#and another to go THIS IS WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE

[gay-dorito-dust]

saja boys flirting with manager!reader that just does not give a shit and only focuses on their job ?

‘Do you wanna touch my abs?’ Abby said as you were taking to social media to gauge the reactions of Saja Boy’s latest album, thankfully and expectedly the reactions were overwhelmingly positive, a job well done you guessed but it didn’t take much to gain traction when your grouped with conventionally attractive men with voices of angels.

‘I know you secretly do-‘

‘I don’t actually.’ You cut him off with a sharp, tight smile, hoping to be the point across that you were working and didn’t want to be bothered by senseless and meaningless flirting, it was unprofessional and you worked hard enough to get where you were without the unwanted flirting. ‘Besides don’t you have prentice that you should be at right now, we’ve got a video to put out after all.’ You add as you walked away from him, head firmly in your phone where you kept all your schedules and important information to keep this group within the public eye.

Abby only pouts as you walked away, crossing his arms. ‘Everything that breaths wants to touch my abs.’ He tells himself before going to practice like you said, you were certainly something if his flexing didn’t have much of an effect over you.

Romance was close as you overuse the meet and greet, so much so that he might as well have been pressed against you, watching you closely in hopes you’d notice and be rid of the furrow in your brows and the clench in your jaw. He even went to reach out and brush a finger against your cheek, only for your hand to come up and grab him by the wrist.

‘I better have something on my face for you to be doing that.’ You told him as your furrowed gaze was now directly on him, not the way that Romance would’ve liked but he’s got your attention regardless, so he guessed he got what he wanted in the end.

Romance smiled. ‘And what if you didn’t?’

You frowned. ‘Then learn to keep your hands to yourself, you’re too touchy and it’s distracting.’ You tell him as you drop his wrist as he leans in close to you, smirking.

‘I distract you huh?’ He says, completely ignoring the rest of what you had just said, much to your dismay as you groaned about how you couldn’t have been Huntrix’s manager instead, at least they wouldn’t be trying to flirt with you every second of every day. You loved the boys, you really did but they seemed to act as though you could be easily swayed as their fans, which wasn’t true, and completely forgetting that you were their manager half of the time.

‘From doing my job.’ You corrected him. ‘Now take that flirtatious energy and aim it towards the fans that are about to burst through those doors yeah?’ You concluded as Romance could only sigh, vowing to try again another time when you least expect it.

Baby happened to be your favourite band member of Saja Boys. He didn’t bother you as much as the rest of them did, kept himself occupied with spicy foods, or watching videos while indulging in some sweets he got from the nearby convenience store.

However that didn’t mean he was scott free from having moments where he would disrupt your day by whatever means he could. And right now he was sitting with his feet kicked up onto your lap, sucking on a lollipop, acting like he had nowhere better to be.

‘Can I help you?’ You asked as you looked over at him.

He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth and replied, ‘nope,’ before putting the lollipop back into his mouth. You looked at him unamused as you push his feet from your lap, only for Baby to put his feet back on your lap, smirking at your clear dislike of your current position. ‘Then why are you not chugging spicy sauce on a talk show or just in general?’ You asked, hating his lack of transparency in favour of being this nonchalant individual.

‘Am I not allowed to hang out with you?’ Baby asked, raising his brow as though you were scrutinising you for his active choice to be here with you then his band mates. ‘Is it truly a sin to be here with my utterly gorgeous manager?’

‘It is when all you’re going to do is flirt with me the entire time and certainly not when I’m working, so yeah it’ll be a no for me.’ You stated as you once again shoved his feet off of your lap and stood up and walked out of the room, tablet in hand.

Jinu came to you after you were bothered by the rest of the group, late in the night as you were finally getting ready for bed, but felt yourself unable to sleep and instead go out on the apartment balcony that over looked the city.

That’s when he comes to stand close by, your elbows touching ever so briefly, but it felt a lot like you were closer than you actually was. ‘Tired?’ He asked as he watched you rub at the dark bags under your eyes and taking in your overall exhausted body language.

‘It’s the price I pay for keeping you guys in the public zeitgeist.’ You replied, eyes remaining on the city and its billboards that you were certain promoting your boys and their newest song. ‘And a price well paid for too, you’re dominating the charts and becoming more and more popular by the day.’ You add as you finally look over at him, only to see him firmly looking at you with a softness that you weren’t sure you saw before, at least as far as you were aware.

‘That’s all in thanks to your hard work, we just look good and sing.’ Jinu says as his eyes shift from you to the city then back to you again, his hands twitching as though he wanted to hold yours but was holding himself back from doing so. ‘You deserve all the praise for getting us where we are. You’re exceptional.’ He concludes.

You puffed your chest in pride, not aware that he may or may not have been flirting with you, instead finally being recognised for all your hard work and dedication to the group and their ever growing popularity. ‘I am exceptional aren’t I?’ You rhetorically asked.

‘Yes you are.’ Jinu replied, watching you as you beam with pride as a smile graced his lips. ‘Charming and charismatic too.’ He piles up the compliments that seemingly went over your head, or were intentionally being dismissed by you as you patted him on the shoulder and said. ‘Welp! We better get some sleep as we’ve got a big day ahead of us to prepare for and I’ve got a schedule to keep and don’t feel like wasting time trying to wake one of you up because you didn’t rest properly.’

And with that you left Jinu on the balcony as you went to bed, switching off your light and everything as Jinu was left wondering if that had just happened.

Mystery hovered over you like an over protective guard dog. He was attentive, silent but ready to start barking at things he thought were intruding on his territory.

He might as well have been sat on your lap at this point when you were gauging what would keep the fans attention, looking on social media if there was anything that they wanted to see from Saja Boys, and keeping tract of the fact that they were to go on a show in a couple of hours where they’d have to eat chicken wings dipped in hot sauce that got gradually hotter while talking about how they came together amongst other things.

Mystery nudged your side to get your attention. Nothing.

He nudged your side again. Nothing, you were glued to your phone.

Mystery huffs and puts himself between you and your phone by shoving his head into your lap, acting like that of an overgrown dog that didn’t understand that he was too old to be sitting on your lap anymore. You huffed this time and looked at him as he looked back at you, small smile upon his lips as his plan ahd worked to his advantage, yet you were only significantly behind on your work and weren't up for any distractions from anyone in the slightest.

'Yes?' you asked, only for Mystery to put your free hand upon his head, his silent plea for you to run your fingers through his hair, unfortunately for him you weren't in the mood to that today as you hated to be off schedule even if it was by a milisecond.

You removed your hand from his head, making him pout at your lack of touch, tilting his head to the side as if to ask what you were doing. 'i can't today i need to get back on schedule, seen as how half of you seemed to have forgotten that you're meant to be on a press tour. we need to be puncutual abovr anything else.' You tell him as your attention is brought back to the tablet.

Mystery didn't like that all that much, hating your lack of attention, snatched the tablet from your hand and ran away with it, much to your dismay as you took our your phone and sighed. 'I swear he acts more dog then anything, love him, but at least i can hopefully get work done now i'm alone.'

Meanwhile poor mystery was waiting for you to come after him like he thought you would for thirty minutes before remembering that you could easily have done your work from a phone or a laptop within your vicinity, he returned the tablet shortly afterwards.

[dawnfire12]

Day off with the Saja Boys

Pairing: Saja Boys (Kpop Demon Hunter) X You (female)

Summary: You are the boys’ manager and you all deserve a day off. What you consider a day off is different than what they consider a day off. You want to pamper yourself and sit in a sauna, relaxing your body. Well the boys have other plans in mind for your body 😉

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, fingering, dirty talk, breeding kink, creampie, multiple orgasms, all consensual.

A/N: I haven’t proofread it at all lol. I hope you enjoy it!

