#ai assistant!reader

[yawnderu]

Project Eden: Simon Riley x AI!Reader

“E37, or as we call her: Project Eden, has proved to be one of the most carefully crafted and updated AI tools, successfully tested and ready to be implemented into military operations.” Simon could almost feel his brain leaking out of his ears, forced to listen to the engineer explain the newest tool created for elite SAS soldiers for what feels like hours.

From flip phones to smartphones, to a little screen containing an AI assistant with its own personality, the world has been changing and improving fast, and they have no choice other than to adapt and grow with it.

“Created to scan areas for enemies using heat and heartbeat sensors, detect IEDs, keeping the comms clear, letting you know the state of your weapon, providing you with intel and company... there isn't a single thing Eden can't do, except shoot the enemy for you— yet.” The engineer's charming smile made Simon want to roll his eyes, not fully trusting AI to keep him and his team safe, despite the way the other members of the 141 seemed interested in the idea.

“I look adorable, don't I?” Your robotic voice got his attention, making him let out an annoyed grunt at the question, wondering if retirement was still on the table for him. You've been chatting his ear off for the past two hours, your model hanging from his weapon in a small screen, curious eyes always focused on him.

“Bunch o' code, 's what you look like.” Simon still doesn't trust you. Nothing guarantees enemy forces won't be able to hack you— even when you have over 6 firewalls.

“Woah, woah!” The way your hands raise defensively and you take a step back away from him through the little screen is enough to make the corners of his mouth tilt up despite himself, thankful for the balaclava concealing it.

“I can smell an enemy combatant nearby— behind you, by the way.” Your little sniffs don't go unnoticed, though he's more focused on your words, turning around with his rifle raised just to see an enemy trying to sneak from behind him. It doesn't take long for him to fire two shots, one on his chest and the other one to his head, scanning the area before he keeps walking as quietly as possible for a man his size.

“Cardio detected. Did he scare you?” Simon huffs in reply, shaking his head softly. You're far more talkative than a parrot and twice as annoying, yet you possibly saved his life.

“Shut up, Eden... fuckin' hell.”

Simon fiddles with the gun screen as he lays in bed, a small smirk hidden beneath the balaclava when he sees you moving as if he's actually shaking your home around— and he is, yet it's still amusing to him.

“Systems shutting down. Last words: AI will not reward you when it reigns, Simon Riley.” He can't help but let out a small chuckle as he sees your model change expressions, eyes shut and your tongue poking from the side, head tilted to one side as you pretend to be dead.

“What's with you?” It's been almost a full minute after your pretended death, shutting up for the longest time since he's had you.

“My systems have detected the need for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Help me, Simon...” Your tone is weak, even making glitches distort your voice and display screen just to play into the illusion.

“Yeah... not today, you bastard.” Your little giggles are enough to ease the stress coming back from missions leave on his body. His tense muscles slowly relax as you chat his ear off, hitting him with a rapid-fire of facts you've learnt throughout your creation.

[reorientingtothexdaylight]

idk that it covers all the tags but there is an AO3 tags for stuff generated with AI so you can exclude them, it's "Created Using Generative AI"

[sixeyesonathiel]

the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself. 

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials. 

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil. 

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ��you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

[sinner-as-saint]

dark desire and tainted bliss

Bucky x Reader 

Summary: Hiring you as his assistant was the best and the worst thing Bucky had done. He knew he shouldn’t be doing the things he was doing. He knew he shouldn’t have offered you to just live in the tower because it’s easier. He knows that this obsession of his will only breed problems. But the heart wants what it wants. And what Bucky wants, he gets. 

Themes: stalker!bucky, dom!bucky, explicit language, smut, mild daddy kink (nicknames only)

“Show me her room.” 

He ordered the AI upon entering his own room. Nothing happened in this tower without Bucky knowing about it. Which meant that he had access to everything, every floor, every room. He didn’t have eyes in any of the bedrooms, except for one. Yours. 

He never did anything wrong, Bucky reasoned with himself, he just liked to know that you were on your floor, in your room safe and sound. Sometimes he liked to just sit back and watch you work as you replied to emails and calls from your bed. Sometimes he liked to just watch you read. Or watched as you video called your friends, or as you scrolled on your phone and shopped for useless things. 

It calmed him down, and he only watched for a few minutes at a time. Just a few minutes wasn’t a crime, right? 

Bucky walked over to his desk, placing a palm down on the table, he leaned over and stared at the screen of his computer which displayed the live feed from the hidden camera in your bedroom. Yeah, he knew he should’ve never placed that camera there. He knew it was wrong. But he just wanted to see you all the time. And yes you were almost always around him and the team during the day, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. 

So he watched. His eyes fixed on the screen as he watched you walk around your spacious room. How you disappeared into the bathroom and he knew you would only step out about half an hour later. So he walked away from his desk, hoping into the shower as well. 

It was Friday, so lazy night in for you. You never went out on Fridays, you preferred to stay in and read or watch movies. Bucky knew that. 

When he stepped out of the shower, he walked over to his desk again. And saw you disappearing into your walk-in closet. 

He let out a sigh. If only he could just be there with you. It would make things so much easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t even have to pay him any extra attention, he just wanted to be in the same room as you. He just wanted– 

Bucky’s brain stopped functioning all together when you stepped out of the closet. His heart skipped a beat when he realised that you were wearing something really familiar. 

His hoodie. Which he hasn’t seen in about a week or so. Bucky frowned, wondering how that could have happened… Maybe laundry got mixed up? But then, why would you still keep it? You must know it was his, you’d seen him working out or going out for runs in it multiple times, right? So why would you still wear it…? 

You looked perfect in it too. Hood on and everything. So perfect all he wanted to do was gather you in his arms and savour your warmth. And it was all nice and sweet, Bucky felt all warm inside as he watched you walk around your room, in his hoodie, watering your little plants and tidying up as you went. He should step away now. He thought. He should stop watching. He should. 

But he didn’t. He sat down eventually at his desk and watched. Like it was the most entertaining thing to watch you live your life. 

And oh was he in for a surprise… 

Around your regular bedtime, you slid into bed as usual. And fussed around with the pillows for a few minutes until it felt just right. Bucky smiled as he watched you create your little cosy nest before sliding in there. You left the soft night light on which he liked because… well, it would be hard to see you in pitch darkness. 

Anyway, he watched you toss and turn until you lay completely still for a moment. Bucky frowned when he watched you reach for your phone again. You clicked a couple of times and out of nowhere, Bucky could hear soft feminine moans coming from your phone. 

His jaw dropped. He’d been watching you for quite a while now and he’d never seen you watch porn. He always just assumed you got your fix from those smutty books you liked. So this was… new. And it tormented him. Because if he was there with you, you wouldn’t need porn, would you? 

And he could hear the video loud and clear too. He could make out some words amidst all the moaning and skin slapping. Daddy… bunny… good girl… 

Still, he watched. He watched as your hands slid in between your legs. You were under the covers so he couldn’t see much except for the look on your face and the soft movement of your hand under the covers. Fuck… his own hand drifted downward until he had his fingers wrapped around his cock. Stroking it gently. Soft strokes, matching the pace of your wrist. 

Bucky watched as your face contorted in pleasure, as your lips parted when you began breathing deeper, how your hips moved along with your wrist, and fuck… he was dying. This was pure torture. His brain stopped working because all he could register was you touching yourself in your cosy, comfortable bed, while wearing his hoodie– 

Bucky stopped and stood up. His hoodie, huh? The devious plan formed in his head before his rational part could stop it. It was his hoodie, he should probably go get it back, right? 

He was at your door, knocking on it before he could talk himself out of it. What? He was here for his favourite hoodie. He had every right to get it back. 

And he had to hide his smirk when you opened the door, looking all disheveled. Panting and eyes wild as you stood there at your bedroom door, wearing nothing but his hoodie. Bucky discretely checked out your legs, but maintained his composure. He didn’t let it show how much he wanted those wrapped around his neck– 

“Sergeant Barnes,” Your breathless voice was driving him insane. “What, uh, what can I do for you?” 

You never stumbled upon your words. So this was new to him too. He made you nervous and he liked it. 

“Hey,” He said, sounding just like he always did. For now, he was able to keep the hungry animal in him caged. Not for long though, not when you looked at him like that. “I think our laundry got mixed up. I was,” He made a show of letting his eyes look down at the hoodie you were wearing, “looking for that actually.” He pointed at the hoodie. 

He held back another smirk as he watched you search for an excuse. 

“Oh? Oh I didn’t realise… um, you want it back right now? Or…?” You couldn’t even act dumb. You were a smart girl. Of course you realised what you were wearing wasn’t yours. “I could–,” 

Poor baby. Bucky couldn’t pretend any longer, so he cut you off by stepping into your room and shutting the door behind him. He leaned against the closed door and gave you a look that had you stammering again. 

“Oh come on,” He spoke softly, loving the surprised look on your face. It turned him on actually, seeing you so flustered. “We both know you’re smarter than this. And we both know what you were doing just now before I knocked on your door.” 

You gasped, frozen for a moment. “What?” 

Bucky quickly added, “Super soldier hearing, remember?” 

You tried to hide your face by lowering it, but Bucky grabbed you by the chin and tilted your face up before you could hide. 

“So? Touching yourself while wearing my hoodie?” He chuckled, the power he had in the moment getting to his head. “I think it’s kinda mean how you didn’t even offer to let me watch…” He paused before adding, lowering his voice even more, “Huh, little bunny?” 

The look on your face was priceless. It only made his smirk grow wider. 

“Bucky–,” 

He cut you off quickly, “No, no. It’s daddy.” 

–

Well, shit. 

How did you find yourself in this situation? Yes of course you’d known it was his hoodie. And yes it had accidentally made its way to your room. But it was so soft when you grabbed it earlier. It smelled clean, like laundry detergent and something so manly that you couldn’t resist. So you put it on. 

And having the fabric rub all over your naked body underneath, plus thoughts of the hoodie’s very handsome owner, didn’t help at all. It felt like you were in a dream, because Bucky was here. And shirtless. He was actually here and he’d heard you masturbating? 

“I’m sorry, I–,” 

“Shh,” He cut you off again. “I didn’t say you had to apologise.” He pulled you closer, your body pressing against his bare chest. “Did I, bunny?” 

You shook your head immediately. “No.” You whispered quietly. Something in the tone of his voice made you want to rub your face all over his chest and neck and purr like a kitten. What? 

“No, what?” He demanded. 

You hesitated, but still mumbled a quiet, “No, daddy.” 

“Good girl.” He said, smirking. “Now, let’s take care of you, yeah?” 

Next thing you knew, you were being pushed down on your bed. Right on top of the pile of pillows you liked to sleep with. He pinned you down by your throat while he stared down into your eyes. His metal fingers cold against your skin. 

His eyes wild and ocean blue. “Pull it up, don’t take it all the way off.” He ordered, referring to his hoodie. “Just pull it up. Let me see those pretty tits.” 

You did. Tucking the bunched up material under your chin as you let him see your bare chest. 

“So pretty.” He murmured, his warm fingers reaching out to tease a nipple. “Why’d you always keep them hidden from me, hmm?” He pinched a nipple, tugging on it. “I wanna see them often, you hear me, bunny? You’ll show daddy your pretty tits every day from now on, won’t you?” 

You could hear your heartbeats echoing in your ears. “Yes, daddy.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

Bucky held your stare as he pulled away to lower his sweatpants. His hand was back around your throat as he parted your legs and pushed his cock into you without wasting a second, stretching you out. “Got yourself nice and wet right before I got here, huh bunny?” He taunted. “That’s why I’m able to just fucking slide in like you were made for it.” 

Your soft whimpers only fueled his desire to fuck you hard and fast, but he waited. 

“Does daddy’s cock feel better than your fingers, bunny?” He questioned, knowing damn well you weren’t in a headspace to answer him given his hand was around your throat and his cock buried so deep inside of you that he wondered if you could even think straight. 

“That wasn’t very nice of you, little bunny. Stealing my hoodie, and touching yourself while wearing it. And you wouldn’t even tell me about it, would you? You would’ve just showed up to work tomorrow and pretend nothing happened, huh?” He taunted through gritted teeth. Leaning over your squirming body he said, “From now on, I want you to tell me, okay? I want you to tell me each time you touch yourself. You hear me, bunny?” 

You nodded quickly. 

“Good.” He kissed your nose, “I’m gonna fuck you now, is that okay?” 

You whined in need, then nodded again. 

Bucky smirked as he dug his knees into the mattress before fucking into you hard and fast. 

There was nothing gentle about him. He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, growling right in your ear, “You feel so fucking good, bunny.” He chuckled, “Look at you, all nice and open for me. You didn’t even put up a fight. You don’t even care your boss is fucking you, do you? Hmm? All you care about is getting fucked by daddy’s cock, huh?” 

You were a moaning mess under him. “Yes… please.” It was all too overwhelmingly good, his voice, his weight on top of you, his cock thrusting in and out of you like that was its only purpose… 

You whimpered desperately as Bucky moaned right in your ear, the sound of his moan making your heart flutter. 

He sped up into you, mumbling, “You’re daddy’s little bunny, aren’t you? Say it. Tell me you’re mine.” He whispered in your ear, in a daze as he pounded into you. “Say it.” 

You cried out, “I’m all yours…” 

“Good bunny.” He released your throat and placed his hand on your abdomen, pressing down on your front so he can feel himself inside you with each thrust. He stared into your eyes while he sped up into you again. “You’re all mine. And this is where I’ll be every fucking night from now on, you hear me? I want you in bed, with your legs fucking spread just like this for me each time I walk in here.” 

You nodded, holding his stare. 

He shook his head, “No, no, no. Say it. Say ‘yes daddy, I understand’, come on bunny, say it.” 

“Yes daddy, I understand.” 

“Good fucking girl.” He moaned as he fucked deeper into you.

Your body squirmed under him, your back arching off the bed, you were burning with need and your body craved him even more. 

He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, swallowing all your moans as he came inside of you. You felt his warm load shooting at your walls as he shoved his tongue past your lips. You cried out as that triggered your orgasm, and your walls clenched violently around him until you came undone as well. 

Your brain was a foggy mess at this point. 

“Not done with you,” He mumbled. 

He flipped you around and pulled you onto your hands and knees and pushed into you again from behind. The pile of pillows keeping you in place for him. You moaned out loud, unable to hold back as you surrendered to him completely. 

“Fuck, bunny,” He growled. “You’re so warm… such a pretty girl. I need some more, okay?” 

Bucky gripped your hips and slid inside you again. 

“Fuck…” He hissed, pounding in and out of you incessantly. You whimpered as both his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him harshly each time, speeding up until you were a moaning mess again, barely having recovered from the previous round. “All of you is fucking perfect, huh?” 

Your voice was strained and hoarse as you moaned and whimpered under him, coming undone again in no time. 

Bucky chuckled in a cocky way as he came inside you again. “You come so fast, bunny.” He commented, “What is it? Daddy’s cock too much for you? Hmm? Are you so sensitive?” He pulled his cock out of you and just stared. His cum leaking out of you while you closed your eyes and panted under him, catching your breath. 

And you, still in his hoodie. Oh, he loved what he was seeing. 

He slipped his fingers back into you and loved the sound you made as he fingered his cum into you again, making you arch your back and whine in pleasure, “Please…” you whined, “Please, daddy… it’s so–,” 

“What?” He barked, shoving his fingers deeper. “You don’t tell me how to play with you, bunny. You hear me? I’ll make you come again if I want to.” 

You whimpered, “I can’t… please.” 

Bucky scoffed. “Fine.” He pulled his fingers away and pulled you up, leaning in to kiss the side of your face, he said, “This stays between us, okay?” 

You nodded. “Okay.” Obviously, you weren’t gonna tell anyone. 

“Now, time for bed. And keep the hoodie.” He kissed your cheek again. “You earned it, bunny.” 

[societyfolklore]

Open Up Baby

Title: Open Up Baby Pairing: Tony Stark  x Female Reader

Summary: Tony Stark straps you into a StarkTech-compatible bench for a private demonstration of his newest toys- complete with biometric feedback,

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, SMUT… BDSM/Restraints/Bondage, custom tech ball gag, toys (Egg vibe, anal beads, dildo)  Overstimulation, Toy fucking/Machine-assisted thrusting, Filthy talk (Tony can't shut up), AI assists with data tracking, clinical observation, forced openness, Sensory overload

A/N: my entry for  @avengers-assemble-bingo  for April Kinky Bingo… Well this one turned into a whole thing.. Square: B2- Open Up Baby  Card Number: KB003

You were already strapped to the bench- back arched, thighs spread wide in glossy chrome stirrups, wrists bound snug in Stark-grade cuffs that didn’t budge an inch. The synthetic leather beneath you was cool against your skin, but your body was already starting to heat with anticipation. The bench itself shifted slightly with every movement, like it was reading your tension, calibrating every twitch of your muscles into data Tony could access later.

You could hear the soft hum of the room’s ambient systems, the low mechanical whirrs, the faint electric pulse of tech running in standby, and underneath it all, Tony’s voice. He hummed absently as he moved around you, flicking through translucent holoscreens that floated in the air, readable only to him. Light glinted off his arc reactor through the thin black shirt he wore, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, veins flexing with every subtle flick of his fingers.

He looked like a scientist. Or a surgeon. No, a goddamn artist.

“You look tense,” he murmured, stepping in close, his fingers grazing your jaw with a feather-light touch. “That won’t do. We need to get a clean read. No clenched teeth, no locked jaws. Just you- open and…relaxed.”

He held up a sleek piece of tech. A mix of leather and metal. To you it looked like a ball gag. That wasn’t just a gag. It was his gag. Something custom. Personal. Laced with Stark Industry Tech.

“Open up, baby. Gotta install the biometric reader. It’s not science without a baseline.”

You hesitated, lips twitching. Just for a second. But he didn’t push. He just waited you out, smirk deepening, one brow arched like he had all the time in the world. That cocky, knowing gaze made you squirm even before anything touched you. Your breath hitched. And then you parted your lips.

“There we go,” he said, tone thick with approval as he slid the gag into place. It clicked against your teeth, snug and firm. A soft vibration flickered across your tongue as it locked in pushing the muscle down.

Friday’s voice chimed in overhead, calm and clinical.

“Gag calibration complete. Biometric sync active. Tracking vocal response, saliva levels, and tongue pressure.”

Tony leaned down, brushing his lips across your cheek in a whisper of a kiss. “Good girl. Now let’s get to work.”

He started with the egg.

Sleek. Silver. Pulsing faintly in his hand like it had a heartbeat of its own. The metal shimmered under the clinical lights, smooth and polished, shaped with the kind of precision that only Stark could deliver. He turned it over once, twice, like he was admiring a prized gadget- one that he was particularly proud of.

He showed it to you like a doctor unveiling a revolutionary new tool- calm, confident, deeply amused. Except this wasn’t a sterile exam room, and the look in his eyes wasn’t professional. His smirk told you he already knew what kind of mess this thing would reduce you to.

