i have something for you, mon amour..” you began to piece the puzzle together before he even made it to the nightstand to turn on the lamp, tears streaming down your face. he dropped down on one knee, giving you a flash of his pearly whites before revealing a small black box. “y/n... i’ve been meaning to ask you this from the moment we first laid eyes upon one another. you have made me feel emotions so foreign to me before now, made me a better man in less than fifty days. we’ve worked hard to get to where we are now.. so i want to see this happen again and again.” he opened the box slowly to reveal an engagement ring. “ will you make me the happiest man alive by becoming my spouse?... ”

you released a small sob and nodded your head rapidly, the other crusaders sure to hear your squeal in happiness as he slipped the ring onto your finger in its respective position. afterwards, he raised up far enough to allow your tears to entwine with his own as he rested his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting your lips. “think of this as a promise ring.. since i’m forever yours... i’ll buy you a diamond ring in france, only the finest to be crafted... if we..” he stopped to rephrase his words. “ when we defeat dio, and head our separate ways.. i want us all to be together for the wedding, at least.. i love you from until death do us part, and i hope this will be everlasting proof to you. ”

jean pierre polnareff.. he always knew just how to make you smile.

#polnareff #reader insert #awawawaw i love this

[miaoiruma]

hii can you do the whole nsfw alphabet with polnareff??

yup! sure thing! <3

jean pierre polnareff nsfw alphabet

disclaimers/tags: nsfw (minors dni), gn pronouns and descriptions.

A ftercare - What are they like after sex?

Very chatty. It doesn't matter if he's tired as hell, he'll throw a million questions at you. Did he do good? Are you hurt anywhere? Do you want him to get anything? Polnareff will be a gentleman and get you anything you need to clean up and cuddle afterwards if you'd like.

B ody part - What is their favourite body part of theirs and their s/o’s?

Polnareff doesn't have a favourite body part of himself— he just can't choose. Maybe his arms? Face? It changes so frequently that he might as well say he just loves everything. On you, however, he loves your thighs and waist. His hands just fit so well on your curves, like a final piece to the puzzle. He also loves caressing your thighs before going down on you.

C um - Where do they cum?

His favourite spot to cum is inside your mouth. He finds it oddly romantic to see you swallow every drop of it. If you're not a fan of swallowing, he likes to do it on your thighs.

D irty secret - Do they have a dirty secret?

Polnareff wants to buy matching lingerie with you (and to fuck in it). He'd prefer the lingerie to be a a size too small for him.

E xperience - How experienced are they?

In my opinion, Polnareff doesn't seem like an experienced guy. Since he's spent so much time in his life trying to avenge his sister, relationships weren't his first priority. With his scarce sexual knowledge, he'll be awkward the first time the two of you are at it, but he slowly starts to understand what you like and dislike.

F avourite position - What is their favourite position?

He likes to have you on your back, knees rising close to his shoulders. He'd also be in a 45 degree angle to get the best angle to hit your sweet spots.

G oofy - Are they serious or more laid back?

He wants to have fun while having sex. He dislikes it when you're both serious because of the tense atmosphere it might bring, so he prefers to share some giggles with you instead.

H air - How well groomed are they?

Trims it now and then if it gets too messy. Other than that, he does nothing in particular.

I ntimacy - Are they rough or more romantic?

Romantic type, definitely. He'll want to take things slow until maybe a few minutes before either one of you hits your climax.

J ack off - Do they masturbate often?

Polnareff masturbates an average amount. Though he has you around, doing it himself will be less work and cause less of a mess. He also does it whenever he's very bored.

K ink - Do they have any kinks?

Polnareff is a switch who likes praising/being praised; being told he's doing good makes him melt like butter. He also enjoys prostrate massages, so he wouldn't mind being dicked down/pegged.

L ocation - Do they have a location preference?

Because he finds sex such an important and intimate thing, he wants it to be mostly private between the two of you. He prefers the bed, but he's okay with any private location. This doesn't mean he won't tease you in public, though!

M otivation - What gets them turned on?

Whenever your voice raises in pitch near the end of your sentence, make flirty comments, or the lace in your lingerie peaks through your clothes.

N o - Is there something they absolutely won’t do?

Polnareff wants sex to remain on the cleaner side, so he doesn't want to indulge in bodily excretion (feces, vomit, etc.).

O ral - Do they like receiving or giving?

He prefers to give. Hearing you let out cries of pleasure all because of him inflates his ego tenfold. Like it was mentioned before, he loves your thighs, so having the opportunity to be close to them is a major plus.

P ace - How fast do they go?

Polnareff keeps up a slow and steady pace unless you ask otherwise.

Q uickie - Do they like short sessions?

Not really. The only short sessions he truly enjoys is when he's the one giving. He finds it cute to see you get embarrassed from cumming so quick.

R isk - Do they like trying new things?

As much as he would like to stay in his comfort zone, he'll try new things if you insist on it. If that's what'll make you happy, then he won't let is pass without trying it out first (besides the ones listed in 'No.')

S tamina - How many times can they go? Do they last long?

Polnareff can go 4-5 rounds, each lasting about from 5-12 minutes.

T oys - Do they like using toys on themselves or their partner?

He'll use toys on you if you ask, but the most he'll use on himself is a vibrator.

U nfair - Do they like teasing/enjoy being teased?

It's not even a question: he loves both. Preferably likes to be the one who teases you, but enjoys it when you return the favour as well— it gives him a fuzzy feeling in his heart.

V olume - How loud are they? Do they talk a lot?

He doesn't hold his voice back at all, not even a decibel. He wants you to know that you're doing good! For talking, he talks a good amount during sex (whether it's sweet talking or random shit), but he knows when to tone it down.

W ild card - A random NSFW headcanon.

Polnareff likes being degraded and spat on by you but he doesn't speak up about it because he's a very proud person. It's just too embarrassing for him to admit, so he'd rather provoke you into it.

X ray - How big are they/what’s under their clothes?

5 1/2 inches soft, 7 hard. He's girthier/thicker than average with not much curve.

Y earning - How high is their sex drive?

He has a sex drive that's slightly above average. He likes to flirt and tease you for fun, but will gladly take it more seriously the minute you ask him to take off his clothes.

Z zzz - How tired are they after?

Not very tired. He'll stay up with you a bit, chat, maybe watch a movie too if you're up for it.

#polnareff #reader insert

[miaoiruma]

Gives Polnareff a hug. Poor guy needs it.

He has been through way too much.

#polnareff #when u say ur comfort character is polnareff #and he has not had a single day of comfort in his life