You wake up by nature's alarm clock with the sun passing over your eyelids. You stretch, getting up and looking at the time. 7:00 am, even on a day off you can’t help but wake up early. You go to your bathroom and brush your teeth so you can eat as your stomach growls loudly. You shuffle into the shared kitchen that you have with the saja boys. As their manager, it’s just easier to live in the same space as them.

You yawn and see Baby on the couch. Just like his name, he’s always up the earliest. 

“Hi Baby.” You wave.

He looks up at you and beckons you over. You collapse next to him on the couch and he wraps his arms around your waist, putting his head on your chest. 

You pet his back, "Did you sleep well?”

He nods and moves his head towards your neck where you are sensitive. His breath makes you wiggle.

“That tickles.” You whisper.

He grins and starts kissing your neck. You hum, extending your neck a bit and stroking his hair. He’s always affectionate in the morning. His kissing turns to sucking and you let out small sighs. He brings your hand down to his clothed dick that’s hard and you push his boxers down to stroke his dick. You lean forward to spit on it to lube up your hand to make it more pleasurable for him. You set an even pace and he whimpers in your ear and ruts into your hand. His hand travels to your little silk shorts and rubs you through them.

You moan,”Baby, it’s too early.”

“I need you.” He begs. 

You sigh,”Baby.”

He pulls down your shorts and places two fingers into your damp pussy. He opens you up with a scissoring motion against your walls making his fingers become even wetter. 

You moan quietly, "Everyone is sleeping.”

He withdraws his fingers and turns you over so your face is in the cushion and your ass is up. He thrusts into you at a fast pace that has you gripping the cushions and using them to muffle your moans.

“I just need to feel you.” He moans.

Even though your moans are quiet, the slapping of the skin is loud. He places one hand on your hair, making sure your head stays down and in a way using you as his only fleshlight. 

“Ah, ah, ah! You feel so good! I just want to stay in you!” He whimpers.

He rubs your clit, making you cry out.

“Please cum! I need to feel you cum so bad! It feels so good when you cum! Squeezing my dick!” He begs you. 

It doesn’t take long for your legs to tremble and clamp down on his dick while your orgasm crashes over you.

“Ah! Yes! Just like that! So good! Mhmm!” He moans and climaxes.

He pumps into you a few more times before pulling out and pulling your shorts and his back on. 

You huff out air, “Well now I need a shower.”

He looks at you with puppy eyes, "Thank you!”, as if he’s an innocent child. As if he wasn't just pounding you a few moments ago.

You get up from the couch and start to walk towards your room when another door opens. It’s Mystery wearing a silver silk set of pjs, almost like yours. You hope he didn’t hear the activity in the living room.

“Good morning.” You whisper to him.

He waves and drags you into the room. He closes the door behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, kissing you. You let out a gasp of surprise and wrap your arms around his neck. He starts walking backwards towards his bed and sits on it. You follow to the point where you are standing in between his legs and he’s leaning up to kiss you. He leans away from you, breaking the kiss and forces you on your knees. He takes out his fully erect cock.

“You heard us in the living room?” You ask.

He nods, "Made me so horny. Now you have to fix it.”

He strokes himself a few times, staring at you. You lick your lips and lean over to place his cock in your mouth. You breathe in through your nose as you take his dick in your throat. He groans and it vibrates in your mouth. You moan back. You start moving your mouth up and down, hollowing your cheeks and moving your tongue along his shaft. 

He moans, "Just like that baby.”

You suck faster, not wanting to disappoint him and brush the tip with your tongue a few times. He hisses and starts grabbing your hair, moving his hips up. You gag a little, causing you to moan and grab onto his thighs.

“Fuck yes! I’m gonna cum down your throat! And you will drink. Every. Drop.” He enunciates as he thrusts into your throat. 

You cry out (muffled) as you feel the warm liquid hit the back of your throat. He pulls his dick out of your mouth and pulls you up to softly kiss you. He gives you slow pecks, tasting himself on his tongue and pulls down your shorts. 

“What are you doing?” You ask him as he brings you to sit on his thighs.

“I just want to feel you for a little.” He places his once soft dick, now already hard, into your pussy.

You dig your nails into his shoulders from the intrusion. He sinks you down all the way and you whimper. Once he’s fully in, you are trying to control your breath and he doesn’t move. He has every intention of leaving you to cockwarm him. He runs his hands up and down your back, making you shiver. The shivering has his dick move up into you a little bit and you moan.

The sound of your moan, his demon nails come out and dig into your hips. Without warning, he pulls up and slams you down on his dick. 

You cry out, "Mystery!”

He thrusts up into you and pulls your hair.

“I was gonna have you be a good girl and let you cockwarm me for a little but you couldn’t help it. Could you?” He asks.

You moan, "It’s not my fault.”

“Hmm. We will see about that.” He smirks and rubs your clit.

“Mystery!” You moan.

“Yeah! Yeah! Fuck! Clench on me just like that!” He keeps pounding into you. 

All you can focus on is how good his dick feels thrusting up into you and how your pussy is tightening that you know you aren’t going to last.

“Mystery! I’m gonna cum!” You warn him.

“Yes! Cum!” He moans and you follow his command. He thrusts a few more times, unable to fight the tightening of your walls and fills you up.

“Jesus!” You exhale as you come down from your high. 

He kisses your cheek, "You should probably shower with all the cum in you.”

You glare at him, "I wonder who’s fault that is.”

He kisses you again and untangles himself from you. You leave his room, entering yours and jumping straight into the shower. Who knew that this would be your life? Orgasming twice in one day by different boys. You need a raise.

The water is warm and relaxes your muscles. You sigh into the shower with your eyes closed, facing the water and feel a cool breeze behind you. You think maybe you left a window open and turned around to see Abby.

“Abby! What the hell!” You exclaim.

He smiles all goofy,”Hi!”

“Hello! Why are you in my shower?” You stare at him.

He smirks, "I want a turn.”

You gape at him. Next thing you know he’s picking you up, wrapping your legs around your waist and placing you against the tile while kissing you. He kisses like he is devouring your soul. His tongue suffocates you in a good way. You gasp at every pass his tongue makes and he trails down to your neck and to your boobs. He sucks on them one at a time, leaving hickies and leaving you gasping. He brushes one finger against your opening and sees you are dripping for him.

He impales you on his dick and gives you no time to adjust. He sets a brutal pace that has your mind scrambling and making you only moan. He is in you so deep and he is very thick. It feels so good to be stretched out by him.

“I knew this is what you needed.” He brags as he sucks on your tits.

You’re so glad he has such upper body strength because your body is giving up on its own strength based on how he is pounding into your pissy.

“Abby! Right there!” You cry out as he hits your gspot.

“I know how to make my girl cum!” He moans, "And I need you to cum on my cock now.”

You open your eyes, "I can’t just from this.”

He laughs, "Oh yes you will!”

He keeps hitting your gspot over and over again, making you see stars and leaning your head back against the wall, cumming so hard.

“Ah! Abby!” You cry out as he continues to fuck you.

“Told you so! Now take my cum!” He pushes up into you one last time, shooting his seed in you.

You lean your head on his shoulder as he slowly moves his hips a few times and takes out his dick, placing you on the floor. You grip his arms as your legs feel like jelly.

“Look at you all wrecked.” He licks his lips.

“Don’t lick your lips. I know what you’re thinking, get out.” You protest.

He holds up his hands and slips out of the shower room.

You lean your head against the wall. You just wanted to take a shower but can’t deny how you loved his dick. You clean yourself up, only wearing a robe and go to your room. Even though it’s supposed to be a relaxing day you can’t help but send some emails, ensuring that the events the boys have to go to are booked. At some point your eyes close with your laptop still on your lap.