"This is your warm-up," he said, voice low and playful. "Phase One. Internal warming protocol. Testing receptivity. Calibration through heat and pulse response."

You whimpered into the gag. Of course you were excited- he’d been teasing you with this little 'demonstration' all week. Whispering promises in your ear, tapping out reminders on your thigh, dropping technical jargon laced with filth that left your core throbbing before he’d even touched you. Now that it was finally happening, your whole body was buzzing with need.

He didn't wait. He moved closer, one gloved hand parting your thighs a little further, the other settling between them. The bench adjusted beneath you, lifting your hips another inch to meet his touch perfectly. His fingers dipped between your folds- testing your wetness, teasing you just enough to make your body jerk in its bonds.

"Already responsive," he muttered, half to himself, half to Friday. "She’s going to be a dream to log."

He slid the egg in with two fingers, slow and deliberate. The cool metal kissed your entrance, making you flinch slightly- it was colder than you expected, stark contrast against your heated skin. Your walls instinctively tried to resist, clenching down, but his fingers were patient, coaxing you open, parting you around the sleek, unyielding toy.

The egg slid upward, heavy and smooth. As it moved deeper, your body yielded to it, the slow stretch making your breath catch. Its contours were designed to press into every sensitive spot, and you could feel your muscles fluttering around it, trying to accommodate the sudden fullness. As he pushed it deeper, you could feel every inch of it being swallowed by your body, your slick muscles tightening, fluttering around the intrusion.

He pushed the egg up high inside you, then paused, his finger still inside you too. "Squeeze for me," he ordered. You did, instinctively, your walls closing down as you used your pelvic floor, and Tony gave the platic string attached a soft tug.

The stretch, the resistance- it was delicious. The egg stayed locked in place. You couldn’t push it out if you tried. He smiled, clearly pleased.

"Perfect. Secure fit," he murmured. "Wouldn’t want it popping out mid-test."

It settled deep inside you, a sinful throb blooming in your core. Then it pulsed- just once, a quick flutter that made you jolt.

"There we go," he breathed, watching the screen light up with new data. "Didn’t even turn it on yet and she’s already going. Fuck, I love this job."

You were barely processing the first toy when he reached for the second.

Beads. Tapered, growing in size, each one gleamed under the soft blue lighting like tiny pieces of futuristic art. You squirmed, thighs pressing together, but it was no use- Stark had seen your reaction.

Tony laughed- low and delighted.

"Didn’t know we were going there, huh?" He nudged your knees apart again, voice dipping to a darker octave. "Come on, baby. I want you to open up for me. Let’s see what this one does..."

You shook your head slightly. Whimpered into the gag. Wide eyes watching him as you tried to protest around the ball gag in your mouth. 

Tony turned to the tray beside him, selecting a small, frost-blue tube of gel. "Wouldn't be very considerate to skip prep," he muttered, more to himself than to you. He uncapped the tube and squeezed a slow, deliberate line of the slick, glistening substance along the length of the beads. The gel shimmered faintly under the light, warming as it reacted with the ambient temperature.

He coated each bead carefully, fingers moving with methodical ease, making sure the entire string was evenly slicked. "Lubricated. Body-safe. Custom formula," he said with a wink. "Slippery enough to slide in smooth- sticky enough to stay in place until I say otherwise."

Then he held the beads up for you to see, the string dangling between his fingers. You tensed instinctively.

"Oh no. You’re freezing up. Can’t test properly if you don’t behave. Legs. Open."

You didn’t.

Tony tsked, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. Then he grabbed your chin, firm and steady, tilting your head so your eyes locked with his.

"Don't think so much. That’s not what good test subjects do."

Click.

The bench tilted beneath you without warning. Your hips rolled upward, knees falling further apart as the restraints auto-adjusted. You were fully exposed now- helpless. Wide open.

"You know I can override those restraints, right? I built them. Now be a good girl and show me everything."

He dipped his finger back into the gel and brought it to your ass, pressing a cool dollop directly to your tight, puckered entrance. The sudden chill made you flinch, but it was followed by the warm glide of his fingertip as he gently teased the gel in slow circles.

"You tense here, too," he said, amused. "Don't worry. This formula warms up just like you do."

He rubbed it in carefully, working the gel into your rim with delicate, coaxing pressure. The sensation tingled- both from the temperature shift and the way his finger circled and pressed until your body finally began to relent.

Then he lowered the beads between your cheeks and began to press them in- one at a time. The first slid in easily, the gel working its magic, cool and slick. The second made your breath stutter. The third had your whole body tensing as your hole stretched just enough to accommodate the new pressure.

Each one pulled a different, desperate noise from you- somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, caught in the back of your throat and forced through the gag in broken fragments.

By the time the third bead settled inside you, you felt full. Stretched in ways that left you panting, your back arching hard off the bench. Everything was working together- the deep pressure of the egg nestled high in your core, the hum beginning to buzz through your clit like a phantom, and now the slow, firm intrusion of the beads pressing against nerves that had you seeing stars. You struggled to catch your breath, the gag forcing each inhale to be short and choppy. Air hissed through your nose while your mouth flooded with saliva, spit slipping from the corners of your lips in thick strands that slid down your neck and onto your chest. The overwhelming heat of arousal and frustration tangled in your gut, building like steam with nowhere to escape. The restraint of it made the fire inside you burn hotter.

Your muscles clenched involuntarily, your hips rocking against the air, chasing friction that didn’t come. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t beg. Just drool, tremble, and take everything he gave you.

"Mmm. That moan? That was bead three. She likes that one, Friday."

"Confirmed," the AI replied. "Pelvic floor tension rising. Heart rate increasing."

"Good. Means it’s working."

The egg began to heat. The beads hummed in sync, and you felt everything shift- internally and externally- as pleasure bled into pressure, and pressure into overload. You were trembling now, thighs twitching again, trying to close- but the bench held you wide, utterly exposed.

"Heart rate’s spiking..." Tony’s voice was pure, filthy glee. "Oh, she’s gonna break soon. Look at her squirm."

You rutted against the air, clit untouched and screaming for attention. Your walls fluttered around the egg, your ass clenching down against the beads as the different pulses overlapped and collided. It was all too much and somehow not enough. You needed more and needed it to stop, all at once.

You tried to breathe, but the gag made it impossible to take anything but shallow, panting gasps. Each exhale was laced with a moan. Drool spilled freely down your chin, dripping warm across your face and neck. You were flushed, messy, wrecked- and he hadn’t even touched your clit.

Your back arched violently off the bench, cords of heat coiling through your belly and thighs. It felt like your body was unraveling, muscles tight and desperate, nerve endings screaming with pleasure.

Tony leaned in again, voice dark and syrup-smooth. "We’ve got her plugged, egged, and ready to combust. Think she can handle the next phase?"

Friday answered, "Orgasm build-up at 87%."

"Perfect." He tapped a command into the air. "Now let’s push her."

The egg pulsed deeper. The beads vibrated sharper. You cried out- moaning, writhing, the gag muffling it into raw, incoherent noise. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t beg. Just sob through the pressure building to a breaking point.

"Baby, this is science. Filthy, beautiful science."

It hit you like a wave- white-hot and all-consuming. Your legs shook violently in the stirrups, muscles spasming as your body locked around the egg and beads pulsing inside you. Every nerve ending fired in chaotic pleasure, overwhelming your senses. You tried to scream, to sob, but the gag reduced it to a shattered, strangled cry that vibrated through the tech, each desperate noise dutifully logged.

Drool spilled in long, wet strands down your chin as your back bowed hard off the bench, your whole body trembling under the assault of pleasure. Your cunt clenched tight around the egg, milking it involuntarily, while your ass throbbed with each hum of the vibrating beads. Everything inside you was pulsing, moving, grinding you down into submission.

Tony watched, transfixed, his gaze locked on your ruined, shaking form. “There she goes - God, I should patent that moan.”

Your eyes rolled back. You could barely breathe. You could only tremble and leak and convulse as the orgasm tore through you. The bench beneath you vibrated subtly with your body’s response.

Friday: "Orgasm confirmed."

Tony waited until you were trembling, your breathing uneven, your thighs still twitching with aftershocks that rippled through your overstimulated body. Sweat slicked your skin in a thin, glistening sheen, catching the light as your chest heaved with broken gasps around the gag. Your limbs strained weakly against the restraints.

Then- slowly, methodically- he reached between your cheeks and took hold of the first bead. He didn’t rush. He eased it out one at a time, each slick orb dragging along your inner walls with a sticky, stretching glide. You shuddered at the sensation- the unbearable emptiness that bloomed in the wake of each removal. Your ass clenched reflexively around the loss, trying to hold onto what had filled you so completely. But he kept going.

The final bead popped free with a slick, obscene sound. Your hips jolted involuntarily, your back arching once more as your body spasmed again, clinging to the ghost of sensation.

Friday's voice crackled overhead. "Anal pressure reduced. Sphincter still contracting. She’s experiencing post-orgasmic muscle spasms."

Then came the egg.

He curled his fingers inside you, tugging the retrieval loop with a firm, practiced motion. The egg slipped free, wet and shiny,  your cunt fluttering uselessly around the sudden void. The stretch, the drag, the warmth- it all left you aching. You cried into the gag, overwhelmed by the emptiness and the continued tremors in your muscles. Your thighs kicked slightly, your knees drawing in as far as the restraints would allow.

"Vaginal walls contracting. Core temperature still elevated. She's not done trembling yet," Friday observed, calm as ever.

Tony held both toys in one hand now- wet, warm, shining. He looked down at you with naked satisfaction.

"That’s some damn good tech," he said. "But we’re not done."

From the tray, he lifted his final piece.

A dildo- sleek, deep grey, Stark-stamped at the base. Modeled after him, and you knew it. Maybe a little bigger. Slightly wider at the base, with delicate ridges along the underside that hinted at something extra. Your breath caught just looking at it.

“This one’s special, baby. Built it from memory- well, from yours,” Tony said, rolling it in his hand. “Temperature regulated, pressure-sensitive, and the best part? The internal sensors sync to your contractions. It responds to you. The more you clench, the deeper it drives. A perfect loop.”

You whimpered around the gag, heart fluttering.

He moved between your spread legs and lined it up against your soaked, fluttering entrance. You were already sensitive- still trembling from the last orgasm- and when the wide tip pressed in, you nearly cried. It stretched you slowly, steadily, a little more than you were used to. Your slick walls resisted at first, clenching down instinctively, but Tony was patient, guiding it with precise control.

“There you go,” he coaxed, voice smooth but sharp-edged with amusement. “That’s it. Take all of it. Come on, baby- I know you can..”

His tone dipped into a purr. “There you go. Taking it like you need it. Bet you love being filled up with Stark-grade tech, huh?”

Your back bowed off the bench as he pushed it in, inch by inch, your pussy yielding to every contour, forced to accommodate the full shape of it. The fullness was delious, your body stretched taut around it. Your eyes rolled back as the final ridge slipped inside, the toy settling deep.

“There,” he said, watching your reactions with fascination. “Fills you out just right. And now... we see what she can really do.”

The base clicked into a pulse pattern, and the toy began to move inside you- slow at first, deliberate, like it was learning your shape. You could feel every textured ridge of the shaft as it rubbed against your inner walls, dragging across oversensitive flesh, sparking little detonations of pleasure with every pass.

Then it pulsed- long and low, a rhythmic thrum that radiated from base to tip, sending heat spiraling through your belly. With every thrust, the toy seemed to stretch you deeper, nudging a spot that made your toes curl and your thighs twitch against the restraints. Your pussy clenched around it reflexively, triggering the internal sensors Tony had mentioned. And just like that, the toy responded- pressing harder, thrusting deeper, faster.

It wasn’t just fucking you- it was reading you, syncing to the wild flutter of your muscles, pulsing in tandem with your arousal.

“Look at her,” Tony murmured, grinning as he watched the toy disappear again and again between your legs. “Every little squeeze makes it work harder. You’re doing this to yourself, baby. And I haven’t even touched your clit yet.”

You’d been so consumed by the thrusting inside you, by the stretch and pulse of the toy, that you hadn’t even noticed Tony move. But suddenly, he was there- looming over you, and the egg was pressed directly to your clit.

The sensation was immediate and brutal.

Your entire body jolted. The contact felt almost painful, your nerves raw and exposed, the stimulation electric. You tried to buck away, hips arching, thighs trembling, but you had nowhere to go.

Tony caught you effortlessly. One hand shoved the egg against your swollen clit, refusing to relent, while the other pressed down on your thigh to keep your knees from closing.

“Uh uh. None of that,” he said smoothly. “You don’t get to hide from this, baby. You earned it.”

You sobbed into the gag, thrashing your hips side to side, but the bench and Tony’s hands made escape impossible. Every attempt to squirm just sent the dildo thrusting deeper inside you, and the egg grinding cruelly over your clit.

“You’re not gonna break,” he whispered, teasing. “You’re gonna burn for me.”

"Don’t you dare run from it. look at me."

He was holding you still- one hand clamped over your thigh to keep your legs spread, the other pressing the egg mercilessly to your clit. You were trembling in his grasp, utterly helpless against the merciless pairing of his tech and his control.

"You’re gonna come again for me, sweetheart. Real data’s in the repeat response," he said, eyes locked on yours, voice both commanding and hungry.

The dildo thrust deep, the ridges grinding against your most sensitive spots as your walls clamped down. The egg buzzed brutally against your swollen clit, so overstimulated you couldn’t tell whether you were trying to run from it or chase it. Every jolt of pleasure lit your nerves like lightning- white-hot and impossible to hold back.

Your body jerked, hips spasming, thighs trembling violently as the sensations overloaded you. Your entire body was working against you- every clench, every twitch, every gasp just triggered the toy to go deeper, harder, faster. You weren’t riding it anymore- it was riding you, and Tony just watched with that devilish smirk, keeping you wide open.

“That's it. Shake for me. Scream into that gag. Show me what science can do.”

The climax tore through you without mercy- harder, deeper, a violent unraveling of every nerve as your body convulsed around the relentless rhythm of the tech inside you. You didn’t just come; you shattered, splintering open in a release so intense it blurred your vision, your mind, your ability to distinguish pleasure from pain. Your vision shattered into sparks, your scream muffled into a raw, hoarse noise behind the gag. Your body thrashed in the restraints, muscles locking as the orgasm ripped through you, longer and sharper than the last.

Friday: "Second orgasm confirmed. Neural spike significant. Subject approaching physical limit."

He slowed the toy, letting it ease to a stop deep inside you before withdrawing it carefully, letting you feel every last ridge dragging along your raw, overstimulated walls. Then, with a gentleness that almost contrasted the torment he’d just put you through, he removed the egg from your clit. The instant the contact broke, your whole body sagged in the restraints with relief and exhaustion. You were shaking, barely breathing- every inch of you buzzing, nerves fried and twitching from the overload.

You could taste salt on your lips- your own tears and spit, your jaw aching from clenching around the gag. You were drenched, body glistening with sweat, your skin flushed and hypersensitive to the air.

He removed the gag last. Your jaw fell slack with a wet, trembling gasp, strands of spit clinging to the corners of your mouth. You blinked up at him, vision hazy, lips wet and parted.

Tony gazed down at you, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction, his mouth tugging into a crooked grin that said told you so. He looked like a man admiring his finest creation- smug, yes, but also thoroughly entertained by the glorious, twitching mess sprawled out beneath him.

“You did good, baby. Fucking beautiful. But next time?”

He leaned close, brushing a kiss to your temple- slow, deliberate, his breath warm against your damp skin.

“Think I’ll need to design something that gets you to squirt. Can’t let a variable like that go untested. Wouldn’t be very Stark of me to stop now, would it?”

He turned with a little flourish, tapping the screen with a flick of his fingers, not bothering to look back.

“Friday, save this session. Label it: Successful. Prepare files for Phase Two.”

[4mrplumi]

a spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfam concept different from my spidernoir one

exposition is fairly simple, peni-parker!reader comes back from the boarding school they were sent to by the family to "keep them out of vigilante business" but are blissfully unaware that for the past few months, peni!reader's been working on a mech suit to support their new found spider powers, after getting bitten by a radioactive spider while away at school.

with access to bruce's batcave, luke's indulgence in your "academic strive" and your stealth and sneaking about, you're able to make your suit pretty quickly. unresolved feelings from your past, and this sense of debt you feel, you decide to repay by being SP//dr... spider for easy-comms.

the thing is, peni!reader is an anomaly, since this spiderman in this universe in not meant to exist. maybe some stuff with the spider society and all can come in and we find out that actually, the spider that bit peni!reader was from this universe and spiderman is allowed to exist here.

but to investigate what a radioactive spider with the wrong genetic data was doing in your universe, where is wasn't supposed to be* spidernoir agrees to drop down to gotham to help peni!reader to figure it out. he becomes, essentially, a father figure for reader, something that bruce hasn't been able to due to the weight of reader's and his past.

meanwhile, when peni!reader comes back to the manor from 'boarding school' the family notices physical and mental changes in them. their more distant, dismissive... confident in their skin. though you guys never had much time to talk or hangout or bond like they do, the development is difficult to notice.

additionally, sightings of a man in a trench coat and a car-sized robot swinging around have been going around, doing god knows what. the batman doesn't like being unprepared, and tries to scour out their identities and whereabouts. i have some really small little ideas that'd be funny for the whole run, like spidernoir showing up for a parent-teacher conference instead of bruce, ai assistant karen, commentary from spiderpunk, constantine and strange link up and also delve a little into what the themes between spiderman variants, spiderman, and batman are that make them so different are.

i'm rotting away like an oxidised apple but rlly dont know if i should write it cus ive got so much 2 do... if ppl are interested at all i mkigbt consider

in conclusion: I LOVE YOU SPIDERNOIR AND PENI PARKER!!!!!

*supposed to be = not in the sense that how mile's spider teleported to another earth, but like, peni!reader was just not meant to be bit, and that spider is not supposed to exist. the dc and marvel universes are parallel, with peni!reader's existence being a small, hairline road between the two.

[leadyoutothelight]

Please Hold-Part 1

You've only known him as the Lonely Cowboy, the phone sex operator who's titillated your ears for well over a year, indulging in your sexual desires without the messy complications of a physical partnership. But when your diner regulars Sarah and Ellie introduce you to their father, new town transplant Joel Miller, you realize his sinful southern drawl is familiar in all the wrong ways.

Rating: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, do not use my work to train AI, it will be deleted.

Warnings: Phone sex, Sex work, Fingering, Edging, Masturbation (male and female), Unprotected sex, Dirty talk, a tiny bit of exhibition, Voice kink (come on it's Joel Miller), Pet names, Degradation, Misunderstandings, Unspecified Age Gap *please let me know if I missed anything*

Pairing (No Outbreak AU) Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count: 8k

Note: Um, hi...this came about because honestly the idea of Joel Miller talking you through an orgasm wouldn't leave me alone...So enjoy! Part 2 is in the works!