The next time you open your eyes, you wake yourself up with a moan, gripping the sheets as you feel a tongue moving in you. You lean up as you feel another wave of pleasure through you and look down to see Romance eating you out. You barely have time to cry out his name as you cum on his tongue. He drinks up every bit you can give him.

He crawls up your body and kisses you, "Hi.”

“Hi.” You whisper back and brush your hand over his bangs.

You look over to see your computer closed and on the floor. He brings your face to look at him as he kisses you softly. You sigh and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He caresses your body like you’re made of glass and massages your thighs. He licks your neck and your boobs before making his way back down to your wet center. He places one finger in you to stretch you out a bit.

“So wet for me.” He hums before placing his hands over your head and thrusting in you.

He goes slowly, making sure to savor every moment in you. There’s no urgency, just the feeling of being connected. 

“Oh, my love.” He whispers against your lips.

Your whimper and clench around his dick.

“You’re so good! My pretty girl!” He starts moving faster, chasing down our orgasms.

Your legs tighten around his waist and your nails scratch down his back. One particular thrust has your head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth wide open with all the moans falling out.

“Cum my love! Milk my cock!” He circles your clit.

“Oh fuck! Romance! Please don’t stop! Ah! Right there! Please! Ah Romance!” Your walls clench on his cock as you cum.

“Yes! Yes!” He cums in you, lazily thrusting as he rides out his high. 

You whimper as he slips out of you. He grabs some of your clothes from the drawer, dresses you and kisses you softly. You blink up at him as you whisper a small thank you. He leaves your room and you follow to grab some food from the kitchen. However, once again, you are pulled into another room. Jinu has you pressed up against his locked door and doesn’t give you a chance to react as he furiously kisses you. He bites your lip and is digging his hands into your hips. 

He releases your mouth, giving you a chance to breathe before he lifts you up and has your legs around his waist. He presses you against the door and grinds against you. You throw your head back as he bites your neck. 

“Jinu!” You cry. 

With one hand, he keeps you up and pushes his pants down before pushing yours down.

He positions his dick in front of your center, "No need to prepare. I know you still have his cum in you.”

He thrusts up into you and sets a relentless pace. Your body moves up and down the door from the force of his thrusts. From this position, your clit is rubbed against his pelvis each time causing your legs to tighten harder against him. You’re so sensitive that your orgasm builds fast and you are seeing stars. 

“Fuck!” He cums after your walls squeezed him so tight.

You thought he would be done but he puts you on the bed and has you on all fours. He gives you no time to adjust and thrusts into you. Set at the same pace as before. He pulls your hair and you grasp at the covers.

“Look at you. Taking my cock so well” He praises.

You moan and your eyes flutter close.

“Uh nuh. Eyes open pretty.” He demands.

You open your eyes and see a mirror in front of you. You can see (and feel) how hard he is pounding against you and how wrecked you are starting to look.

“I bet you only look this wrecked on my dick, isn’t that right?”

You moan instead of an answer.

He yanks your hair a bit more, "Answer.”

“Yes Jinu!” You cry.

“Good girl!” He lets go of your hair and rubs your clit.

You try to squirm away but he holds you close.

“Be good. You know you want to cum.” He coos.

You start drooling, "Ah! Jinu! AH! Ah! Right there! Don’t stop! MMHPM!”

“Fuck!!!!” He cums in you as you start coming.

Your legs are twitching as he fills you. He pumps in you a few times and rests on your back, kissing it a few times. He pulls out and carries you to his bathroom where he has a tub of water already prepared. He slips in with you and washes you. He turns you to face him and kisses you softly. You open your mouth for him and he brings you closer and starts pulling you on his dick.

“No more.” You whisper.

His eyes pout, "Please just one more. Just wanna feel you.”

Before you can protest he’s slipping in. You can feel how thick and long he is in this position. He’s definitely the biggest and thickest dick out of all the boys. He thrusts into you, grabbing onto your hips and you can only hold onto his arms. You just started but by the way you have been cumming all day you know you can only last a few more moments.

“Jinu! I can’t! It’s too much!” You cry out.

He thrusts up even faster, making all the water splash around.

“Please just one more! I need you to cum again! Need to feel you squeeze my dick! I need you to be full of my cum! Only mine! Say your mine!” He begs you.

You sob, ”Yours Jinu!”

The next few thrusts have you over the edge and you cum so hard you black out for a moment. You come to when he cums in you for the last time that night. You blink in and out of consciousness, needing a full day of recovery after the sex marathon. You barely stay awake while he washes you up and tucks you into bed. 

The next morning you wake up sore but fully satisfied. You get up and lock your door to continue your work. You hear knocks at the door but ignore them. The boys whine and beg you to let them in. You know they could just come in with their powers, however, they respect that your door is locked. After a few hours, you venture into the kitchen to eat and see the boys in the living room.

You point a water bottle at all of them, "Listen. I’m human. I don’t have as much stamina as you guys. So please keep your dicks away from me for the next few days.”

The boys all pout and groan except for one member who doesn’t like the tone you took. 

As you walk back to the kitchen, a pair of arms wrapped around you and kisses your neck. You place your water bottle on the table and lean into the arms. While you are getting neck kisses, the person is grinding their dick into your ass. You whimper and turn in their arms.

“No more Jinu.” You say.

He responds with furious kisses and pulls your shorts down. He pushes you onto the table and has one of your legs up while he devours your pussy. His tongue moves in you like he’s trying to take your soul out from your pussy. You cry, grabbing his hair and leaning your head back on the table. While your eyes are closed from the pleasure, he pushes down his pants and pounds into you.

“Jinu!” You cry out.

His hips slap into yours hard and the whole table is shaking.

“I seem to recall you cumming a lot yesterday. Right?” He pants.

“Yes! Jinu!” You grip his arms.

“And now you say no more? That’s not your choice baby. I didn’t hear a thank you from all those times you came, did I?” He questions you. His nails and teeth turning sharp, the nails nip your hips leaving you with small scratches as he bites down on your neck.

You didn’t think you could moan any louder. It’s so hard to focus when he keeps hitting your gspot and touching your clit.

“You’re right Jinu!” You moan.

“You gonna tell me thank you?” He demands.

“Uh! UH! Yes! Ah! Thank you Jinu!” You wail.

“Good girl. Learning her manners. Cum for me again!” He summons a vibrator and places it on your clit.

The vibration makes you cum instantly and you see white. Your walls squeeze his dick so hard he has no choice but to cum in you. He slows down and stares at how delicious you look. You blink slowly and next time you open your eyes the boys are all surrounding you with their fully erect dicks out.

“You thought you were done? Well I’m going to keep fucking you as the boys take their turns having you suck their dick.” Jinu kisses your lips for reassurance.

It looks like the Saja boys will be taking another week to “rest”.

[mooningningg]

JJK Rock Band when you're being shipped with another member.

ᴊᴊᴋ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

Notes, lovely anon for requesting this.

★ Drummer!Sukuna, being shipped with Toji.

Sukuna is drinking his coffee when Gojo says it.

"Yo, did you see that post? ‘Toji x that girl who’s always with them’? That’s literally you and your girl."

Sukuna stares at him.

"The fuck did you just say?"

"It had like 60k likes. They said Toji looked at her like she was his whole world."

Sukuna doesn’t blink. Just turns his head and starts glaring at Toji mid-soundcheck.

Toji, blinking: "What?"

Sukuna gave him a dead glare, "Why’re you making eye contact with my girl?"

Toji furrows his brows, "Bro. She said hi."

Sukuna won’t speak to you for like an hour. Just scoffs and slams the kick pedal louder than usual every time he sees your name trending next to Toji’s.

Eventually, you catch him sulking in the van.

"Are you seriously mad about internet comments?"

"They said you’d have prettier kids with Toji."

You climb onto his lap and kiss his jaw. "They’re wrong."

Sukuna grumbles, wrapping his arms around you like a seatbelt. "Damn right they are."

★ Vocalist!Gojo, being shipped with Choso.

Gojo’s mid-hair routine when he opens Twitter and sees:

"that soft girl who follows Gojo around all the time and choso? soulmates. i said what i said."

He freezes, holding the flat iron in one hand.

Satoru exclaims, "I’m gonna be sick."

Suguru turns to look at him, "You okay?"

"No. They’re giving my girl to the goth piano man."

He spends the whole day pouting.

At practice, he refuses to sing Choso’s harmonies properly. He sings them off-key on purpose.

Choso looks at him, eyes half lidded, "...Did I do something?"

"Nothing. Just stole my life partner, but whatever."

Later, you bring Gojo a drink, and he won’t even look at you.

You finally bring it up, "You're being weird."

Gojo replies, "Do you think he'd write you poems?"

"I literally bring you snacks and chapstick daily."

He softens. "You're right. I'm the total package."

Then he snaps a selfie with you and captions it: “me and the girl you can’t have 🧃❤️”

★ Guitarist!Suguru, being shipped with Gojo.

He finds the edit while scrolling late at night. It’s a clip of Gojo tossing you his sunglasses and you putting them on while laughing.

“Gojo x her is the sunshine duo we DESERVE.”

Suguru just stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

Next morning, he sends it to Gojo with no context.

Gojo: "LMAO do they know she falls asleep on your chest?"

Suguru: "Apparently not."

That night, Suguru brings you coffee, sets it down gently, then murmurs, "Don’t wear his sunglasses again."

You blink. "Wait, is this about that video?"

He doesn't answer. Just lifts your chin and kisses you.

A minute later he posts a blurry photo of your hands intertwined on his story with the caption:

“sunshine? she’s always been mine.”

Gojo reposts it and adds: “don’t be jealous I’m prettier 💋”

Suguru blocks him for 24 hours.

★ Bassist!Toji, being shipped with Suguru.

Toji doesn't do Twitter. But he does hear about it from Gojo, who will never let it go.

"They said Suguru and your girl give off forbidden lovers energy."

Toji raises an eyebrow. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means people think she should’ve chosen him instead."

Toji looks across the room where you're laughing at something Suguru said.

He walks over. Picks up your bag.

"We’re leaving."

You blink. "Wait, what? We just got here."

"Too much forbidden love in this room. Come on."

Later that night, he gives you his hoodie and tugs you close while you're brushing your teeth.

"You like his hair or something?"

"You’re the one I fall asleep next to."

He grunts. Satisfied.

Next gig, he wears a shirt that says: “she’s with the bassist. stay mad.”

He doesn’t say a word about it.

★ Keyboardist!Choso, being shipped with Sukuna.

Choso finds a clip of Sukuna teasing you and you throwing a napkin at him. Someone zoomed in on Sukuna smirking and wrote:

“why does sukuna lowkey flirt with her like they’re already married 😭”

Choso stares at it.

Closes his phone.

Later, Sukuna throws a drumstick toward your chair at rehearsal and grins when you roll your eyes.

Choso is silent the entire practice.

Afterward, you ask, "Are you mad?"

He shakes his head. "Just… quiet today."

Then adds, "Do you think he’s hotter?"

You almost choke. "Are you serious?"

Choso shrugs. "I wear all black. He wears no sleeves."

You wrap your arms around his neck.

"He’s loud. You’re home."

That night, he posts a quiet video of you leaning against his shoulder in the green room, captioned:

“not loud, not flashy, still hers.”

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny: If I have to stare at another Excel data sheet, I'm going to scream.

Tucker: Bad day at work?

Danny: Yes. I made a mistake in the company share drive and had to spend all afternoon correcting the data.

Sam: Wasn't that data collected for like the past 6 months?

Danny: You can see why it took me hours. Not to mention how my manager reacted.

Tucker: Was he mad?

Danny: Worse. He was happy to have me go up to the CEO and explain why the bi-annual report was going to be late.

Sam: That's horrible. What did the CEO say?

Danny: I don't know. I was too busy staring at the floor, shamed-face. He laughed after I said the bi-annual report was going to take me two more weeks, and when I looked up, I lost all mental ability.

Sam: Let me guess, you were sent to CEO Tim Drake?

Danny: Yes

Sam: It's understandable that you couldn't function in the face of that.

Tucker: Care to share with the class?

Danny: I gay panicked so hard. I have no idea what happened in those thirty minutes. One second, I was in the doorway explaining to my shoes my mistake, and the next, I was back at my office cubbie, eating a cupcake. I dont know where the cupcake came from but it had a little plastic sign that said "Everyone makes mistake. Everyone has those days".

Tucker: Did that plastic sign also include Hannah Montana?

Danny: Yes.

Sam: Shit, hes hot, gives you food and is funny? Lock that down Danny.

Danny: Look what down!?

Tucker: Baby trap him.

Danny: I can not physically baby trap anyone Tucker.

Sam: Isn't Drake adopted? Go to park and pick out a kid. I'm sure Drake won't care its not his baby, when you trap him with it. Same beginnings and all that.

Tucker: Look for one with his hair or his nose.

Danny: You two are the worst roommates every. I shouldn't have moved in with you after completing our associates. I should have stayed in the student dorms for ny bachelor's.

Sam: Big talk from the boy with student loans and only six months of work on his resume.

Danny: I'm going to bed!

Tucker: Good idea, early to bed means we can wake up early and see what kids are available at the park tomorrow!

[andraxicated]

yacht sex with sylus purrrr

tags: nsfw | p in v | fingering | dirty talk | every filthy shit my cooch can think of | reverse cowgirl into the sunset

Summer with Sylus is always composed of luxurious trips and tiny designer bikinis that barely cover your skin. And him, looking like an absolute snack with his abs basking in the glow of the afternoon sun. He has sunglasses on, and yet he feels you checking him out before making a move on him. You climb to his lap like a kitten, and his arm naturally goes to your waist to secure you on top of his cock.

"Wow, someone's excited" You tease, slotting yourself perfectly for him to feel the throb of your pussy.

"I don't think I'm the only one who's excited, sweetheart" He removes his sunglasses and places it on the table. Caressing your face before tucking stray hair behind your ear. "May I check?"

"Thought you'd never ask" You whisper as your lips go for each other in a passionate kiss. He graces you with his tongue, and you let him in as he moves your panty to the side to feel the wetness. He groans as you immediately soak his fingers, entering his large finger and slushing more of your goodness. You pull away to take a breath, but he catches you with his lips, not letting you go as he adds another finger to the mix and moves with a fast pace. You squirm in his hold, feeling the high that builds up as you tighten your hands around his shoulders. You melt deeper in the messy kiss to ground yourself as you approach your high, but Sylus has other plans to make you cum. He pulls his fingers away and you frown, yet he only smirks and lets you watch him put his fingers in his mouth.

"Fuck me now."

"No kitten, let's watch the sunset. You said you wanted to watch the sunset on my yacht, didn't you?"

You furrow your brows and huff, "Yes, I did...but I want you right now too"

Sylus smiles and turns you to face the incoming orange glow in the sky. He nibbles on your ear, kisses your cheek, and whispers, "Why don't we watch the sunset together while you ride me, hmm? So we can fulfill both of my pretty girl's wishes?" He wastes no time untying the bra of your bikini, his huge hands cupping your pussy as he massages them before tearing the panty to the side.

You gasp, "Sylus! That was Dior!"

"You have plenty of Dior stuff, baby." He lines up his bulbous head to the entrance of your pussy and penetrates your walls, pounding you upwards as his thick thighs slap against your own. He has his grip on your waist like a steering wheel, guiding you to move your ass to his rhythm.