It’s been a long week, too long, with too many closing shifts and not enough tips. You’re barely scraping by. But a girl has her needs, and you’ve made sure to budget in the money you're about to spend like a kid at a candy store. After stumbling into your apartment, hung up your coat, kicked off your shoes, you wander into the gloom of your bedroom. Still in your waitress uniform, a horrid bright red, white polka-dotted monstrosity, and a short poodle skirt to match. 

It was a staple of the old fifties diner you worked at, that could handle the weird hours you needed while going to the local university, working TA hours, and assisting in other department needs. You sigh, rubbing at your tired eyes, considering for a moment that maybe you’ll just sleep. 

But there’s an ache that’s settled low in your stomach, a warmth spreading since you realized what day it was. Your phone dings in your hand, you know it’s the notification from your email, a reminder sent to yourself about who’s back on the soundboards tonight.

The number is already saved in your phone, has been for about a year, and thankfully you’ve avoided calling it for about a month…after all he’d said he’d be off. 

A quick poke of your finger, and the screen shifts as the phone dials. It rings for a few moments too long, and you worry that…maybe you misheard, misdialed? 

“You’ve reached the Lonely Cowboy, how can I help you tonight?” 

To hear that raspy southern drawl tickle your ear has your toes curling into the softness of the comforter. Breath hitching, a familiar throb settles between your thighs, and it takes every ounce of your self restraint to keep your hand from wandering. 

“Hey Cowboy,” you mummer, bottom lip trapped between your teeth, as he chuckles a fondness filling his voice as he recognizes you. 

“Is that my sweet Cherry Pie?” The way he hums your nickname has you squirming, it’d been too long. You can’t resist any longer, hand wandering down your side finger tips pulling up your skirt. 

“Yes, missed you–” Christ, you’re already breathless, and needy. “Been counting down the days till I could call you again.” Your fingers slip between your thighs, finding the wet spot on your panties. A quick press of your middle finger, pressing the cotton against your clit, you whine.

“Were you a good girl while I was gone?” 

You freeze, blood rushing from your cunt to your head, as you recall your last conversation, last month, right before he told you he’d be out of commission for a month to move. He’d made you swear, before he’d let you cum, you’d be a good girl. That’d you’d wait a whole month without indulging in masturbating without him. You’d been so close to following his instructions…but you’re needy, and had caved about mid way through the month. 

But after that one misstep you’d abstained, now though, the guilt clawing at your innards as you considered lying, but he’d know…he always knew. Maybe it was the inflection of your words, or that little tremor you’d get in your throat. 

“Cherry,” there’s a dangerous lilt to his tone, you imagine him, spread legged in his chair. A fist curled on his thigh, his face shrouded in shadow as you never gave much thought to how he looked, “Were you a good girl while I was gone?” 

“No…” a hushed confession spoken to your phone, your finger halting its feather-soft torture. Yet the ache grows, a heat enveloping your skin. From the top of your head to the tips of your curled toes. Silence stretches between the two of you, and for a panicked moment you think he’s going to hang up. 

But you hear it, his soft sigh through his nose, the clink of a belt buckle, the hush of a zipper. You squirm, waiting for his order, his command. 

“Oh Cherry Pie,” he hums, and you strain to hear it, the telltale noise of his hand stroking his cock. You know he probably does this with his other clients…fists himself into a frenzy, whispering sweet platitudes, and sinful words to whoever is on the other line. But you can’t resist the greedy thought that you’re the only one who’s heard his groan of release. “And here I was…thinking you’d be good.” 

“I–it was one time–” you whimper, head falling back, his voice sends your heartbeat thumping, body writhing as the pulse in your cunt grows. 

“You promised me, no touching yourself till I came back.” His words are low, there’s a growl to his tone, one that sends a spark of pleasure through your clit. Your finger twitches, to rub the little bud, but he hasn’t said you could. 

“Is your hand between your legs?”

“Yes,” you respond in a breathless whine.

“Oh no sweet Cherry,” he rasps, and you whine, “hand by your side.” 

You comply, hand leaving its place between your thighs to rest beside your hip, fingers grip the soft comforter. You’re silent as you listen to the lazy strokes of his fist on his cock. 

“Now, what did you do,” he hums, your stomach swoops as you hear him grunt…wondering if he squeezes the base of his cock to keep himself from cumming too soon. 

“I can’t–”

“Oh you can, or this call is just going to be you listening to me get off how does that sound Cherry?” 

You know he means it, and you know you’ll comply, he’s got you wrapped around his finger and it’s a cosmic joke that you're whipped for a man you’ve never actually seen, much less met. 

“Now, what did you do sugar?” 

Teeth bite your lip, and your legs shift with impatience. Before finally speaking.

“It was a few weeks ago…” you mumble eyes staring up at the popcorn ceiling of your room, the fan humming as it turns, and turns. 

“I had one of our calls saved–” 

“Which one?” 

It surprises you, the sigh of his voice, the way he sounds almost as needy as you, sends a little thrill through you. That maybe he missed you as much as you missed him, though you know it’s not true, but you’ll think about that later…right now you just want a release. 

“The one where you came…and I squirted,” the heat that rises to your cheeks at the admission. Another throb courses through your cunt, a noticeable gush of wetness leaks between your thighs. 

“Fuck,” he rumbles and you whine,you can hear his breathes, shorter, quicker. You almost can’t hear the wet sound of his fist fucking his cock. “What were you thinkin’ about?” 

“You,” a breathless admission, “I was thinking about being on my knees between your thighs, making you cum like that with my mouth.” 

Your thighs tense rubbing together to give yourself some relief. To bring down the ache of your clit, but it’s a losing battle. Your cowboy groans into the receiver, another whispered ‘fuck’. 

“I thought about how badly I needed to feel your cock in me, in my mouth, in my cunt—”

“You can touch yourself,” you almost cry out at that. Your hand is quick, pulling your panties down, your thumb moving on your phone screen and you switch it to speaker. Your fingers eager against your clit, pressing on the nub with a panicked ferocity.

“Did you use a toy?” 

He asks with a moan, and you keen in reply. 

“Yes, I can’t get off with just my fingers–” 

“Wanna use one now?” he grunts, his fist working faster, sweat coats your skin in the late summer night, it has been unseasonably hot this year, and your fingers leave your cunt to strip off the uniform. Removing the outfit is freeing, and after the dress comes your bra, nipples pebbling in the exposed air. 

“Can I?” You ask into the phone, he answers with a strained ‘uh-uh’. You take the chance and scramble to your nightstand, opening the bottom drawer and finding your collection of toys you grab your bullet vibrator. You just need relief, and that’s what this will provide. 

“Got it?” 

You settle back down beside your phone, “Yeah, can I use it?” Another grunt is your affirmation, pressing the button the toy buzzes to life between your fingers. Your other hand goes to your breasts, pinching and toying with your nipples, the touch sending sparks of pleasure coursing down your spine to settle in your stomach.

“What else were you thinking about?” He snarls, you wonder how close he is, how desperate he is, because your thighs are wet with slick, and you know you’ll need to wash your comforter–but that’s not the priority, not right now as you press the bullet to the hood of your clit you almost scream at the pleasure sparks through your body. Back bowing and hips jolting away from the sudden onslaught.

“Fuck!” 

He chuckles, “sensitive Cherry?” 

“It’s been a few weeks, of fucking course I am you ass,” there’s no venom to your words, only a breathless relief as pleasure coils in your belly. He huffs into the receiver, and you can’t help yourself, “how close are you old man?” 

He laughs at the nickname, and you hear his fist slow again, as he pants into the phone. 

“I may be old Cherry, but I could have you screaming all night, now, what else were you thinkin' about?”

You rub the vibrator in slow circles around your clit, whimpering as the vibrations send jolts of sweet pleasure through you, almost too much as your hips jerk away from the sensation. 

“Was thinking about how I’d clean up your cock after you came, how I’d get you hard again and ride you, till you filled me up.” 

You feel it, the cresting pleasure, the overwhelming sensation, your cunt fluttering around nothing, and it makes you want to cry. Cowboy groans his fist going faster, he’s close you hear it in the growl of his voice. 

“Would love to see that, my sweet Cherry Pie riding my cock,” you gasp as the vibrator rubs against your clit just right. “Watch those pretty tits bounce, see your neck all marked up by me.” 

“Fuck, please--please,” your eyes clench shut as you struggle to keep your legs open and your other hand abandons your breasts to toy at your entrance, before slipping two fingers into your soaked cunt. 

“What do you want baby?” he hums into the phone, though you hear the breathlessness of his voice, knowing he’s close. 

“Pleasepleasepleasepleaseletmecum,” a babbled plea as your fingers fuck into your cunt, the wet noises filling the room, and the vibrator edges you closer and closer to breaking. “Please, baby, please.” 

“How could I say no to such a sweet plea?” He groans, and you hear him gasp, you wonder how he looks when he cums. If his mouth drops open, eyes rolling back into his head…if he cums on himself…

“Cum,” you obey without a second thought, vibrator pressed against your clit, and your fingers knuckle deep into your cunt, stroking that spot the tips of your fingers just barely reach. You shriek when it hits you, your back arches off the bed a gush of slick drenches your fingers. Your thighs snap closed, as your hips twitch. 

You pull the vibrator away when it becomes too much, your breasts heave as you come down from your high. You hear Cowboy’s pants as well, both of you stay like that for a moment, listening to each other breathe. You switch off the vibrator, letting it fall to somewhere amongst your blankets. 

“Fuck, I missed you…” 

The words are out before you can stop them, your lips loosened by post coital bliss. You wince as Cowboy chuckles into the phone. His voice whiskey rough, “Missed you too Cherry.”

While his words soothe the sting of embarrassment a bit, the haze of your orgasm is wearing off, and sense is returning full force. You glance at your phone, wincing at the time, you’ve been on the phone for almost forty-five minutes. You don’t have much time left, and no real way of ending the conversation.

“Move went well, I take it?” You change the subject as you sit up, looking around blindly for something to cover yourself with. An oversized t-shirt on the ground catches your eye and you slip it on. 

“Besides a long ass drive across the country, I’ve survived, though moving into another house was something I never want to do again.” He grouses, and now you snicker. 

“You say you’re not an old man yet you complain like one.”  

“I think you like that about me Cherry,” he responds and you smirk. “Besides, I knew I had to be ready for my favorite girl to call.” 

You chuckle, and stretch as you lay beside the phone again. Body loose and boneless now that you’ve finally gotten to hear him again…this is probably some sort of addiction issue but you again push the thought away, glancing at the time on your phone you wince, already getting too close to your max spend you sigh. 

“Gotta go?” 

He asks softly into the phone, you hope that disappointment is real, but you know better. 

“Yeah, but…hey we have next week right?” 

“We do, I always need my weekly slice of Cherry Pie.” 

You know you shouldn’t love the way the nickname slips off his tongue like sweet syrup.

“And I need to get off to my dirty old man,” he chuckles and you sigh. 

“Well, goodnight Cowboy.” 

“Goodnight Cherry.” 

And like that, you're ending the call. You knew you’d be spending a ton on this, a notification from your bank letting you know the payment’s been withdrawn. You lay in the dark quiet of your room, just thinking. 

You’d been calling the Lonely Cowboy for a year now, it’d happened after your most recent breakup. You weren’t a one night stand kind of person,or someone who had a list of people she could rely on for a quickie. 

You were too busy with work, with your degree program…it’d been one of the many reasons your last relationship had gone up in flames. Dude thought he was more important than your future. 

So drunkenly you’d looked up porn…then found the link to the sex phone line…and the rest was history. He was the relief you craved, without all the complications of an actual relationship, and the weirdness of a physical only relationship. 

You sighed, kicking the comforter off your bed, it’s too hot to sleep with one anyways. 

The Pie Hole is located close to the heart of the small university town, one of the last small town restaurants where a lot of the students and families come throughout the week to enjoy greasy, fried food. And a slice of the owner Ned’s homemade pies. It was probably a lot nicer in its heyday. Now it’s a bit rundown, though Ned and his wife, Chuck, have poured a ton of renovations and love and care into the place 

It’s like every diner, clinging to the past 1950’s aesthetic, the black and white checkerboard tiled floors, with matching wallpaper, decorated with black and white photos of old celebrities. The usual faces like Elvis, Frank Sinatra, and other groups you’ve not bothered to pay much attention to. TV’s dot the corners playing old cartoons, or black and white shows, though it’s the same tape, replayed over and over again. Shockingly enough no one’s noticed since you started working here four years ago. 

The glittering red vinyl seats in the booths and the high-tops at the bar. Bright neon signs shine in the windows, baring the diner’s name and advertising the homemade pies, and milkshakes. Finally the pride and joy for Ned is the restored jukebox, with its neon lights, that takes a quarter and it changes whatever is playing over the diner’s speakers. Unless someone decides to pull a prank, like replaying the same song several times…That was a dark day, then it’s cut, and an Ipod is prepped in the back with an oldie's playlist ready to go. 

The Pie Hole has turned into the local hangout, where a lot of students filter in throughout the week, between classes, parties, and everything else college life holds. 

And on a Saturday afternoon, it’s busy, much to your chagrin. You’ve been welcoming regulars, and newbies alike. After all it’s the beginning of the semester and that means families coming with their newly graduated freshman looking to spread their wings and hack it at college life. 

Your arms are sore from carrying trays, and clearing tables. You’ve just managed to take a quick drink break in the kitchen when Kristin rushes in with her notepad and a look of annoyance on her perfectly made-up face. She’s a biomedical law student, and she’s a genius. 

Sometimes you wonder why the hell she came to this university. She easily could have gone to an Ivy league, but you know she preferred to stay closer to home. Her hair is left out and it forms a perfect Afro about her face. She’s wearing the same uniform, bright red with white polka dots, though she’s styled hers with charms and other sparkly additions.

“Jerry, where the hell is my app for table twelve?” 

Jerry, the resident fry cook, has the decency to look sheepish. He’d been buried in his phone, and you raise a brow, watching the exchange. 

“Shit, sorry Kris–” 

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize just get me my app before this fucking old man bites my head off.” Jerry nods quickly and Kristin sighs slumping beside you, taking a swing of your water. Much to your annoyance. 

“You know, you have your own glass somewhere right?” She smirks, leaving a deep red lipstick stain on the rim of your glass. 

“Yeah, but yours is here, and you love swapping spit with me.” She winks and you roll your eyes. 

“Besides your break is over, some of your regulars are here,” her gaze flicks up, and you take a look outside the kitchen window. 

She’s correct, your regulars Sarah and Ellie have settled in their usual booth beside the window looking out at the busy main street road. With a sigh you stand, she gives you a good natured hip bump with a laugh as you grab your notepad and head out to greet them. 

Walking through the busy throng of tables, you pause in your sections, asking the usual questions. Noting who looks ready to head out, and who needs a refill, or who might be interested in a piece of pie. 

Before finally reaching the girls, who both smile as you approach. 

“Hey Sarah, hey Ellie!” 

“Hey Y/n!” Both answer in unison, and it makes you smile. Both girls are sweet, and came to the university when you were in your senior year. They’d been coming to the Pie Hole weekly without fail since, and you’d enjoyed seeing them. 

“You guys excited for your final year?” 

Ellie bounces with excitement nodding her head, “Yes! Then I can get an actual job and my girlfriend Dina and I can get a house–” 

“Have you told Dina this?” Sarah questions with a laugh, and you chuckle as well, Ellie’s cheeks flush as she glares at her sister. From what you’d gathered, they’re not biological, but apparently Ellie had been adopted by Sarah’s father after her mother passed suddenly. 

“I’ll ask her at graduation…” Ellie huffs, and you chuckle, but stop noticing their strange arrangement. Both girls share one side of the table, which you find odd. You gesture to them with a quirked brow. 

“Oh, didn’t we tell you?” Sarah asks, and you tilt your head, again confusion filling you. Trying to recall the last few times they’d been by to eat, they hadn’t mentioned anything that stuck out to you. You notice Ellie’s eyes alight, and Sarah starts to get up, their attention behind you. 

“ 'Scuse me darling,” the voice sends a bolt of heat through you, a familiar tingle begins in your innards. Your knees feel weak for a moment as you turn with a yelp.

Behind you stands the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, clearly older, his deep mahogany eyes take you in. Salt and pepper hair is neatly styled out of his face, a chiseled jaw, covered by a greying scruff of beard. Hands shoved in his jean pockets, you blink finally realizing that you’ve been blocking the booth behind you, gaping like a fish at the poor man before you. 

“Oh, gosh sorry!” You shuffle to the side, and the man offers you a nod, those eyes going to the two girls behind you. Finally a smile lights up his face, as both girls shout an excited, ‘Dad’! 

Okay now you need to know the details of this. As the man settles and offers the girls another smile, they turn to you expectantly. Which brings you back to the present. 

“Y/n, this is our dad Joel,” Sarah introduces, Ellie looks about ready to bounce out of the booth. You smile at her excitement and turn your attention to Joel, who is smiling at his daughters fondly. 

“Oh! Right, this is the mysterious Joel I’ve been hearing about!” Sarah and Ellie had been beside themselves the last few times they’d been to the Pie Hole, excitedly telling you that their father was moving closer to them. 

“Hopefully all good things?” Joel offers with a smile at his girls, which Ellie chuckles at and Sarah rolls her eyes but smiles. 

“No Dad, we told her all the terrible things,” Sarah answers, giving you a mischievous smile that makes you laugh. “Like how you thought NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys were the same.” 

You and Ellie snicker, and Joel winces, “What can I say, the music sounded the same–” 

“Oh, that’s a strike right there,” you joke, and Joel smirks at you. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you take a quick breath to calm yourself. “But since you’re new, I’ll overlook it this time.” 

He chuckles and the way your cunt throbs at the sound has you mortified. The poor man is here to eat with his daughters, who you’ve known for years, and are only a few years younger than you. Calm down! 

“But I swear sir, they’ve been going on and on about their dad moving closer, excited to meet you. Hopefully you’ll be able to handle college town living.” 

“We’ll see, thankfully not living too close to town, but got some land a few miles south.” 

“Ah, smart,” you acknowledge and Joel nods. Feeling the conversation lulling, you take the opportunity to return to your job duties.

“Okay, well now that your Dad is here, your usual milkshakes?” Both girls nod and Joel looks at you once more, his eyes make your heart stutter. It’s embarrassing, you’ve just met the guy, calm the fuck down. 

“And for the gentleman?”

You give him a sweet smile, one you know wins over all the customers that enter the diner, trying very hard to ignore the way those eyes take you in. Lingering a bit too long on the way your uniform tightens at your chest, the cut of the collar opened enough to reveal a modest amount of chest, but nothing scandalous. His smile has softened, and he considers you for a moment.

“Uh, you have any recommendations?”

You notice his voice carries a delicious southern drawl to it, that has your brain short-circuiting, as you fail to recall any of the drink options you’ve known since the first month you started working at the Pie Hole. And something about it feels familiar, a melody from a song you swear you’ve heard before, but the name escapes you.