Obscene sounds come out of your mouth as he continues to drop you on his cock. He meets your body as he batters your insides up, relishing the feeling of your warm walls sliding on his cock. He throws his head back as you squeeze on him. Your whines music to his ears. He knows he's the only one who can make you feel this good. Sylus' cock is the only thing you'd bounce on, and he swore you shake your ass just for him, just like what you're doing right now.

"That's it kitten, move that body."

The sun is forgotten from his view, all his focus on the jiggle of your sexy ass and how his cock disappears into you. But you, who have the perfect view of the sunset, feel high in the sky with all the ecstasy you're feeling. You bounce as hard as you can, impaling yourself on his hard cock even if it tears you apart and your hips hurt. You cry out his name, and he shushes you with pecks. "You can do it, continue."

Sylus hurts so good, along with the butterfly kisses and bites he presses to your back to motivate you. Your gaze flutters at the setting sun, reflecting on the water beautifully, making you want to kiss him because the moment is perfect. But it's like your minds are linked because Sylus suddenly grabs your chin and kisses you like there's no tomorrow. He pistons in and out faster, creating wet sounds from your pussy, and you can already feel the incoming soreness tomorrow. Such a thick cock penetrating you always leaves you limping like a lamb. Sylus presses his head strategically against your sweet spot, targeting it like a game as you falter in his hold. You ended up letting him hit your womb while laying on his chest to lazily look at the view as he does all the work.

He chuckles, "Leaving all the work to me? That's not nice" Sylus repositions and manhandles you like a doll. His muscled arm hooks under both of your thighs, lifting your body close to him as he administers his final thrusts for you take it like a good girl "Your pussy is so tight, fuck"

You cry and bounce to help him climax, snaking your arm to the back of his head to pull him in for another messy kiss. He responds hungrily as his cockhead beats up your cunt a few more times before you pull away to scream into the sun, shaking and overstimulated by the release you just had. Your contracting walls and cum washing over his dick triggers his own high, groaning deeply into your neck as you caress his hair while warm sticky liquid floods your insides. You're so used to having him raw that the feeling of his cum adds to your climax and relaxes you. You don't even mind the mess he made between your legs.

Sylus stays inside and soothes your lower body with his massages, knowing they were dead after all the exercise you did. He calms you down and peppers kisses all over your face before landing on your lips. You look up at him and smile, hiding your face on his chest before staring at the sun going down the horizon.

"Round 2 in the shower?"

You ask and his dick twitches back to life inside you.

[luna-azzurra]

When a character is pretending to be someone they’re not

Pretending isn’t just lying, no, it’s becoming a version of yourself that feels easier to manage (easier to love, or control, or survive inside.) It’s a mask that starts out as protection and slowly becomes a second skin. One that’s hard to take off, even when you want to.

✦ They mirror the people around them without meaning to. Their laugh, their phrasing, the way they sit, it all shifts depending on who they’re with. Like they’re constantly adjusting, matching the energy in the room, trying to be what they think people want.

✦ They’re vague when things get personal, and not because they’re secretive, but because they don’t know anymore. Ask them their favorite song, and they’ll pause too long. Ask about their past, and their answers are half-finished, polished at the edges, like they’ve been told too many times to keep it clean.

✦  They over-prepare for conversations. They run through the dialogue in their head ahead of time. Rehearse their jokes, their exits, their answers. Everything feels a little scripted, like they’re playing the role of “themselves” instead of just… being.

✦ They always look put-together, maybe almost too much. Their clothes, their hair, their whole vibe is carefully chosen. But there’s a difference between style and armor, and this is armor. A version of themselves they’ve curated, down to the last thread.

✦ They panic when the script slips. Catch them off guard, and it shows... like, they freeze and fumble. The real stuff, feels dangerous. Being authentic means being vulnerable, and they’ve learned the hard way how risky that is.

✦ They shift depending on the room. One version of them at home, another at school, another with friends, like flipping channels. It’s not manipulation, no guys, it’s muscle memory, and they’ve learned to survive by adapting, and now they can’t stop.

✦ They touch their face or hair when they’re uncomfortable, like they’re checking to make sure the mask is still in place. A nervous habit that’s half-grounding, half-ritual, as if letting their guard down even physically would let everything else fall apart, too.

✦ Their smile is always photo-ready. Perfect, pretty, practiced...But there’s something in the eyes that doesn’t match, like they’re smiling at you, not with you. Like they’ve learned what people want to see, and they’ve gotten very good at giving it.

✦  If someone tells them, “I like the real you,” they go quiet. Not because they’re shy, but because deep down, they don’t know who the “real” version even is anymore. They want to believe there’s someone underneath it all, they just don’t know how to find them.

[urmum-lovesme]

WE WANT MORE TOXIC DAD!!!

Toxic!Dad!Rafe is so protective, and although he is toxic no-one's allowed to talk shit about his girl- (except for him obviously but thats different duh)

The sun is out, the country club buzzing with chatter and the occasional thwack of a golf club striking a ball. Y/N is settled in a shaded area, her baby girl sitting in the grass, her tiny hands grabbing at the white golf balls, rolling them back and forth as she giggles at the way they wobble on the lawn. Rafe is standing a few feet away, talking with Topper, Kelce, and some other guys Y/N doesn’t really know. Some trust fund babies, probably. The type who think their daddy’s money makes them invincible. She doesn’t care to know because right now, her attention is on their daughter, the way she beams when Rafe glances over at her, proudly showing him her new 'toys.'

“Yeah princess, you got ‘em.”

His voice is soft when he talks to her, completely different from the cocky, arrogant way he speaks to everyone else. Y/N watches with a smile as he grins, winking at their little girl which makes her giggle, before he's going back to his conversation. She’s just about to pull out her phone and snap a picture when she hears one of the guys laugh. A little too loud, a little too amused.

“Guess it worked out for her, huh?”

It’s casual, muttered between swigs of beer to the other new guys, but it makes her stomach drop.

“Got kicked to the curb by her family—”

Her heart rises to her throat.

“—but hey, at least she had Cameron to knock her up. Now she’s set for life, right?”

Silence.

The kind that makes the hairs on the back of Y/N’s neck stand up, she knows exactly what’s about to happen. She watches the way Rafe's shoulders stiffen, the muscle in his jaw ticks, his grip on his beer tightening like he’s two seconds away from crushing the glass.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

His voice drops slow and controlled but lethal. The guy, oblivious or maybe just plain fucking stupid, grins and shrugs.

“Chill, man. I just meant- ”

Wrong move.

Y/N is already standing, her heart in her throat. She doesn’t give a fuck about the comment itself— it’s Rafe she’s worried about. Rafe, who’s already moving. He steps forward, beer bottle still in hand, shoulders squared.

“Nah, go ahead. Say it again.”

He challenges the guy who now shifts on his feet chuckling, but there’s an edge of nervousness evident in his actions.

“Jesus man, it was a joke.”

“Oh yeah? Not fuckin’ funny.”

Rafe’s jaw clenches at his petty excuse. Y/N barely has time to react before he shoves the guy back.

Hard.

Not enough to knock him down- but enough to make a statement.  Enough to make everyone around them go silent. His fist tighten by his sides and Kelce mutters something under his breath looking over to Topper who sighs, shaking his head.

“Don’t fuckin' talk about her like that.”

His voice is deadly, protective, and it makes Y/N’s breath catch. Her throat is tight, her skin burning. Not because of what the guy said- but because he wasn’t entirely wrong. She’s heard it before.

Lucky to have Rafe.

Lucky to have their daughter.

Lucky because otherwise she’d have nothing.

She swallows hard, blinking fast but Rafe sees red and he shoves the guy again, harder this time. Kelce lets out a low whistle and Topper rubs a hand down his face. Y/N moves quickly, stepping between the two guys, one hand pressing against Rafe’s chest. She can feel how hard his heart is pounding, how tense his muscles are, like he’s just waiting for an excuse to swing.