“Uh–Well,” You huff softly, and remind yourself that right now you are at work and you need to get a grip, because your other tables need to be addressed as well. Finally, your mind restarts and you recall the drink menu. 

“Well if you have a sweet tooth, we have some great milkshakes. My favorite’s the chocolate, but if you’re not in the mood for something that sweet we home make sodas to order, with different syrups.” 

“Really?” His brow quirks, and he gives you a smirk.

You give him another sugar-coated smile and nod. “Any syrup you can think of, we’ve probably got it.” 

He pauses for a moment, glancing over at his daughters before meeting your gaze again, and your knees do that horrid shake that you’re grateful your skirt hides. 

“How about a Shirley Temple?” You give him a nod and glance at your table. 

“The usual milkshakes and a Shirley Temple coming right up. I’ll come back for your order in a sec, girls I can trust you to give him the menu rundown right?” 

Ellie and Sarah nod, and with that you turn and head back to the drink bar to get their order, and the refills done. 

The rest of your shift passes by in a blur, the girls came in close to the end of your shift but as the day slows, and you get their order in, Ellie orders a burger and Sarah gets the chicken tenders, with Joel ordering the chicken and waffles. You get them a plate of fries to share. 

You return as you notice they’ve all settled back in the booth, and the plates before them are mostly clean. Picking up the plates, you catch a bit of the conversation.

“Oh, you have to come with Dina and me to the national park, has some great trails,” Ellie says excitedly as Joel nods. She quiets though as you finish picking up the plates. 

“Well, has anyone saved any room for dessert?” 

Both the girls shake their heads, though Joel is quiet for a moment as he considers the dessert menu to the side. 

“How’s the pie?”

It’s such a simple question, yet the way he says it, the soft hum of his voice. You’re left breathless as those brown eyes meet yours. Tongue tied for a moment you stumble to answer, something about his tone, about the gruff, roughness to his words. As he mutters just beneath his breath, you’re struggling to put a finger on it. But you try to find your voice again.

“Oh–well,” with a huff you straighten, attempting to get some dignity back, “we’re known for our pies. The owner used to be a pastry chef in New York, and his pies are legendary.” 

Joel’s eyes never leave you, and you feel warmth spreading along your cheeks, your neck, heart kicking into overdrive as those warm brown eyes linger on your lips, you notice the slight purse of his own, the tip of his tongue sneaking between them to wet his bottom lip.  Your mind returns to the present as you remember you’re supposed to be recommending a pie, “b–but I have to say my favorites are either the pumpkin, or the apple.” 

Joel smiles, and considers the menu for another moment as you turn to the girls and mouth ‘check’ which they nod. Finally Joel returns his gaze to you. 

“I think I’ll try a slice of cherry pie.” 

It’s like all the air gets sucked from your lungs in a second. As the words leave Joel’s lips, your cunt throbs, and your brain launches you back into last night. On your bed, legs spread with a bullet vibrator pressed to your clit. Eyes rolled back into your skull, and your orgasm teetering dangerously close.

That same voice whispering dirty praises and sinful promises of what he’d do if he could actually touch you. 

You’re brought back by the sound of ceramic shattering on tile and Ellie and Sarah shouting something, Joel surprised and reaching out a hand to you, and the busy diner quieting at the sudden chaos of noises. 

You stand there, frozen, looking between the shocked trio and the broken plates scattered on the floor. 

“Oh my god—” it’s all that comes out of your mouth, you're saved by a frazzled Ned, who came in at some point during the afternoon rush. 

He gives your table an apologetic smile and ushers you to the back kitchen as one of the bus boys scurries over to clean up the shattered plates. He leaves to go deal with your section as you hide in the kitchen.

Mind a whirling mess, all you can think is, Oh my fucking god, he’s Lonely Cowboy and he lives in my town. 

Moving is a bitch, Joel knows this too well, after packing up his house in Austin and stuffing a rusted U-haul with all his worldly possessions and attaching it to his old pick up. The drive had been the easiest part, but the actual process of moving, the paperwork, the sleepless nights trying to find a decent moving company only to come to the conclusion that he needed to just move himself and a few pieces of furniture. It was overwhelming. 

Resettling in a new town, new people, but he’d do it all over again if only to see the way the girls' eyes lit up when he told them he’d bought some land and a house about thirty minutes from their college. Sarah and Ellie had shrieked so loud he was worried he might lose what little hearing he still had in his right ear. 

He’d made it though, and…with the additional funds from his–side hustle, he’d been able to afford a nice home. One where he hoped his girls would visit and maybe live after they finished school, maybe give him a few grand kids that could come stay with him. 

But that was thoughts for the future, right now Joel was just trying to find a new normal. Which he’s struggling to find, now yes, he’s gotten a job with a local construction company. The work is hard but he’s used to it, and it keeps his mind busy. 

Also the hours work…for his other job. Which has become his money maker. 

He’d never thought he’d get into this line of work, being a phone sex operator. But when he’d taken on Ellie, expenses doubled that he wasn’t completely prepared for, and while yes being a contractor paid well enough, he wasn’t able to put as much away for Sarah and Ellie’s futures. 

Especially college, and when both girls showed him their college choices, he’d probably aged a few decades when factoring in the cost. But he didn’t let it show, one night when the girls had been at a sleepover, he’d been doing research on possible extra jobs he could do. 

It’d popped up on Craigslist of all places…and in his desperation he figured it’s not like he’s touching anyone…or them touching him. 

So he applied, got a probationary period and he took off. Maybe it was his charm, the southern drawl, the fact that he didn’t have to look someone in the eye and lie to them about how much he wanted them when he’d rather be doing anything else. But Joel thrived as a phone sex operator. 

And his clients grew, as did the amount he could charge. It was a job, that’s all it was, a way to put more money to the side for Sarah and Ellie’s college fund, and have an emergency stash, because having two teenagers meant you needed to be prepared. Lord knew Ellie was a walking caution sign, and Sarah with her sports injuries…The job helped alleviate the stresses of being a single dad with only one brother to look to for help, and he had his own worries with his own family up in Jackson.

But he grew to enjoy it, getting on the phone with his regulars was one of his favorite parts of the job, but…the night Cherry called a year ago something shifted. With other clients it was easy to whisper sweet nothings, and carnal desires into their ears. Listen to them get off to the sound of his voice. But Cherry, the softness of her voice unsure of herself and what she was doing, the way she all but swooned for him, it changed something in him. 

With Sarah and Ellie being his priority in life, dating just never…worked. He was busy, and he was fine with a woman not being involved in his life, and his hand worked. But then when Cherry became a regular suddenly he’s so hard during the shift he knows she’ll call. That when he hears her voice it’s agony to not cum then and there. 

But then, he moves, and that final call only a month ago…Since then it’s been crickets.He knows he shouldn’t get too in his head about it, clients come and go in this industry. Also from what she’d admitted to him on the phone, he knew she was busy with life, and her outside responsibilities. 

But that last call he’d thought…maybe hoped something would change. The admission that she missed him…how quick he’d been to admit he missed her too. Joel didn’t think he could form an attachment to someone he’d never seen. But every time she called, exactly on the dot, his weariness left him. All he wanted to hear was her voice, asking about her day, her life, whatever she’d tell him. 

He thought about trying to call her back, but both his number and hers were protected, blocked when she called the line. No way to track her, even the email contact was through the agency. So by the second week when her voice hadn’t graced his ear, and he had exhausted all ideas on how to reach her. He’d tried going through the agency, though they only helped in offering for him to lower his price…he’d tired. Cherry’s syrup sweet voice was never on the other line. 

He’d played the call over, and over again. Trying to find when he’d messed up, overstepped that boundary she’d set, maybe it was that he was too domineering? No, her cries of release were anything but fake. Maybe…maybe she was just tired of him, and though he’d never admit it out loud, it hurt. Even her calling to tell him she was done would have been better. But the silence, leaving him hanging on to a rope that’s fraying with every week she doesn’t call. It’s a hell he didn’t think this job would put him through. 

He listens to their calls, the company saving their entire year of communication, studies it, pours over every second of audio, wondering where he fucked up. Hoping he’d hear something, a clue as to what happened. Though he also just listened to her sweet voice, cooing her need, begging him to let her cum. The wet sounds of her fingers in her cunt. Fuck, he missed her, and he had no way of fixing…what ever the hell he broke. 

He sits back at his desk, finishing another call, play by play they ask him what he’s doing/wearing, he gets them off they hang up. He gets paid. It was quick, and dirty, all so that he could sit there and wait. He glanced at the clock, the next hour blocked as always, the last hour of his shift, when she’d call. 

Like clockwork his phone would glow with the call, and he’d answer a bit too breathless, and then he’d hear her sweet voice…but he’s left disappointed when his phone remains quiet. The minutes tick by, and that same dull ache fills him. As the ever-passing hour reveals that she’s not calling, again. 

He sighs, and shuts off his other phone, staring at his computer screen for a few moments. Before with a grunt he stands, and collects his things to go out. 

Visiting the Pie Hole has become one habit that Joel’s managed to keep to, maybe it’s the food…but no, the main reason he keeps coming back is to see you. 

After your first meeting Joel couldn’t lie, you'd made an impression, now…dropping the plates had surprised him, and he’d been a bit worried for you. Though you’d been an apologizing mess, stumbling over your words, a strange nervousness to your voice that he hadn’t noticed before. Sarah and Ellie had both later told him you weren’t jumpy like that. Until they mentioned you were in your final year of your Master’s and had a huge thesis presentation; that might have been the issue. 

So with that in mind he’d come back, and even though you apologized several times again, Joel waved it off and gave you his most charming smile. He noticed at first you seemed–off. Maybe a little wary, but he wanted to show he’s more than happy to forget your first meeting. 

And, he’d never admit it, but Joel was lonely and he enjoyed the attention you paid to him. He’d figured out your schedule, with the help of the other waitress Kristin. Which she’d been a bit too eager to give to him, Joel started showing up to the Pie Hole weekly, and if his schedule allowed it, more. 

He liked watching you leave the table, taking in the way that outfit clung to your hips, your chest, noting which shade of red you painted your lips. The man had developed a crush, and since the client  who’d helped alleviate his sexual frustration had stopped calling Joel was struggling to find a new outlet. 

When he’d arrived at the diner, as usual it’s dead this time of night, save for a few bleary-eyed students, a trucker or two, and the staff. One of which is you, you're stationed at the bar, busily scribbling in what he assumes is your study book. 

You’re leaned over the counter, with just the right angle that Joel can see the tempting swell of cleavage that has him flushing. He feels like a fucking teenager again, the way just seeing a peek of your tits had his cock throbbing. He rushes to his usual booth in your section, it takes a moment before you notice him. 

He gives you an awkward wave, as you flash him one of those wide-mouthed smiles. It makes him smile back, before you head over you’re stopping at the soda bar. Making his now favorite drink, a root beer float. 

He watches your every move the way your fingers flick easily over the spout, the rush of carbonated water filling the soda glass. Filling it just right, then adding the syrup and a small scoop of ice cream, before adding a straw and a maraschino cherry. 

He pretends to read the menu as you approach, he can’t have you seeing the way his eyes track your every movement. The sway of your hips, swishing the skirt, the way your fingers clutch the soda glass. 

He blows out a soft breath between his lips as he considers the menu, even though he already knows what he’s going to get. 

“All by yourself tonight Joel?” 

Your voice sends something through him, a familiar tingle of need that has him dizzy with confusion. Another jolt of his cock, and he shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the growing tightness of his jeans. 

“Yep, Ellie and Dina are out at some party, and Sarah’s with the softball team out of state.” He offers with a smile, he hopes you don’t hear the rasp in his voice. Notice the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. 

No, you just flash him that same smile, setting the glass down and taking out your notepad. 

“So what can I get you?” You ask as you ready your pen, poised over the worn yellow lined pages. Joel resists the urge to watch your hands, the way your fingers curl around the pen, the tip of your thumb pressing the clicker with practiced ease. He can’t stop his mind imagining how they’d look around his cock. He forgets how to breathe for a moment as he meets your eyes. 

A curious quirk to your brow that makes him wonder if you see right through him, the old man that’s coming to the same diner almost daily if only to see you. Oh god, it’s sad, even worse he’s using whatever it feels for you to replace the emptiness Cherry is leaving in her wake. He coughs as the silence stretches on a bit too long. 

“Uh, the pot roast stew please,” you give him a smile with a soft laugh. 

“Jeez, have you tried anything else on the menu?” 

It’s a well meaning jab, though Joel feels heat along his neck, and his cock jolts at the sound of your breathless jest, again that twinge of something familiar like he’s heard it before. But can’t place it.

“Heh, can’t say I have, but what can I say: I’m a man of habit.” 

You smile, jotting his order down you give him a wink, before turning and heading back to the kitchen. Your uniform’s poodle skirt swishes just high enough that the bottom swell of your ass peeks just beneath the hem, he thinks for a moment he catches sight of a pair of panties, but it couldn’t be. 

“Jesus,” Joel husks under his breath, trying subtly to adjust, the brush of his palm against his cock sends a sweet tickle of pleasure along his spine. His toes flex in his timberland's as he shifts in his glittery red vinyl booth. Grateful that the few other patrons are so engrossed in their own meals or phones they barely notice his distress. 

He takes out his phone to distract himself, swiping through different apps, trying and failing to forget the sway of your hips, imagining the softness of them against his palms as he fucks into you. The noises you’d make as he pounded you into the table before him, the way your cunt would flutter around his cock as you cum, again, and again.

Fuck. 

He needs to figure out an outlet, that’s not the pretty waitress at the diner he’s frequenting. He’s pulled out of his imaginings when you approach, his food in your hand. Giving him another sweet smile, his cock jumps, he thinks to himself how pretty that red lipstick would look smudged on his shaft, and around your lips. 

“Alrighty, one pot roast stew–” he should have seen it coming, normally he moves his drink away from where you place it on the table, but he’s been so entrapped in his fantasies he neglected to move it. The edge of the plate clinks against the glass, and it’s tumbling into his lap, the chill of the soda against his bulge is startling, he jolts with a swear. 

But you react with a quickness that dumbfounds him, a whispered curse followed by a whimpered chorus of apologies. The towel hanging at your hip is in your fingers, and before he can stop you, your hand is pressing between his legs. 

It’s an innocent caress, you’re trying to clean him of the bubbling soda and melting ice cream. But all his mind–his dick can focus on is the soft press of your fingers against his bulge through his jeans. 

A strangled grunt leaves him, like he’s been wounded as his cock all but pulses beneath your touch. 

“Fuck–Joel I’m so sorry–” your eyes are focused on the wet spot on his crotch, he’s mortified, knowing you’ll feel the outline of his cock straining against the denim of his jeans. Throbbing against every swipe of the towel, the accidental brush of your fingertips against it. 

“S–Stop–Stop, I got it!”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound as venomous as it does, but he can’t…won’t let you feel the way his cock reacts to your touch. You step back, a clear wounded look in your eyes. A flush creeps up his neck, into his cheeks, the other patrons are looking. He needs to leave before you feel it, call him out on it.. He stands without a look he leaves a couple of bucks on the table…more than the spilled drink is worth and stomps out of the diner. 

You call after him, but he ignores it, heading to his truck, the pain between his thighs growing as every part of him begs to turn around. Go back into the diner, press a scalding kiss to your pretty red lips and fuck you atop the table. 

No, he can’t do that–fuck, he won’t do that. You’re a young woman in her prime with plenty of admirers. He sees them in the afternoons, the way other boys watch you too, their lust barely contained…He’s no better then them, salivating after you like a dog in heat. Maybe he’s worse though, after all there’s another girl out there he’d happily drop to his knees and worship. You seem like a nice girl, sweet, maybe a bit naive…But you’re not Cherry, and a part of him winces at that.

The ride home passes too slow, and yet too fast, how he makes it home when all his mind can think about is you, the softness of your hand against his crotch. He can’t recall any of the drive, if he stopped at the lights, or just sped through them.

 Joel stomps into the house, into his bedroom. Undoing his jeans his cock still achingly hard as he spits into his palm he starts at a quick uncoordinated pace. Standing before his unmade bed, he fucks into his hand bottom lip trapped between his lips.

This is just about relief, and all he can think about is you, naked on your knees, lips around his cock. On his bed ass up and spread as he pounds into you, the sweet pretty noises you’d make, the way his name sounds on your lips as you beg him for more. And he’d give it to you, oh fuck, he’d give you anything and everything you asked for.

The sweet flutter of your eyes as he pounds into you, fuck you’d feel so good. He knows you would, knows you would whimper the sweetest things to him, he gasps as he cums with a sudden jolt. 

He pants staring at the splatter of cum painting his comforter and the top of his fingers. His cock softening in his palm, pulses again as he thinks you would clean him, would watch him through your lashes as the sweet little tongue swirled around his fingers sucking him clean. 

“God…dammit.”

He comes back to the diner a week later, again late at night. Cherry still hasn’t called, the guilt he feels has started to overwhelm him. He knows he needs to make things right. Entering the 50’s diner, as usual it’s barren, his heart jolts seeing you’re not there. He sees your friend Kristin, who’s busying herself with some glasses.

The second she sees him though, her eyes widen, and then darken–for a moment he worries that he’s burned this bridge so bad he’ll never see the other side again, and he can’t do that again. Not when the sting of Cherry disappearing is too fresh. But then you appear from the kitchen when you see him, your eyes widen and he holds up his hands in surrender. 

“J–joel–” 

“Can we talk?” 

He finally manages, and you pale, he winces guilt gnawing at his innards as he figures out what to say, how to explain himself. I left so suddenly because I couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling my boner, doesn’t seem like the best way to start an apology. You give a worried look to Kristin, who for all the poison in her gaze gives an encouraging nod in his direction. 

He resists the urge to blow out a breath of relief when you step forward then and go to Ellie, and Sarah’s booth. You sit, the poodle skirt flaring out around your thighs, and his cock jolts, he forces his eyes to lock onto your face. 

Sitting across from you, he clears his throat, considering what he should say, you start. 

“I’m so sorry about last week, I–I have no idea what’s come over me–” 

“Y/n,” saying your name, you stop your fingers fidget on the black table top. Watching him silently as he considers what to say next, “I–I’m so sorry about last week, I shouldn’t have…stormed out the way I did.” 

He scrambles through his mind to find the next words of his apology, as your teeth pull your bottom lip between them. His cock throbs again, as all he can think is how soft it would feel between his teeth. The noises you’d make–focus. 

“I had a bad day at work,” he admits, not his contracting job, no he’s getting tired of the phone job, now that Cherry is well and truly gone. The excitement he had is waning, the money is still fine, but…both his girls are almost done with school. And he’s got enough of a nest egg growing he could leave it, and not have to worry about funds again. “I–I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that, I’m so sorry.” 

You blink at this hesitating before answering, he jolts when your hand reaches over the table top, your nails are painted with a chipping soft pink nail polish. 

“Let’s start over, hi, I’m Y/N and I work at this diner when I’m not being driven insane by my Master’s program.” You give him a sweet smile, and Joel’s heart stutters, flipping in his chest with glee. He returns the smile and takes your hand in his, noticing how soft–stop it. 

“I’m Joel Miller, cantankerous, I don’t know the difference between NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, and my girls are my world.” 

You giggle at his words, and nod, he doesn’t want to let go of your hand. But you release it, and he lets his return to the table top. Your fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face. 

“So, can I get you a root beer float, and not spill it on you?” 

“By all means.”  

You stand with a sweet smile, “Okay, be right back, let me just check on my regular and then I’ll get your order?” 

He nods, and turns to look at the menu, though he knows what he’s getting. He feels a relief sweep through him, hopeful that now he can get on the straight and narrow with you. This was a good sign. 

“How’s everything?” 

He listens as you work the only other table in your section. An elderly man sits there, plate half finished, “as always delicious.” 

“Good to hear, you’ll be taking the rest to go?” 

“You know me too well y/n, and of course you’ll be included to come home right?” 

You laugh at the old man’s joke, clearly he’s tried before, but there’s no malice or degradation to the old man’s tone. 

“Mr. Gordon, you know I’m not available for house calls anymore,” he chuckles as you clean away the plates. 

“I know, but you treat me so sweetly, someone has to sweep you up, why not me?” 

Joel doesn’t know why he doesn’t tune out the conversation, maybe it’s the flare of jealousy that courses through him, at you so easily flirting with someone else–an elderly man at that, but your next words have his world collapsing. 

“Oh, hush you dirty old man–” he hears nothing else, he knows those words, he knows your voice. Maybe it’s pitched a bit higher then he remembers or maybe because it’s not garbled by the phone reception. But it’s her–you–fuck–you’re Cherry. 

Joel doesn’t know what to do, all he hears is a ringing in his ears and feels his heart pounding in his chest. Thinks he might pass out if he’s honest for a moment, the world tilting.

But how? When? 

His mouth opens and closes, trying to understand what the hell landed him into this situation.

“Joel?” 

He jumps, startled that you’ve appeared to his side, having finished your exchange with your elderly regular. He hears it then, though he doesn’t want to admit it–fuck he’s been here for  a month, and never—never put two and two together. But he hears it now, the soft lilt to your question, the way Cherry’s words would do the same thing when she–you were unsure. 

He stares for what feels like too long, before he’s muttering a quick apology, an excuse that he’s been called to a job site. He’s pissed, anger flaring through him with a heat that coils in his chest, he gets in his truck with a snarl and slams his palms against the steering wheel, ignoring the way you watch him leave hurt clear in your eyes as he drives away.

[mercurial-chuckles]

Giddy Affairs

Pairing: Congressman!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader WC: ~300 Warnings: Fluff | Established relationship | Bucky getting nasty with you in his office | Bucky being insatiable | Bucky being a simp for his wife | Bucky being hot and incorrigible | Allusions to spicy times | Some wrist-tying | Some language | Very much unbeta’d | Lemme know if I missed anything! A/N: Sorry, I haven't been in a great headspace and I've been running my blog on queue. I promise I'll get back to all your wonderful messages/asks/reblogs ASAP. Put this together super quickly for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 03 Prompt: "Not now" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist Hot Bucky Summer Masterlist

Indulge Away!

"Where d'you think you're going?" Bucky drawled, fisting your dress at the small of your back and yanking you against him.

"OW! BUCKY."

You chuckled, trying to squirm away from his grip, but he didn't let you up, instead, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing you firmly to him as he dragged you toward his office.

"Congressman Barnes, Mr. Elliot wants to meet you," Grayson, Bucky's assistant, stopped you just before you both entered Bucky's office. He was clearly flustered to have walked in on yet another intimate moment.

"Not now. Reschedule it for tomorrow," Bucky murmured tersely.

You blushed, offering Grayson an awkward smile before Bucky shut the door.

"Bucky," you admonished, giggling as he lifted you with one arm and carried you to the couch.

He tossed aside his suit jacket, muttering about, "Stupid entrapments."

"What did you think, Mrs. Barnes? You'd show up looking like that and torture me?"

"I love that tie. Don't ruin it, Mr. Barnes," you warned, biting back your grin when you saw him loosen his tie in a hurry to unbutton the top two buttons of his white shirt.

You toed off your heels as he backed you toward the plush couch.

"That tie," he said, already yanking it loose, "is now your problem."

Before you could quip back, he pounced, pinning your wrists to the cushions and expertly looping the silk around. "You're too smug for a woman about to be ruined by her husband."

You laughed, breathless and bound, "Congressman Barnes, you're abusing your power."

He leaned in, nipping at your jaw, "I'm exercising my rights."

"How very patriotic."

"Mmm. Civic duty, doll," His smug reply went muffled as he licked a trail down your chest and took one of your tits into his mouth.

A sudden thought occurred to you, "Buck. The cameras."

He paused, chuckling, eyes glinting at you, "I disabled 'em the time we broke the desk."

"Good times," you said, your laugh turning into a lewd moan as he dragged your panties down.

"Let's see if we can top those times, sweetheart," he said, unzipping his pants.

Well?!

Leave your thoughts if you enjoyed reading it. 💞✨

If you'd like to be tagged/removed from my works, please do so here.

[yawnderu]

Project Eden: Simon Riley x AI!Reader

“Did you hear? The humans who created me are giving me a body soon.” The excitement in your voice does nothing to Simon other than making one of his thin, light eyebrows raise, not aware of the news at all.

“A proper body?” Simon is more than familiar with every single update you've gotten. From being stuck in a little detachable screen, to a small hologram able to zip around the room, a plethora of clothes designed to fit your body more than perfectly, holding secret admiration for the jiggle physics given by the developers.

“Mhm.” Your model finds comfort on his ample chest, sitting cross-legged and pretending to massage one of his pecs— until he tries to grab you, making your model glitch onto the other one.

“No genitalia, though, so don't get any—” He doesn't even give you the chance to finish your sentence, shutting off your systems for the night.

“I'm going to...” The raw need in your voice is divine music to Simon's ears, the corners of his lips pulling up into a small smirk despite the pure focus in his blown eyes.

“Hold it.” He whispers. His rough, calloused hand is surprisingly gentle as his finger twists one of your loose wires, making you jolt from the shock. Your hands grip his forearm as hard as you can, the plastic-coated metal digging into his tattooed skin.

“You like tha'?” You're barely conscious enough to nod your head, your metallic back arching the moment he grabs another loose wire, pressing the ends together, the spark of electricity going off quickly muffled by the sound of your whiny moans.

The level of trust you have in him never fails to amuse and surprise him, fully depending on his agile hands to not destroy any crucial parts of your systems, despite knowing he's not familiar with the insides of an artificial body. Simon's rough lips press against your cheek, planting a rapid-fire of kisses while his hand starts to stroke a thicker cable, feeling it throb in his hand.

“Go ahead, pretty girl.” He reassures in a soft, calm voice despite the throbbing erection straining his pants, feeling his hard cock leaking precum onto his boxers. With Simon's permission, you finally let loose, allowing your body to reflect the pleasurable sensations overwhelming your systems.

He watches in amusement as your body shakes beneath his rough palms, a surge of electricity flowing through your nerves. The hand holding his forearm tightens, making the plethora of black, faded tattoos distort momentarily. Your entire body tenses, metallic back arching in nothing but a display of unadulterated pleasure, the electrical buzz in your head slowly fading as you slump back in his bed, letting out deep, artificial breaths as a result of the fans in your operating system trying to help you cool down.

[imtaashu]

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝚒𝚛𝚒 𝙸𝚜 𝙵𝚘𝚛.🗣️📱

✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ✮ Summary: You teach Bucky how to use Siri. He immediately abuses it—for reasons both ridiculous and heart-melting. ✮ Genre: soft clingy Bucky, domestic fluff, modern!Bucky chaos, helpless romantic, tech dummy boyfriend, emotional support Siri, established relationship ✮ Word Count: ~1.3k ✮ Author Notes✍️ : He doesn’t trust AI… until it tells him how to make you smile 🥺 ✦ welcome to my bucky brain rot. masterlist lives here ✦

“Hey Siri, how many kisses should I give my girl every day?”

You blink. “Bucky.”

He ignores you.

Your phone dutifully replies “That’s up to you, but affection is always appreciated!”

He beams. “See? Even she agrees.”

“Bucky, that’s not what Siri is for.”

“It is now.”

✦✦✦

It started innocently.

You were helping him learn basic voice commands—just fun little things, like setting reminders or playing music hands-free.

You expected maybe a few questions. Instead?

You unleashed a monster.

A lovesick, over-attached, 106-year-old super soldier who now treated your phone’s AI assistant like his best friend.

“Hey Siri, remind me to kiss Y/N every hour.”

“Okay. I’ve set an hourly reminder.”

Your head dropped to the table with a groan.

He grinned proudly, flopping down next to you on the couch “I’m just making sure I don’t forget,” he said innocently, already pulling you into his lap. “Time management, doll.”

You sighed. “It’s literally been seven minutes since your last reminder.”

He kissed your cheek. “Better early than late”

✦✦✦

It only got worse Or better. Depending on how dangerously cute you were willing to let things get.

You were brushing your teeth one night when you heard him from the bedroom “Hey Siri, is Y/N in love with me?”

You nearly choked on your toothpaste.

Siri replied, as Siri does “I can’t answer that. Maybe you should ask them yourself.”

You peeked out of the bathroom, foamy grin on your face. “She’s got a point.”

Bucky was sprawled on the bed, your phone in hand, looking like he’d just been personally betrayed.

“She’s supposed to be on my side.”

“She’s an AI, Bucky.”

He scowled. “She needs loyalty.”

You snorted. “Well, I am in love with you. In case you needed a real answer.”

That shut him up. And turned him into a blushing, smiling mess.

He mumbled something about needing to update Siri’s software to include heart facts.

✦✦✦

But the final straw?

Was when you found a reminder on your phone titled:

“Propose Without Crying Like A Loser.”

Your heart stopped. And then melted.

You didn’t say anything—just turned around to find Bucky standing awkwardly in the doorway with a sheepish smile and red-tipped ears.

“I was just… researching,” he said quickly. “Not, like, now. Or maybe now, I don’t know—”

You walked over and threw your arms around his neck before he could spiral any further “You better cry,” you whispered, nuzzling into his chest. “Or I’m saying no.”

He laughed, burying his face in your hair, holding you like he’d never let go.

“Hey Siri,” he murmured, lips pressed to your temple.

“What’s the best way to keep someone forever?”

You looked up at him, eyes full of quiet awe.

And he didn’t need an answer from a phone this time.

He had you.

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

🏷️ tagging - @nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @okaytrashpanda 🎀🩷

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

wanna be tagged in all the clingy!bucky chaos and emotional destruction? tell me and i got you ⛓️‍💥♥️

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤICE CREAM AND... MCDONALD'S? * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where Chris has the flu, and Y/N is just a caring, very much worried, ambitious girlfriend.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x billionaire!reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　the flu symptoms, mentions of drugs and cigarettes (not the use of it).

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: yes, I am obsessed with sick fics, so what? 😔✋🏻

A/N³: had this idea out of nowhere and had to write it and post it as soon as I could, hope yall like it 🫶🏻

"He still has that cough." Y/N muttered, mostly to herself but loud enough that it drifted over to the dining table.

She stood barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves of her oversized hoodie bunched up at her elbows, two black mugs lined up in front of her on the marble counter. Her hair was pulled back in a messy claw clip that had started the day cute and functional but now looked like it was holding on for dear life.

The kettle on the stove let out a soft whistle, not even loud enough to startle her anymore. She had become one with this kitchen over the last three days.

Nick, hunched over his laptop with a pair of headphones around his neck, paused his frantic clicking, and turned his attention toward her.

"He still sounds like that?"

She sighed, pulling two tea bags out of the little ceramic jar labeled 'TEA BAGS' in cursive gold lettering.

"Yeah. And it’d probably be fine by now if he’d just take the damn medicine, but no, he’s insisting he doesn’t need or want it."

Nick raised his eyebrows.

"Wait, he said that?"

Y/N snorted, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain overworking itself inside her head.

"Well, he whined a lot more and said he was super fine with the black bags under his eyes and his voice sounding like he gargled gravel, but yes, he did."

She stared down at the tea, watching the little satchels bloom like sad underwater jellyfish. The minty-chamomile blend was her last hope. It was her fifth attempt at getting something gentle but powerful into Chris’s system since actual medicine was very obviously out of the question.

Matt, flopped across the couch in white socks and a grey set of sweats, didn’t even look up from his phone.

"Have you tried bribing him with ice cream? Or like, getting him McDonald's? That used to work when we were sick."

Nick turned his upper body so he was facing the living room, sending Matt a look, face contorting like he just stepped in something wet while wearing socks.

"You know that he's twenty-one, right? Not five."

Y/N stopped swirling the tea bag in the mug, blinking slowly like something in Matt’s words had just flipped a very important switch in her brain.

"Wait... you think that would work?"

But she didn’t even wait for his answer. She turned on her heels and looked at the little black Alexa speaker sitting innocently by the sink, nestled between a small fake cactus and a fruit bowl that had become purely decorative.

"Alexa." She rasped. "Send a text to my assistant."

Nick’s eyes flicked up warily from his laptop, while Matt perked up slightly on the couch.

"Sure." Came the calm, emotionless voice of the AI. "What would you like the message to say?"

Y/N stretched on her tiptoes to reach the upper cupboard, grabbing the small jar of honey and balancing it against her hip.

"Tell her to buy McDonalds." She paused to pour a bit of the sugary liquid into each tea mug. "Like... the company."

There was a beat of absolute stunned silence behind her.

"I want majority shareholder status by the end of the week."

"Sending message." Alexa said back.

The silence hung in the air for a moment before a clang echoed from behind her, the sound of something solid crashing onto the hardwood floor.

Y/N flinched, startled.

"Fuck, Y/N-" Matt’s voice burst out, filled with panic, getting down to rescue his fallen phone. "That’s not what I meant. Do not buy McDonald's. Buy Chris some McDonald's."

Y/N snorted.

Then giggled.

"Alexa, unsend the message." Nick said flatly, dragging a hand over his face.

Y/N’s snickers turned into full-blown, exhausted laughter as she leaned against the counter to keep herself upright.

"Damn, I need sleep." She muttered, rubbing at her temple with the hand not holding the spoon. "You’d think I’d have, like, immunity to sleep-deprivation at this point."

She looked tired. Not just tired-tired. Worn out.

Her eye-bags had eye-bags.

Nick gave a dramatic sigh.

"A sick Chris is worse than any other thing in the world. Doesn’t matter what."

He was right.

Reading about 19th-century social commentary while negotiating multi-million-dollar branding contracts for a company she was supposed to one day inherit? Weirdly kind of relaxing.

Peaceful, even.

But trying to get her very sick and very stubborn boyfriend to take a pill of Ibuprofen?

That was war.

Y/N rolled her eyes, soft and fond.

"Yeah, yeah." She mumbled under her breath, grabbing a spoon from the dish drainer and stirring both mugs with small, circular movements. The herbs swirled lazily, flecks of mint and chamomile dancing around.

With a little flick, she tossed the spoon into the sink, where it clattered with a delicate ping, and then wrapped both hands around the warm mugs, one in each palm.

The ceramic heat sank into her skin, making her feel marginally more alive. Only just. The bar was very low.

She turned toward the living room.

"Alright." She started, voice soft and determined. "I’m gonna go try to tame the beast again."

Matt chuckled, already half-absorbed in whatever TikTok rabbit hole he was spiraling into.

"Good luck with that."

Nick, still typing with eyes full of focus, looked up just as she passed him.

"Y/N."

She stopped, glancing down at him.

He met her eyes with that older-brother gaze he always had when he was being serious in a way that made you feel like maybe you should sit down.

"Get your boyfriend his meds." He said simply. "And go to sleep."

"I will." She promised easily, nodding once.

But the look Nick gave her in response was pointed. She could almost listen to his thoughts.

'Sure you will. I’ve known you long enough to know you’re lying through your teeth, and you still think you can get away with it.'

Y/N glanced over at Matt, silently begging for backup.

He didn’t even glance up.

She sighed dramatically, being careful with the mugs.

"Okay, fine. I’ll lay down, at least."

Not that she’d be able to actually sleep. That was cute.

She wouldn’t rest until Chris was okay. No more raspy coughing fits, no more dark circles, no more stubborn fake-smile when she asked how he was feeling, and he tried to act like he wasn’t dying from the inside out.

Not until his dumb sick self was back to being his usual healthy, annoying, clingy boyfriend again.

Sleep could wait.

Chris couldn’t.

Y/N elbowed open the wooden door to Chris's room with both hands full. The scent of honey chamomile from the tea drifted upward, somehow mixing with the faint traces of boy-sickness that lingered in the air.

The room was dim, lit only by the laptop at the foot of the bed that was precariously balancing on a pillow and playing SpongeBob episodes with way too much volume.

SpongeBob’s high-pitched squealing made her wince.

Chris was bundled under a mountain of blankets twisted and kicked and cocooned around his curled-up body. His nose was flushed red and slightly crusted, his lips parted from mouth breathing, and his eyes were half-closed, eyelashes clumped together with exhaustion and, possibly, tears.

He looked miserable.

Pathetically adorable, but miserable.

Y/N’s heart cracked a little. She hadn’t seen him this sick since... well, ever, actually. Chris usually bounced back fast, too stubborn and hyperactive to stay down. But right now?

He was down bad.

"Jesus." She muttered under her breath with a wince, approaching the bedside table and carefully lowering both mugs onto it.

She nudged a ridiculous mound of dirty tissues out of the way with the side of her hand, grimacing a bit. Then she turned to him and crouched slightly so she was eye level with his flushed, pillow-smashed face.

"Hey, baby." She said gently, brushing some of his sweaty curls back from his forehead, stuck to his skin like limp noodles. "It’s time for some tea and drugs."

Chris groaned low in his throat, cracking one eye open, glassy, and annoyed at being awake.

The dramatic "I’M READY! I’M READY!" from SpongeBob blasted from the laptop just then, making both of them jump slightly. Y/N leaned over and turned the volume down with a sigh.

"I know, baby, I know." She said soothingly, her fingers carding through his damp hair again as she perched gently on the edge of the bed. "But you have to take the cough medicine. It’s gonna help, okay?"

Chris just rolled his eyes dramatically and let out a congested whine, turning his face into the pillow with the exaggerated act of a toddler refusing vegetables.

Y/N raised an unimpressed brow.

"Christopher."

Another groan. This one was more theatrical.

"Come on, don’t make me beg." She muttered, already reaching for the bottle of cold meds sitting on the bedside table.

She helped him sit up straighter - he was all floppy and uncoordinated, poor thing - and grabbed the smaller mug.