“Rafe, stop.”

He doesn’t move. Just stares the guy down, nostrils flaring as he opens his mouth again to say something but is cut off- a tiny giggle.

Y/N whips around at the sound.

Their daughter is still sitting in the grass, completely oblivious to the tension, laughing as she claps her hands, watching her daddy like she thinks this is just another game. It’s enough to make Y/N’s stomach drop. Rafe must notice it too, because his shoulders drop slightly. He doesn’t turn away from the guy, but he exhales sharply through his nose.

“You’re fuckin’ lucky I have my kid with me.”

The guy doesn’t say anything. Just nods before stumbling back, shoving his hands into his pockets. Rafe rolls his eyes at him, shaking out his shoulders. Y/N stares at him, momentarily unsure of what to say as she watches the guys walk away.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

He scoffs.

“Yeah? What, I’m just supposed to let him run his mouth?”

“You have your daughter with you, Rafe.”

That’s what matters. That’s what she cares about. Rafe’s gaze flickers to their baby girl, still sitting on the grass, still smiling at him and something softens in his expression. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before bending down and scooping her up.

“C’mon, princess. Let’s go home.”

Y/N doesn’t argue. Just lets him lift their daughter into his arms as he adjusts her small white hat, her tiny hand clutching onto his shirt. She watches him as they walk towards the car, feeling exhausted but knowing one thing for certain:

Rafe Cameron will never let anyone disrespect his family.

[gaylor-moon]

Andrea Velez, a US citizen, was arrested in the time it took her mother to drive less than a block. She was on her way to work. She’s Latina. It appears that was enough. Tuesday morning, Andrea Velez’s mom and sister dropped her off near her workplace. She’s a production coordinator at Top Pick Global. Andrea graduated with a degree in fashion from Cal Poly Pomona. Near Andrea’s work, an ICE raid was taking place. In fact, someone had called the LAPD to say a “kidnapping” was taking place. The LAPD showed up, saw it was an immigration raid — LAPD is not permitted to assist ICE in immigration raids — and immediately switched to crowd control, making sure people weren’t in the street and so on. As Andrea walked toward her place of employment, she says she looked up and saw an ICE agent barreling toward her. In the flash of thoughts that went through her mind, she thought maybe she was being targeted for the color of her skin, that maybe he thought she was not a US citizen. She instinctively held up her bag and the agent bowled into her. Her mother — they hadn’t even made it a block away yet — looked in the rear view mirror and saw the plainclothes ICE agents standing over her daughter and putting her in cuffs. “They’re kidnapping your sister,” she said. Andrea tried to get the LAPD to help, and so did her mother and sister. According to her mother and other witnesses, no one ever asked Andrea for ID or asked about her status. The police didn’t help, even when Andrea’s mother was screaming she was a US citizen. In fact, according to some witnesses, they moved to stand around Andrea to make it more difficult to film what was happening. For the first 24 hours, her family couldn’t find Andrea. They didn’t know where she had been taken or what was happening. They hired lawyers who managed to find her, but no one would tell them what she was being charged with, only that she would likely face federal charges. DHS publicly said she would be charged with “assaulting an officer.” When they got to court yesterday, ICE lawyers downgraded that to “obstructing” an officer. An ICE officer claimed that Andrea purposely stepped in his way and raised both of her arms to stop him from going after someone he was trying to arrest. Witnesses tell the story the way Andrea does: an ICE agent approached her, knocked her down, then arrested her without asking any questions about her status or identity. Andrea, her lawyer, her mother and sister all have the same theory: during an ICE raid an ICE agent saw a Latina and scooped her up because of the color of her skin, and had to invent another reason once it was discovered she was a US citizen, born and raised in Los Angeles. Andrea was released on a 5k bond yesterday.

Immigration officers have recently taken to arresting Latino and Hispanic US citizens on raids and claiming obstruction or assault, only to release them a few days later, sometimes without charges. On June 12th, for instance, Brian Gavidia walked outside his work and saw immigration officers. He told them he was a US citizen and showed them his Real ID. They pushed him up against a fence and started asking him questions like “What hospital were you born in.” DHS later said he had “assaulted an officer” -- video evidence does not back this up -- but they didn’t charge him. Or return his ID. (A common pattern: DHS will say something like this on social media, but not in court. It appears to be a PR stunt, not any attempt at communicating something true or legally actionable.) When CNN reached out to DHS on this one they added that Brian “attempted to flee” as well, which is remarkable given that he’s a US citizen who literally just stepped outside his place of work. Adrian Martinez, 20, had a run-in with Border Patrol on his break at WalMart. It sounds like — this is unclear — he tried to obstruct a BP vehicle that held one of his friends from work. Border Patrol agents grabbed him and claim that he punched one of them. Of course, a nearby bystander was recording and there is no evidence of a punch. And Border Patrol went on to say that Adrian was a “hostile group” of men, which is weird because he’s one guy… unless they are counting Oscar Preciado, the delivery driver who stood nearby and videoed the whole thing. Neither Oscar’s video nor surveillance cameras that caught the entire event show a punch. Border Patrol says that the complete videos “are missing critical moments and don’t tell the whole story.” But after holding Adrian for THREE DAYS they also dropped the assault charge. Because, as Adrian’s lawyer said, “He didn’t assault anyone.” They’re now charging him with “conspiracy to impede or injure an officer” which his lawyer calls “trumped up” charges. ICE has claimed that upwards of 70% of those they arrest are “serious criminals” but their own statistics tell a different story. In the most recent ICE stats publicly released:

75% of people in ICE private prisons have nothing more than an immigration related issue or a traffic violation

47% of those being held by ICE have no criminal conviction at all… no criminal immigration violation, traffic violation, or criminal charge of any kind.

Would you like to guess the percentage of “serious criminals” who are being held by ICE? We’ve been told over and over that we’re after the “worst of the worst” so I suspect it must be an impressive number. And that number is: NINE PERCENT. It certainly appears that the enormous daily quota for arrests is encouraging quantity arrests rather than quality arrests. Arresting a US citizen, even if you have to release them a few days later, counts toward the arrest. Arresting a tourist at the border rather than refusing them entry counts toward the quota. Arresting people at their green card interviews, tricking immigrants without lawyers into giving up their asylum claims and immediately arresting them once they agree, these all count toward the quota. Some key takeaways:

Don’t call the police expecting help during an immigration raid. Even in states like California, where they are not legally allow to assist federal immigration forces, they also are unlikely to step in and help US citizens or others being abused. Best case scenario: they do some crowd control.

ICE and other immigration forces are not afraid to arrest US citizens (and others) on trumped up charges, hold people, and release them later. There’s literally no consequences for them as individuals or corporately.

It is ICE policy to lie. This is not an exaggeration. They call it a “ruse.” ICE agents aren’t just allowed to lie, they are encouraged to do so and trained to do so. ICE agents are trained to trick and confuse people. Andrea Velez, a US citizen, was arrested in the time it took her mother to drive less than a block. She was on her way to work. She’s Latina. It appears that was enough. (x)

[yapdad]

(trueform) sukuna, the amalgamation of all things sharp and evil, is... a virgin?

you laugh when he tells you. he ponders the merits of spanking you for making a fool of his abstinence.

'don't mock me' he had pouted like a kicked puppy, eyebrows knit together in a faux fury that just makes him look dumb, because anger on ryomen sukuna is only natural in every direction but yours.

you have that asshole wrapped around your finger.

well, you did. until you laughed at him for being a virgin, and he decided his many years of celibacy were ideal to be broken by someone with your gall.

know you're wrapped around his fingers. literally, knuckles deep while he plunges them in and out and in and out of your pussy on a grating loop that has your vision gated by stars and tears after only a few minutes.

he's fucking good for a virgin. you wonder if he's better with his cock than he is with his fingers—whether he's fucked his fist late at night to the thought of doing things like this to you. how depraved he's let his mind become. if his fantasies would frighten you or not.