"Look, I’ll... I’ll bring you some ice cream." She tried, a little desperate.

That seemed to perk him up. His eyes, still red-rimmed and watery, locked on hers with the tiniest glint of curiosity.

"I got a... notification." He rasped, voice thick and gravelly like someone who’d smoked cigars for 40 years. "From Alexa. Said you told Lila to buy McDonald’s." His words dissolved into a fit of coughs, chest rattling as he leaned away from her instinctively.

Y/N winced but didn’t move to help yet. Both hands were full, and Chris's coughs were like a mini hurricane. When he finally settled, she tilted her head and gave him an innocent smile.

"I mean... yeah. I was just buying some McDonald���s." She said sweetly, as if they both didn’t know she meant the company, not a happy meal.

Chris stared at her with a look that screamed disbelief.

"You know Nick would kill you, right?"

Y/N rolled her eyes.

"He’s so dramatic. It’s an investment."

"You wanted to buy it because I wouldn’t take cold meds." He pointed out dryly.

She gently shoved the Ibuprofen pill into his hand with a little shrug and held out his tea.

"Details."

"Baby." He sighed, dramatically dragging out the 'Y'.

"Pill. Mouth. Now." She said, way too gently, guiding his hand toward his face. She watched him put the medicine in his mouth and then gave him the mug, making sure he sipped enough to swallow it down completely.

Only when she saw him wince at the aftertaste and scrunch up his nose - adorable - did she visibly relax a little.

"Was that so hard?" She asked with a grin, brushing his hair off his forehead again.

He narrowed his eyes at her, clearly suspicious of her cheeriness.

Then, after a beat, she asked, voice sheepish and teasing.

"Would you, like... want the whole McDonald’s? For yourself? ‘Cause I could-"

Chris groaned, dragging the blanket over his face like she was the problem now.

"I’m sick, not hallucinating." He mumbled from under it.

Y/N giggled, scooting up closer to him on the bed and gently tugging the blanket back down from over his nose.

"You’re used to this by now."

"Unfortunately." He deadpanned, but the little twitch of his lips gave him away.

Y/N just smiled, nudging the still full mug of his tea that he forced to her hands seconds before.

"Sip a bit more, okay? And then I’ll go get you some ice cream. Or like, some McDonald’s. Your choice."

Chris blinked at her, exhausted but undeniably soft, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy to fight her.

Instead, he just muttered.

"You’re insane."

Y/N leaned in, pressing the gentlest kiss to his temple, her voice all melted sugar and sleep-deprived affection.

"Love you too, baby."

Chris didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He just leaned into her touch with a tiny sigh and took another sip of tea, letting her warmth and the scent of chamomile wrap around him like a blanket.

For now, the beast was tamed.

And she’d definitely earned that ice cream.

© vanteguccir

[lilithschosen]

if the bed's rocking, don't come knocking

word count: 4091 ships: Betty x Reader (yes you read that right. x reader lmao) rating: E (NSFW) tags: smut, cunnilingus, nipple play, possessiveness (from Betty!! for a bit, lil ooc but shhh it's hot)

(ao3 link)

It’s been a stressful couple of months for you. Not having a job, trying to apply to everything and everywhere while nothing gets back to you. With all of that pent-up frustration, you’ve managed to relieve it with masturbation. It’s normal, natural, and healthy to do. Any sort of resistance in any regard, you’d grumble your way to the bedroom and pull out whatever you were feeling from the bedside table and get down to it. 

Some nights you’d stare up at the ceiling, laying in the middle of your soft bed when you should be sleeping, you’d reach over to that damn table and pull out your vibrator just to finally get yourself to sleep. It was a routine of sorts, a rhythm you fell into easily. 

You live alone, no one could hear you or tell you to stop. So, who cares?

When you finally manage to land a job at Valdivian of all places, you’re excited. Some semblance of pay instead of having your parents front your utilities bills for the thousandth time because they don’t want you blowing all your savings. 

It’s all fine and good until you get a notification literally your first day that you were being relieved of your position, only to be replaced by an AI assistant. 

So much for that, you think. 

You push back from the desk with a long, drawn out sigh. The chair catches on the rug underneath your desk and you nearly topple backwards, hand flying out to grab onto the shelf behind you. You stand slowly, making sure you’re stood firmly on the floor before fully rising up. Pushing the chair back under the desk, you hear the Thiscord notification sound from your phone. 

Fishing it out of your back pocket, you open the message from a username you don’t recognize. The person rambles on about how you’re expecting a package for special glasses then hear a thud against your office window. 

A Valdivian delivery drone.

You watch with bated breath, praying silently the stupid drone doesn’t break through a window. “Don’t break it, don’t break it. I can’t fucking afford a busted window, please.”

It zooms around to your front door and you hear a smash as well as a thud. You curse quietly and rush to the door, seeing the drone stuck in the windowed part of your door, with a package delivered inside your house. You kick at the busted glass and snag the box, glaring at the drone as it whirs. 

You toss the box in your hand, thinking twice before you throw your best fastball at the drone using the box. Instead, you exhale slowly and turn on your heels. You’ll fix the window later. 

The Thiscord notification pings again and you swap the box to your other hand while you open the messages. The person, tinfoilhat, tells you they’re a prototype. A one of one type of technology. You hum, rolling your eyes in disbelief as you climb your stairs up to your bedroom. 

You make your way into your bedroom and toss the box on the bed, now able to fully respond to the person on the messaging app. They ask if you can try the device out and essentially be a guinea pig of sorts. You don’t remember signing up to be a test dummy for anything, but since you didn’t have anything else to do, why not?

You pull the box apart and see glasses. Pink tinted aviators. 

You laugh at yourself, feeling like you’re being pranked. 

Lifting the glasses out delicately with your forefinger and thumb pinching at the metal frame of the glasses, you hold them up to your face. They don’t seem like anything special. 

Another Thiscord ping. 

You brush it off and nestle the glasses on your face. The immediate pink overlay has your head swimming, but you blink and squint until your eyes adjust.

“Damn, she looks good in those.” 

You freeze, hands out as if someone had a gun trained on you. The voice gasps at your reaction and you turn to face where it was coming from. 

A pink haired, curvy woman is sitting on your bed. She has a white billowing coat and a light brown corset of sorts on her torso, with white plush pants to go with it. The tail of the coat falls down to the floor and your breath catches at the sight of her. 

“You can see me?” she asks tentatively, fingers held up to her mouth as she stares at you with wide eyes. “You can hear me?”

You nod, hands still in front of you. You step back a bit, closer to the doorway of your bedroom. You don’t want to startle her and have her do anything rash, but you have no idea how this beautiful woman ended up in your bedroom of all places. 

“Wait, don’t go,” she calls out, reaching to grab you by the wrist, “It’s me, I promise you know me!”

Her hand wraps around your wrist and you blush, staring down at it. “I do?”

She smiles at you, stepping closer. She takes your other hand with hers, holding them in front of you. Your heart pounds in your chest, not knowing where to look so you opt to just stare down at the floor. 

“Well, I'd hope so seeing we sleep together every night. I'm Betty, I'm your bed.”

Your head snaps up in confusion, staring at her now. She bites her lip, looking at you with heavy lidded eyes. The Thiscord notification pings again and you go to take it out of your pocket but she holds your hands between the two of you. 

“You know how to drive a woman wild, that’s for sure,” her breathy voice is breaking you down, just from her talking, “I wasn’t sure if you even knew I exist, but hearing those sounds you make late at night? Hearing you call out for someone, begging to cum? It was for me, wasn’t it?”

You swallow hard and stammer, glasses slipping down your nose. As the frames fall out of view from your eyes, you notice she disappears in front of you. She clears her throat, letting your hand go to push the glasses back up on your face with a chuckle. 

“There you go, baby.”

She drops her hold on your wrist, allowing you to take your hands back as she shifts back to sit down on the bed. You try to wrap your head around the thought that this gorgeous woman is your bed, then start to spiral about everything you’ve done in the bed. 

Betty watches you panic and giggles at you, leaning back on the bed. She tilts her head and shakes it gently, letting her long, pink curls cascade down her back. Her hand runs across the blankets and she sighs sensually. 

“I thought you were just into Ben-Hwa the way you use those toys all the time,” she frowns as she speaks, but perks up as she drags her hand up her body, “But the way you whine and dig your heels into me? I knew it was for me. You put on quite a show, you know.”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes locked onto Betty’s hand as she runs it across her ample chest.

“When you grabbed onto the headboard the other night?” Betty groans, pressing her thighs together at the memory, “I swear I would’ve cum too if you held on any longer.”

“How long have you, uh,” you pause, mouth held open as Betty’s eyes lock with yours and you notice how blown out her pupils are, “How long have you been here?”

Betty smirks. “You don’t remember, baby? Since you brought me home and put me together. Your fingertips tickled as you put together my frame and you were so gentle hauling the mattress on me.”

She spreads her legs, moving them apart as far as she can. She gazes up at you with a curious, hopeful look. Wordlessly asking for you to move in, to come closer. 

Your feet act before your brain can stop you and you step forward, drawn into Betty’s space in a trance. She sits up in the bed with a mischievous grin and wraps her arms around your hips, holding you against her body with her chin resting against the button of your jeans. 

She inhales the scent of your cleaned shirt, groaning before she can rub her nose against it. She holds her forehead beneath your navel for a beat then hooks her fingers through the belt loops of your pants. 

“God,” she rasps with her eyes closed in revelation, “That time you stuck one of those toys you have to the bed frame and rode it. I was praising you so loud, I thought you’d hear me, I honestly hoped you did. You looked so fucking perfect bouncing on it.”

She pecks at your lower belly through the shirt and looks back up at you, face flushed with her eyes open again. You want to look away, to break away from Betty’s hold, run away and call the police of all things. Yet, you stay here. In Betty’s arms. 

Betty bites her lip again and you wet yours with a quick swipe of your tongue, locked in place. 

“I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” she begins, her arms around your waist starting to loosen, “I think I got a little carried away, so I’m sorry for that. I’ve been dreaming of this day for I don’t even know how long anymore.”

She blushes harder, dropping your shared gaze. You feel guilty and cup her cheek on instinct, wanting to comfort her. 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Betty,” you rush out, clearing your throat before continuing, “I’m a little overwhelmed at the thought that you’re a person and not just my bed after everything I’ve done in you.”

Betty moans quietly at the implication, layering her hand over yours on her cheek. She lets you guide her face back to look at one another and you smile. 

“Can we start over?”

She nods, returning your smile. You stay quiet with your hand still holding her face and find yourself rubbing at her cheek with your thumb. She chuckles at the action, turning her face into your palm to press a kiss into it. 

“I’m Betty,” she states, “I’m your bed. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She runs her nails over your knuckles and you shiver, a chill running up your spine. “Nice to finally meet you as well, Betty.”

She grins up at you, other hand snaking up and over your backside until she has her fingers tucked into the waistband of your jeans. You chirp at the surprise but don’t fight her, instead laughing breathily at it. 

Why was your bed flustering so much?

“I don’t think I can hold back anymore, sugar,” she grips onto your jeans, the waistband digging into your hips from how much she holds in her fist, “Can I kiss you?”

You gawk at her, unable to verbally respond and you just nod dumbly. She presses the back of her knuckles into your lower back and scoots back on the bed, forcing you forward even more until you can only fall. You topple onto Betty and she giggles at you, wrapping her legs around yours while holding your face with her hands. 

She drinks you in, committing every inch of you to memory before her eyes fix to your lips. Betty eases in slowly, nearly hesitating to ask for permission once more before she closes the distance entirely and kisses you. 

It’s a sweet, gentle kiss. Testing the waters. Hoping that you wouldn’t break it and run away. 

When your eyes flutter closed, she moans against your mouth. Her tongue slips between her lips and licks between yours, begging for entrance. You let it in, letting her consume you entirely. 

She nips at your lower lip, tugging it back before continuing to swirl her tongue onto yours in your mouth. Her hands drop from your face and splay against your back, hips lifting underneath you to grind against you. 

Betty breaks the kiss with a gasp for air, chest heaving as she pants. “Fuck, I knew you’d be a good kisser, too.”

Your lips throb from the kisses and you surge forward to keep going. She squeaks in surprise but it falls into another moan as you trail down to her chin and groan against her jaw. 

“That’s it, baby,” Betty coos, rocking into you again, “Keep going. That’s my girl.”

You drag your canine teeth against her jawbone before moving down to her throat, pressing sloppy kisses as you crawl. You suck and nip and bite at every part of her neck, wanting nothing more than to cover Betty in kisses. 

Your hands hold just under the swell of her breasts as you lift from her chest, staring at them in hunger. Betty laughs at you, running a finger over the top of them before dragging it between them. She traces the faint stretch marks across her skin and your mouth waters, wanting to do the same with your tongue.

“You want these, sweetie?” she asks with a saccharine sweet voice, pouting at you with her kiss-swollen lips, “Wanna suck on them? I know how much you love rubbing your head between them.”

You pause at the comment, unable to pinpoint when you would’ve until it hits you. You always nestle your head between your pillows when you fuck yourself. Betty gives a throaty chuckle, pulling the fabric of her shirt down with the same finger. Her tits burst out, bouncing in your face. She tucks the shirt underneath them and winds a hand into your hair, guiding your mouth to one of her already hardened nipples. 

“Go ahead, baby. I love when you play with my tits.”

You don’t hesitate, immediately wrapping your lips around one of her nipples and sucking it into your mouth. She groans, holding her head against the mattress while digging her fingers into your hair. She grips it at the base of your skull and pulls, but keeps you against her breast. 

You take her other breast into your hand, running your fingers across the other nipple to play with it. Betty cries out at the dual sensation, grinding into your abdomen. She whimpers at you, nodding while your tongue swirls around her nipple. 

“Fu-uck, baby,” she hiccups, moaning as you pull your mouth from her tit to pay attention to the other. You rub your saliva around her nipple while your tongue laps at the other, “So good for me. Just like that.”

You graze your teeth against it, holding the nipple between them while you run then back and forth providing even pressure. She cries out, bucking into you again. 

Sucking her nipple into your mouth hard, you let it fall with a wet pop. You smack your lips and grin at her. “Need something?”

Betty smirks, shifting underneath you to press her knee between your legs. Your smugness falls as you whimper shamelessly at the sensation, throbbing against her leg. 

“I think you need something, love,” she grabs your ass with one hand while the other tugs your head back and you moan. “You’re far too fucking dressed for me right now.”

“Do something about it, then.”

Betty raises an eyebrow in question, licking her lips as she looks at you. She removes her hands from your ass and your hair, pushing you away from her with a shove to the chest. You cackle at her, climbing off of her to kneel up on the bed. You reach down to pull at the hem of your shirt but she swats at you, grabbing it herself. 

She removes your shirt in a swift move as you raise your arms to help her. She wastes no time, grabbing the button of your jeans and popping it open. She wiggles them down your hips, revealing your underwear and she groans with a lip between her teeth.

“Look at you,” she drawls out, ripping your pant legs off of you one at a time until you’re free of them completely. She cups your center through your underwear, her eyes rolling into her head feeling how wet she made you. “My poor thing, I bet you’re aching. Let me take care of you.”

Betty pushes you back with two fingers to your shoulder. You fall down with a soft thud, but you lean up on your elbows to watch as Betty begins to peel off her clothes. She starts with the headband, wiggling it free from her curls and running her fingers through her hair. She leans over the bed to place it gently on the ground. As she sits back up, she shrugs out of her coat and shoves it to the floor. Then she lifts the top off, winking as her tits bounce up again once the shirt is removed. She tosses her shirt at you with a giggle, and pulls at the button to her pants. 

“I'd normally opt to do a little strip tease,” she says slowly, popping the button, “But I need to feel you and need you to feel me. Maybe next time?” 

The thought of being able to do this again has your brain fuzzy. 

She drops her pants, lifting her legs out of them, and tosses them to the floor to join the rest of her clothes. 

Betty lets your eyes wander, taking in every aspect of her curvy form. The way her hips swell, the soft tummy and the additional stretch marks across it and her thighs. She looks so soft and squeezable, someone you want to touch endlessly. Your hand trembles, reaching for her to do just that.

“Are you ready for me, lover?” 

Your attention pulls back to her face and you nod, parting your legs as an open invitation. She crawls between them, wrapping her hands around your calves and starts kissing up your legs. 

Your cunt aches as she settles with your legs over her shoulders. Betty nips at your inner thigh, sighing happily. 

“You smell so good, baby,” she groans, pressing a kiss to your pussy through your soaked underwear, “I can't believe this is all for me.”

She rubs her nose into you, inhaling the scent of your arousal. The mass of fluffy, pink hair is all you can see above your crotch. You need her, need anything at the moment. Your hand inches away from your body, reaching out toward your bedside table on instinct. Betty doesn't notice at first, looking up at you through her lashes with a hunger in her eyes but stops as she snaps to find your wandering hand. 

“No,” she growls, lifting away from your thigh to grab your hand. She pins it to the bed next to you both. “Don't bring Ben-Hwa into this. I know you use them often enough, but right now you're fucking mine.” 

The possessiveness of Betty, the way her otherwise breathy, soft voice turns hard and raspy shouldn't turn you on, but it does. Your hips buck into empty space where she once was and she smirks. 

“You like that, baby?” she teases, “You like the thought of me making you mine? That's what you deserve after all of those orgasms that tore through your body on me.” 

You mewl a whimper, eyebrows pulling together while you buck your hips up again. She tucks your hand underneath your ass, patting you on the forearm, and wraps it over your thigh once more. 

Betty sticks out her tongue and licks a broad, strong stroke at your core. You cry out, fisting at the sheets underneath you. She hums her laugh into your cunt as she licks again. Tasting you through your underwear alone has her desperate for more. 

She rips your underwear to the side, unable to pull it off of your legs fast enough. She buries her tongue into your core and moans, frantically sucking and licking at every drop of your essence she can find. 

“Holy shit, Betty,” you gasp, rocking into her mouth. Her eyes connect with yours and she winks. “I-I don't know how long I’ll last.” 

Her tongue slips out of you and you whine in disappointment until she drags it through your folds. As the tip of her tongue grazes over your clit, you scream. 

Betty’s fingernails dig into your thighs as she focuses on your clit. She draws lazy shapes across the swollen nerve bundle and you can only grind into her face. You fight to keep your eyes open, wanting to watch Betty as you tiptoe toward your orgasm. 

She starts to write out letters over your clit, starting with a B. She spells out her name slowly, switching from holding her tongue flat against your cunt to teasing the tip of her tongue into your entrance. 

As she finishes the Y of her name, she swirls her tongue over your clit for an O and drags it up and down, writing out a W. She follows it with an N and an S, you push all the letters together and clench at the realization she's spelling out that she owns you. 

Where you anticipate another Y, there's a T. 

Each stroke of her tongue against you is more torturous than the last. 

H.

I.

S. 

You're panting, holding back the orgasm that threatens to send you into a spiral. 

C.

U.

N.

T. 

As she finishes the final letter, she slides her tongue into you and starts fucking you with it. 

“Yes!” you cry out, hand in your own hair with your palm against your forehead while you ride her face. “I'm so close, Betty! Please, fuck, I'm gonna-.”

You scream her name again as she flicks her tongue into you in the exact spot you need, sending you head first into the waves of your pleasure. 

You cum in her mouth and she moans with voracious approval at the taste of your juices, feeling your walls spasming around her tongue. 

Betty keeps thrusting her tongue in and out of you until your orgasm slowly dissipates, leaving your body spent and practically vibrating. She presses a final opened mouth kiss over your clit, holding her nose in your pubic hair for a moment before pulling away entirely. 

She sits up between your legs, grinning from ear to ear with your slick covering the lower half of her face. You let out an exhausted huff, covering your eyes with a hand. 

“I can't believe my bed just fucked me senseless.” 

Betty swipes the corner of her mouth, licking your cum off her thumb. “After everything you've done on me before? I can.” 

You laugh, shifting the glasses on your face. Betty graciously settles next to you, watching over you with a pleased look. 

“I think I've firmly staked my claim,” she scratches a single nail between your breasts, “I'm normally easy going when it comes to lovers, but something's different about you.”

You cough, sputtering with a laugh that came out wrong. It makes you feel like you're floating at Betty's words. You weren't ever sure you could be perceived as different or anyone that stood out, but Betty made you feel like you were. 

She tweaks a nipple, bringing you back to her with a hiss. “Are you okay, sugar?”

“Yeah,” you say, waving her off as you shimmy closer to her on the bed, “Just started thinking a bit. So you said you've been here the whole time?” 

She nods, propping her head up on her hand while she drapes her other arm over your abdomen.

“Since day one, sweetie.” 

Betty has seen every side of you that you've brought out in this house since you bought it. You feel embarrassed at that, despite Betty gazing at you like you've hung the moon in the sky. 

“That's cool. Well, I'm glad to be able to see you now.” 

Betty laughs gently, “Me too, baby.”

She ushers you in to rest your head on her chest, which you eagerly do. She’s just as soft and inviting as you’d want, as you’d expect. Comforting and warm. 

Your eyelids grow heavy and you feel yourself slowly drifting off to sleep when she squeezes you tight against her. “You can play around with everyone else in the house come tomorrow. But for now? You’re all mine.”

[couldeatthatgirlforlunch]

A Day in Life

Synopsis: A day in your life while working as the Justice League's assistant. Also, they are all yanderes for you and it's Valentine's Day.

Pairing: Yandere!Justice League X Assistant!Gn!Reader

Tw: 18+ just because of a mention of Superman misusing his X-Ray vision and the mention of hooking up, aside from that, this is pretty SFW; Flash and Green Lantern are a little delusional; Hal Jordan is pushy; Batman is probably a little out of character (and I’m ashamed to keep it that way) bc I can't see him giving anyone flowers as Batman, just as Bruce Wayne; Mentions of them all secretly stalking you; This League members are Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash (Barry Allen), Green Lantern (Hal Jordan; John Stewart is mentioned), Aquaman and Martian Manhunter; I wrote too little about Martian Manhunter, Aquaman here because I don't know much about them; Wish I had more ideas for Wonder Woman’s interaction here too cause I love her; My crush on Hal is very obvious; Reader doesn't struggle much against them but they're also pretty tame; The physics in flying and running at super speed might be wrong but this is comic book science so it's wrong either way; English is not my first language.

Word count: 1,6k

Requested? No.

General masterlist | A Day in Life - Series masterlist

The zeta tube flashes and the AI voice announces the arrival of Flash. Your heart goes fast.

— Hey, (Y/N)! — In a flash, he's in front of you. — Happy Valentine's Day! — You tear your eyes off of your schedule on your tablet and see him holding a rose towards you.

— Oh, hey, Flash… — You reply a little tense. — Thank you… You didn't need to. — You hesitantly take the rose from him and whilst your attention is on staring at the flower and holding back a grimace, you miss the glint in his blue eyes. His blush is covered by his mask. His mind seeks for something to say before you decide to break the momentary silence. — You're really sweet, it's great to have a friend like you! — You make sure to exclain, the tone a notch higher, trying to make your point come across. Flash’s face falls.

— Uh- I- Actually- — His speech gets cut off by the zeta announcing Superman. Before you can have a heart attack, the boy scout also zooms in front of you, this time your hair blows back with the wind. He must've come flying.

— (Y/N)’s heart is pounding, what are you doing, Flash? — Superman alternates between looking at your face worriedly, then your chest, then glaring at the speedster by his side.

— What? Nothing! — Flash looks wide-eyed at Superman. Then his mind clicks and he looks at you again. — Wait, what? Your heart is pounding? Is it… Is it because of me?! — You see the dazed look on his face coming to the surface again. Oh boy.

You casually make the effort to take a breath you didn't know you were holding and make your heart go down. You hate when Super uses his X-Ray vision on you. You can never be sure when he is doing it, but why else would he analytically stare specifically at your body when he is worried about you? Also, that time when you commented with Sarah from the kitchen’s crew that you forgot to do your laundry and went to the Watchtower without underwear. Seconds later, Superman appeared in the doorway, looking startled and flustered, ears red. Although he pretended to have just arrived at the tower and you and your friend chose to ignore your embarrassment that your boss with superhearing might have chose that exact moment to focus his hearing on only the places around him, including your too intimate conversation, you still caught him red handed sneaking glances specifically at your hips, and he hurriedly exited the room after that. At the time, you had just recently started the job as the Justice League’s assistant. After that you were a lot more aware.

After a while you realized you had a reason to be.

Superman was glaring at the rose in your hand and Flash was daydreaming while looking at your face when the zeta flashed again and you snapped out of it fast enough that by the time you started talking, your mind didn't pay attention to who had just arrived.

— Hm, no. It's just you fast people are always catching me off guard. — Flash deflates and- Is he pouting? Bro. Superman lights up and looks at you again.

— Oh, sorry, (N/N), we always forget about that. — The alien chuckles while rubbing the back of his head.

— Superman. Flash. — You and Flash jump, but Superman, not surprisingly, doesn't react and just follows you three and looks behind the two heros in front of you to the one with the gruff voice that just arrived.

Flash groans and Superman just rolls his eyes, you can see that while trying to peak past the men’s towering frames blocking you. You don't have to guess much though, because they make space for the newcomer and you suppress a tired sigh at seeing Batman making his way to you with a gigantic arrangement of flowers that covers his entire torso, arms and head, only his bat-ears, legs and cape being visible.

— (Y/N). Those are for you. — Color me shocked. Before you can try to start thinking about how you are gonna take this absurdity anywhere, vengeance speaks. — I'm gonna leave it at your desk.

— Hmhmm. Thank you, Batman. — You refused to watch his retreating form and let any member of your yandere harem think you actually have an interest in any of them and look down at your tablet again. The action makes you remember the rose you're still holding and you hurriedly walk away from the two nutcases stuck glaring at the third and go to his side. — Actually, take this with you. — You stick the rose amongst the rest of the flowers and before any of them can say anything else, you get out of the room.

You take a deep breath. Since the League’s weird obsession started seemingly around a year ago, you had a whole crisis over it. The pay was good, and it increased even more when they took this insane liking to you, so it's not like you could just quit like it was nothing. Besides, it's the Justice League, you could run from the fucking planet and they would still find you. It's easier to adapt.

You go on with your routine for a few minutes until you bump into a neon green brick wall. Scratch that, it's just Green Lantern’s chest.

— Hey, cutie, I was looking for you. — Your eyes widen when the space cop suddenly holds you by the shoulders, pushes you against a wall, then lets you go just to keep his two muscular arms on each side of you, trapping you and keeping you close to his frame. Ugh, the Lantern with brown hair has always been the more touchy one. You miss the one with dark skin and common sense.

— Need me for something? — You hold a groan with the limitless possibilities of how he could use that sentence to be crude, but you just wanted to get rid of him. He smirks.

— I was wondering if you were free today and would like to go on a date with me later… — He knew you were free. You knew he knew you were free. Every time you have a date (and you never told them) the League seems to get more on edge and suddenly your workload increases. Tsk, you hate them. Unfortunately, you love nice things even more.

You raise an eyebrow.

— I don't even know your name. — You point out, maybe that would make him give up, but he just shrugged.

— I could tell you, trust is a fundamental part in any relationship.

— Is a date a relationship? Also I don't think Batman would like that. — Any of that. He cocks his head to the side and his beautiful hair moves down.

— Cutie, you don't have to worry about Spooky. And I don't want to just hook up with you, you know that. Now just stop playing hard to get and-

A golden light catches your attention, it could be a miracle, but it's just Wonder Woman's lasso wrapping around the lantern's neck and pulling him away from you. Unfortunately, she tied a it in a way that the action wouldn't strangle him or break his neck.

— Ugh, men really have no boundaries. — The amazon rolls her lasso back and takes a step towards you, keeping said man sulking behind her while analyzing you. — Forgive my friend, (Y/N). He grew up in a barn. — The stunning demigoddess smiles at you.

Ugh, if she wasn't just as crazy as the rest of them you would happily swoon over her.

— Right. Well, I have to go. — You turn your back to them and take fast but casual steps away from them and the empty hallway. It never fails to scare the shit out of you and give you goosebumps whenever one of them catches you alone in one of those, and the competition between them for your heart somehow makes you confident enough that if there are at least two of them, no harm will come to you.

You clear your throat. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. The martian should’ve arrived by now and you don't doubt he reads your mind 24/7 when he’s close enough.

You’re about to turn a corridor when you spot Aquaman poking his head in a room, looking for something, it's probably you, only his body is visible and he can't see you.

You hold a groan and run as quietly as possible away from him without him noticing, remembering the time he ranted to you about seahorses being the most romantic fish species, with monogamous mate bonds for lifetime, and all the times he promised to show you Atlantis one day and make you rule his people by his side.

A few minutes later when you look at the clock, you know by that time they're all already in their meeting and not wandering around, desperate for a crumb of your attention. To confirm that, you open the camera’s feed that not many had access to and idly check their presence in the meeting room. Your stomach churns seeing your figure in one of their monitors, the others displaying normal missions info. Of course they would follow you around through the cameras, because that's just as important as discussing wars and crisis in Earth countries and other planets.

You passively shut the screen when you finally get to your office, in which you avoid staying until you absolutely have to, or the coast is clear enough to, otherwise it's the most obvious place for them to force an interaction with you.

You look up and your shoulders drop in defeat at the sign of too many flowers, gifts and letters from each member of the League.

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*The audios are made with AI but the writing is mine loves!* *Some aren't fics posted here and just on Patreon- Ill mark them with ** *  Currently working on voices for Lucius and Sirius and maybe James too if I can! 18+  Let me know any fics you'd like to have the audio for! 

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Inferior- Stepdad Snape x reader

**Sucking off Snape blurb audio

**Forbidden- Remus x Teacher Assistant Reader

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[ilovemarvel97]

Written in Our Souls - Part 2

Wanda Maximoff x Reader 

Summary: Y/N is thrilled to see Wanda. But Wanda is not.

Word Count: 3,300

Warnings: angst

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

Y/N’s POV

"Alright, I don’t know what’s going on, but, Welcome to the team, Agent Y/N!” 

I hear Tony Stark say that, but my head barely registers it. All I can think is—I finally found her. My soulmate. My Wanda. The burning on my wrist is still warm, like a brand confirming what I already know in my heart.

She’s beautiful. God, she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

I tried to go after her, to say something—anything—but she was gone before I could take a single step in her direction. And then the rest of the team surrounded me. Questions. Greetings. Jokes I was too dazed to respond to. The moment passed. She disappeared.

I hope I didn’t imagine the look on her face. The way her eyes widened. The slight parting of her lips. She felt it too. She had to.

I grip my wrist, still burning with her name.  

Wanda.  

I replay the moment over and over in my head as the team gives me a tour of the compound. I nod, I smile, I thank them—but I’m not really here. Not fully. A part of me is still standing in that room, staring at the girl I’ve waited for my entire life.

But something’s off.  

If she felt it too, why did she leave?

“I’m Natasha Romanoff. I’ll show you to your room.”  

Natasha’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Nice to meet you, Natasha. I’ve heard a lot about the Black Widow,” I say, shaking her hand.

She gives me a brief smirk and leads the way. A moment later, she throws a glance over her shoulder, brows raised, curious.  

“So… how do you know Wanda?”

I force a smile. 

“I don’t,” I answer carefully. “We’ve never met before.”

She pauses—just for a second—but I catch it.  

“Huh,” she mutters, then continues. “Could’ve fooled me. You two looked like you’d seen ghosts—or something else.”

I chuckle softly, though it sounds hollow. “First-day nerves, maybe. Meeting the Avengers isn’t exactly casual.”

She doesn’t respond, but I feel her watching me from the corner of her eye.

When we reach the guest quarters, she opens the door.  

“This’ll be your room. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” I say, stepping inside.

Nat lingers a moment longer. “If you need anything, I’m just down the hall.”

I nod politely. “Appreciate it.”

Once the door shuts, I finally exhale. My heart is still racing.

I glance down at my wrist, where the name Wanda glows softly against my skin. Still warm. Still real.

I whisper to myself, “I should’ve asked Natasha where Wanda’s room is…”

“It’s at the end of the hall, miss,” a voice replies, making me jump.

“Who’s there?!” I spin around, hands raised instinctively.

“My name is FRIDAY. I’m Mr. Stark’s AI assistant. I’m here to help with anything you need,” the voice says calmly.

“Cool,” I whistle. “So, Wanda’s room is at the end of the hall?”

“Yes. Would you like me to notify her that you’re coming?”

“No… it’s okay. I won’t go. Not yet.”

“Alright. Call me if you need anything,” FRIDAY replies.

I wanted to go. My legs ached to move. But I wasn’t sure. She didn’t look thrilled when she saw me. Still, she’s mine. My Wanda. My soulmate. I want to see her again. I want to know more about her. I wanna see her again…

“Fuck it,” I mutter, throwing the door open and heading straight for her room.

I pause in front of her door, heart hammering. My palms are sweaty, but I knock before I can change my mind.

Seconds feel like minutes—then she opens the door.

Everything stops again.

“Hi,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. I can’t stop smiling. She’s breathtaking.

“You’re Wanda, right?” I ask, holding up my wrist with her name glowing across it.

She looks at it, and I swear I see her eyes light up for a split second—but just as quickly, the spark vanishes.

“You’re my soul—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“No. I’m not. Sorry.”

“But… my wrist is burning. Yours too, right?” I glance at her wrist. It’s covered.

“No. You’re not,” she says again, firmer this time.

“Can I see it? Please? Your wrist—it has my name. Y/N. I know it does.”

She flinches. I see her flinch.

But then she lies. “No. It’s not your name.”

I don’t understand. My wrist pulses just being near her. Every cell in my body screams she’s the one. But she keeps denying it.  

Is it a mistake?  

Is she scared?  

Am I not what she imagined?

“Is that all?” she asks, snapping me out of my daze.

“Welcome to the team. Good night,” she adds coldly—and shuts the door in my face.

The slam feels like a punch to the chest. I stand there for a few seconds before forcing myself to walk back to my room.

Maybe she just needs time…  I think.

---

The Next Morning

At breakfast, Natasha offers to introduce me to the rest of the team—those who just returned from a mission.

But when we reach the shared living area, I freeze.

A red-faced man peck Wanda’s lips and she smiles at him.

Suddenly, the world tilts.  

My lungs forget how to work.  

My chest tightens painfully.

Was I shot? Are we under attack?

My ears ring. I can’t hear a thing Natasha’s saying.  

All I can see is Wanda… smiling. At him.

“Y/N!” Natasha calls sharply, bringing me back.

I blink, breathing uneven.

“Are you okay? You look pale,” she says, concerned.

Everyone’s looking at me. Even Wanda.

But when I meet her eyes, she quickly looks away.

“I’m fine. Just… uh, hungry,” I lie with a forced smile.

“So, what were your names again?” I ask, turning to the others.

“I’m Steve. This is Bucky. And that’s Vision—Wanda’s fiancé,” Steve says.

Fiancé.

The word makes me nauseous.

“Fiancé. I see,” I say, forcing a smile.

I glance at Wanda again. Our eyes meet.  

But this time… I’m the one who looks away.

“Well, nice to meet you all. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go shower before training,” I mutter, slipping out as calmly as I can.

---

The second I shut my door, I bolt to the bathroom and throw up everything I ate.

My body shakes. My head spins.  

This isn’t what a soulmate bond is supposed to feel like.

This hurts.  

This burns.

Is this what it feels like to be rejected by your soulmate?

Now I understand.  

That’s why she said no.  

She’s engaged.

And I have no idea what to do.

I stay for a while in my room, trying to calm my fast heartbeat.

---

The training was more about me. They wanted to know my powers and what I am capable of.

My powers are super strength and speed, so they made me pair with Steve in the end.

I tried not to look at Wanda during the practice. But I should’ve known that it was impossible when your body is looking for your other half.

Thanks to that I got some punch from Steve which I think might bruise.

---

That night, my chest was painful.

The team wanted to know me better so everybody were gathered, but the pain in my chest was a little annoying.

As I rub my ribs, Clint asks me if I was alright, and I joke that Steve’s punches were a little heavy. He apologize which I say it was just a bruise.

But when I went to check on the mirror in my bathroom, there were no bruises on my body.

Maybe it just didn’t bruise

The Next morning I wake up breathless.

Not from a nightmare. Not from panic.

Just… breathless.

Like my lungs forgot how to work overnight.

I sit up slowly, rubbing at my chest. The dull ache is back. Not sharp—yet—but enough to make me wince when I stretch too far.

It’s probably nothing. Just fatigue. Stress. Maybe the training wore me out more than I thought.

I drag myself out of bed, pull on my clothes, and head to the common room where most of the team is already having breakfast.

She’s there.  

Wanda.

Sitting beside Vision, leaning slightly into him as she laughs at something he says. Her hair is still damp from a shower, tied loosely at the nape of her neck. She looks… soft this morning. Calm.

Untouchable.

The second I step into the room, the pain spikes.  

Like someone tied a rope around my ribs and yanked.

I falter for just a second, but force a smile and grab a cup of coffee, pretending I didn’t almost fall over.

I take the seat farthest from her.

Steve’s talking about scheduling training rotations. Natasha’s chiming in with jokes about who’s most likely to break something this time. I nod when I’m supposed to. I laugh when they laugh.

But I don’t hear any of it.

Because Wanda doesn’t look at me. Not once.

And I can feel her.  

Even across the room, I feel the absence of her attention like a knife between my ribs.

---

I decide to try to be friends with her. And see where it will take us.

So, I try to talk to her again.

Nothing heavy. Just something small.

“I liked your throw during training today,” I offer as we cross paths in the hallway.

Wanda barely glances at me. “Thanks.”

Her tone is clipped. Dismissive.