"i didn't mean to laugh," you try pleading after your first orgasm on his fingers. "i wasn't laughing at you, it's just hard to believe. don't you have concubines?"

"i'm not a philanderer," he grunts, curling his thick fingers inside of you.

"do you even—fuck, ryomen—do you even know what a philanderer is?"

"a whore," he bites. "i saw no point in engaging in such... carnal affairs. i don't like playing with my food."

well that's a lie. you roll your eyes, half in defiance and half because you think sukuna might be rewiring your brain matter with this kind of pleasure. so much so that you start to say stupid things without thinking of the consequences in doing so.

"so it's not because your cock is small?"

and he stops. you're thankful for the break, though you tighten around his fingers in some sort of biological protest to the lack of stimulation. sukuna, all hot and heady, takes your face in his one of his free hands and squeezes your cheeks together, bulging your lips.

"my cocks are adequate in size."

"cocks?" you're speech is muffled by sukuna's grip on your face. "like, more than one?" you squint your eyes at him "do you have multiple cocks, sukuna?"

indeed he does.

after another orgasm on his fingers, and then one on his tongue (which left both you and him in a mess of spit and sweet release) he finally disrobed and let you bask in the frightening sight of his two cocks, stacked one on top of the other, both hard and veiny and leaking at the tips with a copious amount of pre.

he's huge. in both cases. you suppose you should have signed something before laying down for the man, right? still, a curling need eats at your lower stomach: to have him like this when no one else has.

"are... will..." you clear your throat. "so, uh. they're both going inside of me?"

sukuna doesn't speak at first, probably because he's growing impossibly harder at the look of fear on your face. he lays you back and situates you beneath him, his rough hands oddly gentle for what's most likely the last kind thing he'll do to you tonight.

"no," he says. "next time. i want to... see something."

see something? sukuna steps between your parted legs and looks lustfully at the mess he's left of you. you're somewhat ashamed for becoming such a sight after teasing him like you did, but the hunger in his eyes are enough of a balm to shift your shame into... fear? want? a deep-rooted masochism?

kuna strokes one of his cocks, the one on the underside, a few times before lining it up with your entrance. resigned to your fate, you close your eyes and take a long breath in and then letting the air empty from your lungs in preparation for the stretch.

but it doesn't come.

you open one eye to find sukuna staring back at you. two of his hands hold your thighs apart in a force that is sure to leave bruises, the third holds his cock steady against your pulsing hole... but the fourth just hangs.

that is, until he snakes it up your torso, nice and slow, and then trails it down the length of your arm to lace his fingers with yours. a hand to hold through his first time.

"tell anyone and i end your bloodline," he says. you smile, and he growls and presses forward, taking the plunge and entering your tight warmth, leaving his virginity at the door.

as he pushes himself further and further in, his second cock rests on your stomach, leaking pre-cum all over your pretty skin. once he's bottomed out, which is a feat that takes a whole lot of squirming and clenched teeth on your end, he stills inside of you.

his eyes are glued to where his second cock lays on your tummy. it's an indicator of just how deep inside of you he is. how much of your body he's claimed as his own in that searing but all-too pleasurable stretch of his mean size. he squeezes your hand tight.

you're already teary-eyed, revelling in the almost hedonistic way your pussy tries to suck him in even further. you're sure that any deeper would be a health risk, but you've never felt this good before. this full.

and still, sukuna just stares down at his cock laying on your belly. he's so deep, sheathed inside of you in the most intimate display of connection besides... cannibalism? his mind races, his mouth goes dry, and with an almost pathetic moan from deep in his chest, ryomen sukuna cums both inside of you and all over your stomach at the same time.

without even a full thrust inside of you.

you gasp, the sheer amount of cum flooding into you at once is overwhelming. "did you just—"

"no."

you lift your head to look at the release painting your stomach: so much so that it's covering your tits too. "you just came in one stroke."

"shut the fuck up."

"you really are a virgin, still holding my hand, too."

sukuna growls at that, lowers his body against yours just to show off his crushing weight. a bite to your earlobe is soon followed by a few harsh words in your ear.

"do you want to be ripped in half by my cocks? shut your fucking mouth or i'll gladly—"

"yes. please, yes. yeah. let's do it."

[starmapz]

deprived - r. sukuna

❦ biker!ryomen sukuna x biker!f!reader [non-curse au]

❦ smut oneshot

❝ when you get home after work grumpier than sukuna usually is, he knows something's wrong. when you deprive him of a kiss once you've returned, well now he's just pissed. for that, he'll deprive you of all of your senses as he pampers you with his mouth and fingers. ❞

❦ cw ; 18+ only. mdni. contains explicit sexual content. husband!sukuna. dom!sukuna. sub!reader. sensory deprivation. ball gag. blindfold. music. manhandling. nipple play (f! receiving). neck kissing. marking. biting. licking. bondage. fingering. oral (f!receiving). spit. use of pet names (brat, baby, sweetheart, wife, girl). praise. praising degradation. taunting. edging. pussy slapping. toys (bullet vibe). teasing. aftercare. kinda soft!sukuna during aftercare :]. part of the love & company series of oneshots but can be read separately/out of order.

❦ words ; 5.2k.

previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist

Biker!Sukuna leans his head on the back of the couch, windswept pink hair hanging over the fabric as you sigh the moment you shut the door of your shared home behind you. He twists, a bulky bicep resting on the back of the couch to see you better. “Long day?”

“Long fucking day,” you agree, sighing once more.

“Work?”

You nod, pulling your laptop from your bag and setting it on the counter, only to open it back up and resume working. Your husband’s eyes narrow as he watches you stand at the kitchen counter in your work attire without so much as a welcome home kiss.

Like really, what the hell? You didn’t even kiss him?

With his extremely usual scowl, he pushes up from the couch, discarding the hoodie he was wearing (because there’s no world where you can resist Sukuna’s cocky charm and veiny forearms, right?) and follows you to the kitchen. He slides his body up to you, his hands finding a place along your waist as he presses his body against your back.

“I need to work, Ryomen,” you mutter tiredly, pulling away.

Stunned and downright offended at this point that you’ve just used his government name, denied him of his ‘honey, I’m home’ kiss, and shrugged him off like a discarded shawl, his lip curls in confusion. 

“You should quit.”

Your head finally whips around, and he swears his own scowl is mirrored on your face. “I can’t just quit. We have bills, Ryomen.”

“Stop fuckin’ calling me that-”

“Your name?” You query incredulously, giving him just an ounce more of your attention.

“My full name,” he corrects you, crossing his arms over his chest, and that’s when you notice it. Your big beefy husband is pouting.

Oh you do not have time for this. Shaking your head, you turn back to your laptop, still standing at the counter in your work clothes.

“C’mon. At least change into something comfy,” he prods, knowing you’re just at wit’s end with the day, and not with him specifically. He may be offended by your dismissal of his affections, but he knows he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Probably.

He does pause to think about it, though.

No, no. He’s good.

“I will later,” you wave him off again, leaving him further perturbed as he makes a show out of huffing and trudging back to the living room to resume what he was watching.

As over an hour goes by and you haven’t even moved from standing at the counter, he gets fed up, shutting the TV off and practically stomping back into the kitchen. He stands on the cusp of entering the room, arms crossed over his chest.

“You done yet? I need to make dinner, you’re in the damn way.”

That’s not the issue, he’s deflecting and he knows it, but Sukuna’s not about to admit that he wants your attention.

And his kiss.

“Not yet, give me another hour.”

“No. You got home fuckin’ forever ago. Go get changed, lemme make dinner.”