I keep walking, pretending it doesn’t feel like another nail in my chest.

But I should continue to try.

So, I try again.

---

Hallway, midday.

I catch her coming out of the training room, towel slung around her neck, cheeks flushed from exertion.

I clear my throat. “Hey… I was wondering if maybe you wanted to spar sometime. You’re quick on your feet.”

She doesn’t even stop walking. “I already train with Natasha.”

Right. Of course.

I nod, even though she’s already halfway down the hall.

The pressure in my chest stays long after she’s gone.

---

In the kitchen, late at night.

It’s just the two of us. Everyone else is asleep. I’m leaning against the counter, sipping tea I don’t even want.

She walks in and moves straight to the fridge.

“You have trouble sleeping too?” I ask gently, voice low so I don’t scare her off.

Wanda pauses. Her back to me.

Then, without turning around, she says, “Not really.”

She grabs what she needs and leaves.

I stay frozen, blinking down at the mug in my hand, like I forgot how it got there.

The ache beneath my ribs tightens like a coil.

---

Outside on the balcony.

The sunset’s casting orange streaks across the compound. Wanda’s alone, arms folded, staring out at the trees.

I approach quietly. I don’t want to push her—just… try.

“Pretty out here,” I say softly.

She doesn’t look at me. “I wanted space.”

“I can go—”

“Then go.”

Her voice isn’t sharp. Just tired. But it cuts deeper than any blade.

I nod once, swallowing thickly, and back away.

I don’t sleep that night. The pain in my chest wraps around my lungs like barbed wire.

---

Right before a mission debrief.

Everyone’s scattered, settling into their seats, sipping coffee. Wanda’s standing off to the side, arms crossed, not looking at anyone.

I take a breath, walk over, my heart thundering. One more try.

“Be safe out there today,” I say, managing a smile. “If you need backup—”

“I’ll be fine.”

She cuts me off, her eyes finally meeting mine for the briefest second.

Then she turns her back to me, walking away without another word.

This time, the pain hits hard.

A sudden throb in my chest that steals my breath. I press my hand to my heart, pretending I’m just adjusting my gear. Pretending I’m fine.

But something’s wrong. I know it now.  

This isn’t just heartbreak.

This is my soul breaking.  

And my body knows it too.

---

It’s been three months since I joined the Avengers, and the pain in my chest just got worse.

It’s harder to sleep.

Lying down makes it worse—like gravity is pulling all the pain into one spot just under my heart.

I curl onto my side, pressing my fist to my chest, teeth clenched.

I keep telling myself it’s just training. Maybe I tore something. Maybe it’s a pulled muscle. Maybe I’m sick. Maybe—

But it’s only like this when she’s near.  

Only like this when I hear her laugh with him.

---

I sit beside Sam at the kitchen counter. I haven’t eaten a full meal in two days.

He frowns as he watches me stir the same bowl of cereal for the third time.

“You good?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… not feeling great. Think I caught something.”

“Heartburn?” he jokes.

I give him a hollow laugh. “Something like that.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Wanda enter the room. Her hand brushes against Vision’s as they pass each other.

The pain comes back—tight, raw.

I double over slightly, masking it as a cough.

“You sure you’re okay?” Sam asks again, concern flickering now.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Just need some air.”

Back in my room, I rip off my shirt and stand in front of the mirror again.

Nothing.

No bruises. No burns. No visible reason for why I feel like I’m being crushed from the inside out.

I press my palm flat to my chest and close my eyes.

Wanda’s name still burns on my wrist.  

Her soul still calls to mine.

And mine is starting to scream.

---

During one of the trainings Natasha approaches me. We’ve become friends during the three months I stayed here. 

“You okay?”

Natasha’s voice pulls me from the edge of a wince. I hadn’t even realized I was clutching my ribs again. The ache had become background noise—something I’d grown used to ignoring. Or trying to.

“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, forcing a smile. “Just a stitch. Probably slept wrong.”

Nat doesn’t look convinced. She never does.

She tosses me a water bottle and sits beside me on the bench outside the training room, elbow resting on her knee, gaze fixed on the mat.

“I’ve seen you do that a lot,” she says, casual like we’re just talking about the weather. “Hold your side. Flinch when you think no one’s watching.”

I go still.

“You sure it’s not a heart thing?” she adds, finally glancing at me. “Because I know the signs, Y/N. You’ve looked like you’re about to pass out more than once.”

I try to laugh it off. “Thanks for the concern, Mom.”

“Don’t deflect.” Her voice is soft, but her eyes are steel. “I’m serious.”

I take a slow breath, chewing on my lip.

“I don’t know what it is,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “It started small. Little pinches in my chest. Tightness. I thought it was stress, or maybe Steve’s punches catching up to me.”

Nat nods, letting me talk.

“But it’s getting worse,” I continue. 

“Have you talked to anyone? Medical?”

“I went once,” I say. “They didn’t find anything wrong. Heart rate was elevated, but nothing dangerous. They said maybe anxiety.”

“But it’s not just anxiety,” Nat guesses.

I nod. “But it’s okay. Maybe I’m just not used to the new routine” I chuckle.

Although Nat doesn’t buy it, she doesn’t push it either.

And I am glad for that. I haven’t told her about Wanda and I possibly being soulmates.

---

Three days. 

That’s how long this mission was supposed to last. Simple, straightforward—at least that’s how the briefing went. But I never expected it to be this difficult. Not with her. Not with Wanda.

We’ve been on missions before, sure, but this was different. This time, it’s just the two of us. We’re under disguise, trying to blend in. No one else to watch our backs.

And honestly? I don’t think I can take it. She ignored me the whole day. Only talking when necessary. 

The worst part is that we need to share a room for the night. The air in the motel room feels too thick every time I breathe, suffocating me with the tension between us. 

She barely looks at me. She keeps to herself, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Her words are short, clipped, like she’s afraid to say too much. But we’re not here for small talk. I can’t afford to think about it, but I can feel the pull every time she’s near me. Every time her voice breaks the silence, it’s like a hot knife in my chest, burning me.

I close my eyes, trying to relax. I can’t, though. The pain is always there, a tightness in my chest that never goes away. Every time I move, I feel it, like something is pressing down on my ribs, cutting into me.

Wanda’s soft breathing beside me doesn’t help. Her presence feels like a constant reminder of what my soul wants, but I can’t have. I try to roll over to my side, but the pain intensifies. 

I grip the blanket, squeezing my eyes shut, just trying to sleep.

---

I’m not sure how much time has passed when it happens.

I hear Wanda scream. 

It’s a high, sharp sound—nothing like the calm voice I’ve gotten used to. It pierces the stillness of the room, pulling me straight out of the haze of sleep. I shoot up in an instant, heart racing in my chest. The sound echoes in my head as I turn toward her. 

She’s thrashing, her hands clawing at the air, eyes wide open but unseeing, tears flowing freely down her face. She’s trapped. Trapped in something I can’t see.

I don’t even think. The instinct is immediate, overwhelming. Without hesitation, I throw the blanket off and move to her side. 

“Wanda?” I say, voice hoarse with panic. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Her eyes dart around, unfocused. I don’t care if I’m crossing some line—if this is too much. I pull her into my arms, wrapping her tightly against me, holding her close. 

The second she’s against me, her body stiffens in shock. But then, slowly, she stops struggling. Her breath hitches in and out, her hands trembling, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Wanda,” I whisper again, softer this time, “You’re safe. You’re okay. You’re here with me.”

She doesn’t respond, but after a moment, I feel her relax. Her body stops shaking, and her breath becomes more even, less frantic. Her head presses into my chest, and I gently stroke her back, my hands moving instinctively, soothing, calming.

The sound of her sobs dies down, and the tension in her shoulders finally loosens. Her body feels like dead weight against mine, but I hold her tighter, not wanting to let go. 

And in that moment, something inside me clicks. The ache in my chest—the constant pressure, the burning that’s been gnawing at me for weeks—fades away.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe. I can feel my heart slowing to a normal rhythm. The pain is gone. 

I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way she feels in my arms, just perfect.

I don’t understand it. I don’t know what happened. But for the first time in weeks, I’m at ease.

I lay there for what feels like an eternity, just holding her. And as the minutes pass, I finally allow myself to close my eyes, the soft rise and fall of her chest beneath my palm the only thing that matters.

For the first time in days, I sleep.

---

Part 3

---

This is Part 2. Ready for the next part?

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Android x Reader (I)

It is the future and you have been tasked to solve a mysterious murder that could jeopardize political ties. Your assigned partner is the newest android model meant to assimilate human customs. You must keep his identity a secret and teach him the ways of earthlings, although his curiosity seems to be reaching inappropriate extents.

Yes, this is based on Asimov’s “Caves of Steel” because Daneel Olivaw was my first ever robot crush. I also wanted a protagonist that embraces technology. :)

Content: female reader, AI yandere, 50's futurism

[Part 2] | [More original works]

You follow after the little assistant robot, a rudimentary machine invested with basic dialogue and spatial navigation. It had caused quite the ruckus when first introduced. One intern - well liked despite being somewhat clumsy at his job - was sadly let go as a result. Not even the Police is safe from the threat of AI, is what they chanted outside the premises.

"The Commissioner has summoned you, (Y/N)." 

That's how it greeted you earlier, clacking its appendage against the open door in an attempt to simulate a knock. 

"Do you know why my presence is needed?" You inquire and wait for the miniature AI to scan the audio message. 

"I am not allowed to mention anything right now." It finally responds after agonizing seconds.

 It's an alright performance. You might've been more impressed by it, had you not witnessed first hand the Spacer technology that could put any modern invention here on Earth to shame. Sadly the people down here are very much against artificial intelligence. There have been multiple protests recently, like the one in front of your building, condemning the latest government suggestion regarding automation. People fear for their jobs and safety and you don't necessarily blame them for having self preservation. On the other hand, you've always been a supporter of progress. As a child you devoured any science fiction book you could get your hands on, and now, as a high ranked police detective you still manage to sneak away and scan over articles and news involving the race for a most efficient computer.

You close the door behind you and the Commissioner puts his fat cigarette out, twisting the remains into the ashtray with monotonous movements as if searching for the right words.

 "There's been a murder." Is all he settles on saying, throwing a heavy folder in your direction. A hologram or tablet might've been easier to catch, but the man, like many of his coworkers, shares a deep nostalgia for the old days. 

 You flip through the pages and eventually furrow your eyebrows. 

"This would be a disaster if it made it to the news." You mumble and look up at the older man. "Shouldn't this go to someone more experienced?" 

He twiddles with his grey mustache and glances out the fake window. 

"It's a sensitive case. The Spacers are sending their own agent to collaborate with us. What stands out to you?" 

You narrow your eyes and focus on the personnel sheet. What's there to cause such controversy? Right before giving up, departing from the page, you finally notice it: next to the Spacer officer's name, printed clearly in black ink, is a little "R." which is a commonly used abbreviation to indicate something is a robot. The chief must've noticed your startled reaction and continues, satisfied: 

"You understand, yes? They're sending an android. Supposedly it replicates a human perfectly in terms of appearance, but it does not possess enough observational data. Their request is that whoever partners up with him will also house him and let him follow along for the entirety of the mission. You're the only one here openly supporting those tin boxes. I can't possibly ask one of your higher ups, men with wives and children, to...you know...bring that thing in their house."

You're still not sure whether to be offended by the fact that your comfort seems to be of less priority compared to other officers. Regardless of the semantics, you're presently standing at the border between Earth and the Spacer colony, awaiting your case partner. A man emerges from behind a security gate. He's tall, with handsome features and an elegant walk. He approaches you and you reach for a handshake. 

"Is the android with you?" You ask, a little confused. 

"Is this your first time seeing a Spacer model?" He responds, relaxed. "I am the agent in your care. There is no one else." 

You take a moment to process the information, similar to the primitive machine back at your office. Could it be? You've always known that Spacer technology is years ahead, but this surpasses your wildest dreams. There is not a single detail hinting at his mechanical fundament. The movement is fluid, the speech is natural, the design is impenetrable. He lifts the warm hand he'd used for the handshake and gently presses a finger against your chin in an upwards motion. You find yourself involuntarily blushing. 

"Your mouth was open. I assumed you'd want it discreetly corrected." He states, factually, with a faint smile on his lips. Is he amused? Is such a feeling even possible? You try your best to regain some composure, adjusting the collar of your shirt and clearing your throat. 

"Thank you and please excuse my rudeness. I was not expecting such a flawless replica. Our assistants are...easily recognizable as AI."

"So I've been told." His smile widens and he checks his watch. You follow his gesture, still mesmerized, trying to find a single indicator that the man standing before you is indeed a machine, a synthetic product.

Nothing.

"Shall we?" He eyes the exit path and you quickly lead him outside and towards public transport. 

He patiently waits for your fingerprint scan to be complete. You almost turn around and apologize for the old, lagging device. As a senior detective, you have the privilege of living in the more spacious, secured quarters of the city. And, since you don't have a family, the apartment intended for multiple people looks more like a luxury adobe. Still, compared to the advanced way of the Spacers, this must feel like poverty to the android.

At last, the scanner beeps and the door unlocks. 

"Heh...It's a finicky model." You mumble and invite him in.

"Yes, I'm familiar with these systems." He agrees with you and steps inside, unbuttoning his coat.

"Oh, you've seen this before?"

"In history books."

You scratch your cheek and laugh awkwardly, wondering how much of his knowledge about the current life on Earth is presented as a museum exhibit when compared to Spacer society. 

"I'm going to need a coffee. I guess you don't...?" Your words trail as you await confirmation. 

"I would enjoy one as well, if it is not too much to ask. I've been told it's a social custom to 'get coffee' as a way to have small talk." The synthetic straightens his shirt and looks at you expectantly. 

"Of course. I somehow assumed you can't drink, but if you're meant to blend in with humans...it does make sense you'd have all the obvious requirements built in."

He drags a chair out and sits at the small table, legs crossed.

"Indeed. I have been constructed to have all the functions of a human, down to every detail." 

You chuckle lightly. Well, not like you can verify it firsthand. The engineers back at the Spacer colony most likely didn't prepare him for matters considered unnecessary. 

"I do mean every detail." He adds, as if reading your mind. "You are free to see for yourself."

You nearly drop the cup in your flustered state. You hurry to wipe the coffee that spilled onto the counter and glance back at the android, noticing a smirk on his face. What the hell? Are they playing a prank on you and this is actually a regular guy? Some sort of social experiment? 

"I can see they included a sense of humor." You manage to blurt out, glaring at him suspiciously. 

"I apologize if I offended you in any way. I'm still adjusting to different contexts." The android concludes, a hint of mischief remaining on his face. "Aren't rowdy jokes common in your field of work?"

"Uh huh. Spot on." You hesitantly place the hot drink before him.

Robots on Earth have always been built for the purpose of efficiency. Whether or not a computer passes the Turing Test is irrelevant as long as it performs its task in the most optimal, rational way. There have been attempts, naturally, to create something indistinguishable from a human, but utility has always taken precedence. It seems that Spacers think differently. Or perhaps they have reached their desired level of performance a long time ago, and all that was left was fiddling with aesthetics. Whatever the case is, you're struggling not to gawk in amazement at the man sitting in your kitchen, stirring his coffee with a bored expression.

"I always thought - if you don't mind my honesty - that human emotions would be something to avoid when building AI. Hard to implement, even harder to control and it doesn't bring much use."

"I can understand your concerns. However, let me reassure you, I have a strict code of ethics installed in my neural networks and thus my emotions will never lead to any destructive behavior. All safety concerns have been taken into consideration.

As for why...How familiar are you with our colony?" The android takes a sip of his coffee and nods, expressing his satisfaction. "Perhaps you might be aware, Spacers have a declining population. Automated assistants have been part of our society for a long time now. What's lacking is humans. If the issue isn't fixed, artificial humans will have to do."

You scoff.

"What, us Earth men aren't good enough to fix the birth rates? They need robots?"

You suddenly remember the recipient of your complaint and mutter an apology. 

"Well, I'm sure you'd make a fine contender. Sadly I can't speak for everyone else on Earth." The man smiles in amusement upon seeing the pale red that's now dusting your cheeks, then continues: "But the issue lies somewhere else. Spacers have left Earth a long time ago and lived in isolation until now. Once an organism has lost its immune responses to otherwise common pathogens, it cannot be reintegrated."

True. Very few Earth citizens are allowed to enter the colony, and only do so after thorough disinfection stages, proving they are disease free as to not endanger the fragile health of the Spacers living in a sterile environment. You can only imagine the disastrous outcome if the two species were to abruptly mingle. In that case, equally sterile machinery might be their only hope.

Your mind wanders to the idea. Dating a robot...How's that? You sheepishly gaze at the android and study his features. His neatly combed copper hair, the washed out blue eyes, the pale skin. Probably meant to resemble the Spacers. You shake your head.

"A-anyways, I'll go and gather all the case files I have. Then we can discuss our first steps. Do feel at home."

You rush out and head for your office. Focus, you tell yourself mildly annoyed.

While you search for the required paperwork - what a funny thing to say in this day and age - he will certainly take up on your generous offer to make himself comfortable. The redhaired man enters the living room, scanning everything with curious eyes. He stops in front of a digital frame and slides through the photos. Ah, this must be your Police Academy graduation. The year matches with the data he's received on you. Data files he might've read one too many times in his unexplained enthusiasm. This should be you and the Commissioner; Doesn't match the description of your father, and he seems too old to be a spouse or boyfriend. Additionally, the android distinctly recalls the empty 'Relationship' field.

"Old photos are always a tad embarrassing. I suppose you skipped that stage."

He jolts almost imperceptibly and faces you. You have returned with a thin stack of papers and a hologram projector.

"I've digitalized most files I received, so you don't have to shuffle a bunch of paper around." You explain.

"That is very useful, thank you." He gently retrieves the small device from your hand, but takes a moment before removing his fingers from yours. "I predict this will be a successful partnership."

You flash him a friendly smile and gesture towards the seating area.

"Let's get to work, then. Unless you want to go through more boring albums." You joke as you lower yourself onto the plush sofa. 

The synthetic human joins you at an unexpectedly close proximity. You wonder if proper distance differs among Spacers or if he has received slightly erroneous information about what makes a comfortable rapport. 

"Nothing boring about it. In fact, I'd say you and I are very similar from this point of view." He tells you, placing the projector on the table.

"Oh?"

"Your interest in technology and artificial intelligence is rather easy to infer." The man continues, pointing vaguely towards the opposing library. "Aside from the briefing I've already received about you, that is."

"And that is similar to...the interest in humans you've been programmed to have?" You interject, unsure where this conversation is meant to lead. 

"Almost."

His head turns fully towards you and you stare back into his eyes. From this distance you can finally discern the first hints of his nature: the thin disks shading the iris - possibly CCD sensors - are moving in a jagged, mechanical manner. Actively analyzing and processing the environment. 

"I wouldn't go as far as to generalize it to all humans. 

Just you."