Sighing, you rub at your neck, sore from craning it to look down at your work. “Please, sweetheart. Give me a bit.”

Sukuna’s nose scrunches up in disdain. You only call him that when you’re attempting to sweet talk him in order to get your way when he’s uncooperative. And damn it, he’s a lovesick fool and it works. Every time.

You want to play dirty? He can play dirty.

With a huff, he takes a few steps towards you and physically shuts your laptop.

“Hey-!”

“Nuh uh. No more,” he frowns, looking you dead in the eye with that signature scowl, his hand firmly resting on your computer.

“You don’t understand, I have deadlines, I need-”

“You need to recharge,” he insists, his tone dropping to a hint of a growl. “I’m not arguin’ with you on this, sweetheart,” he mocks, flipping his hand to grab your wrist so that he can slide your hand into his much larger one. His skin is calloused and rough against yours, but the softness with which the grumpy and hardened man handles you never fails to make your heart race.

You want to give in and curl up on the couch and watch a reality show that he pretends to hate, but you have a presentation due early tomorrow morning and- “Please, Ryo. I just need one more hour, I promise.”

His scowl deepens and you fear the lines etched into his forehead might be permanent with the frustration he’s regarding you with. He grumbles your name, setting his free hand on your hip. He squeezes, making sure his intent comes across. “Go change into something comfy. I know you’re tired, don’t make this harder on yourself. Or are you askin’ to be tied up?”

With his breath fanning your face, he doesn’t miss the subtle way your pupils grow, your eyes darkening.

He snorts, squeezing your hip tighter. “If that’s whatcha want, then try me,” he taunts, pleased to have finally caught your attention. He knew from the moment you entered the door that you were overwhelmed and he equally knows that the easiest way to get his pretty wife to finally relax after the day he’s sure you’ve had is to take away your senses and allow you to focus only on him, only on pleasure, and only on yourself.

You contemplate his words, eyes sliding towards your laptop, then back to his lips. Your presentation is important, but you could just get up a bit early, right? Maybe you need a fresh perspective anyway, and you’re so wound up from the overwhelming day at work that giving in to Sukuna doesn’t sound so bad.

In fact, it sounds almost heavenly.

He watches carefully as you pull your arm out of his grasp, a bratty little smirk on your lips as you aim to open your laptop. He clicks his tongue before you even get the opportunity to touch the computer, barreling into your legs and flipping you over his shoulders with a triumphant grin.

“Good choice,” he hums in a gravelly tone as you squeal in surprise and cling to his shirt. “Even if you’re bein’ a brat.”

“Wait, my shirt, you’re gonna wrinkle it-”

“Enough about work,” he huffs, tossing you on your bed and pinning both of your arms over your head in one hand. “Enough. I don’t wanna hear about the damn presentation. You can finish later.”

“But-”

He growls your name in warning. “Don’t be a brat. Lemme take care of you.”

Your chest rises as you suck in a breath, nodding. He can see in the way that you hold your shoulders and the crease between your brows that you’re still stuck in your head and if that’s the case, he’ll give you something else to focus on. Pamper you in his own ‘Sukuna’ sort of way.

“That’s my pretty little wife.” He holds his hand out to you, searching for your consent. “You gonna let me take care of you?”

Again, you nod, taking his hand as you squeeze your thighs together. Heat pools in your core and you shuffle your hips, chasing the friction.

“Good,” he grins, rubbing his hand over your knuckles before disappearing altogether to open a drawer you know all-too-well. Your eyes darken a shade again as you watch him pull out a familiar set of ropes, as well as a new matching blindfold and ball gag you have yet to see. Your eyes widen, lips pursing as you take in the sight, shuffling on the edge of the bed.

“Is that new?” You ask, reaching out to slide your hands along the silk blindfold that matches Sukuna’s Ducati bike, a bright cherry red.

“Mhm,” he hums, a concentrated look on his face as he ties a slip knot into the shibari ropes you let him use on you every so often. “Wrists,” he commands, holding the knot out expectantly at you.

You make no attempt at arguing with him, slipping your wrists into the silk rope and allowing the cool material to bind your hands in front of you. The thrill causes your heart to race as you give in to your husband, allowing him to take full control. You shuffle once more, seeking any amount of friction on your already-throbbing clit.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, pressing his hands down on your thighs and spreading them just enough to keep you from seeking the friction you want so badly. “Be good,” he growls, leaving one hand on your thigh as your legs hang over the edge of the bed. “I’m only askin’ nicely this once.”

Your tongue swipes your lower lip before tugging it between your teeth, nodding slowly when the door suddenly creaks open. Sukuna pays it little mind until the newest furry addition to your family is softly headbutting his ankle and yelling.

“Not now, Cati,” he grumbles as though the young cat can understand him. When the little creature doesn’t let up and yells at her father for attention, Sukuna just sighs and picks her up, holding her out in front of him. “I’m tryna set a mood. You don’t make the mood better,” he explains. Her ear flicks and she wiggles her back legs, twisting her body in an effort to escape Sukuna’s grasp. “We can cuddle later,” he explains as he shuts the door with her outside it and heads to the ensuite to wash his hands.

“Brats, both o’ my girls,” he mutters to himself, turning to see you fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. He returns to the space beside you, picking up the blindfold and tying it expertly behind your head. He then takes the ball gag, using one hand to grab your chin as the other hovers the device over your lips. “If anything feels bad,” he says in all sincerity, staring straight through you to your soul as he even temporarily folds up the blindfold to get your full attention, “you use your foot to tap me twice, yeah?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“Yes, baby.”

“Good girl,” he approves before buckling the leather of the gag in place and replacing the blindfold. Testing your senses, or lack thereof, you twist your wrists against the rope, tilting your head in an effort to find your husband, only to whimper at the realization that you’re giving all of your trust to him right now and it’s hot.

You wait at the edge of the bed, twisting your head in search of any sign of him, but you’re unable to find him. It’s only when he turns on what might be the most generic ‘sex music’ you’ve ever heard that you get an idea of where he is. You want to tease him for his playlist choice, fight against the ball gag, maybe be the brat he keeps saying you are, but before you can, you’re yelping in surprise as your arms are carefully tied to the top of the bed, your body dragged with them.

You struggle to swallow, adjusting your lips around the gag as you aim to search for him again, but with all of your senses aside from smell completely deprived, you can only whimper.

A large hand presses against your collarbone, pushing you into the bed and allowing you to relax into the mattress and pillows. Your husband’s weight makes the bed dip as he crawls over you, testing the hold the shibari bamboo ropes have on your wrists. Satisfied with his setup, he sweetly kisses your cheek once, before shocking you as he massages your shoulders.

“Relax,” he purrs into your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. Beneath the blindfold, your eyes flutter shut as you turn to putty in his hands with the way his digits work the knots from your muscles. This isn’t exactly what you had in mind, but you’re pleased nonetheless. He slides his hand down the front of your chest, unbuttoning the front of your white blouse and pushing it over your shoulders to give him better access.

You sigh, melting as he straddles you in order to rub the knots from your muscles. It only takes a mere couple of minutes before you’re blissfully relaxed, eyes heavy with the exhaustion of the day as your husband takes care of you. So comfortable, you barely even notice that he unbuttons the rest of your top. He searches for the zipper on your skirt, unzipping it and slipping them down your legs.

He smirks at the sight of you in a pretty pair of black lingerie that he got you on your first wedding anniversary. Always spoiling him, even if you don’t mean to. His cock twitches in the tent of his pants, but he sets his own needs aside in favor of servicing you.

Placing himself over top of you again, he kisses down the expanse of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your collar. He grins as you sigh in pleasure, relieved that you’re finally letting go of the shitty day.

His lips travel the length of your neck down to your collar, sucking and leaving his mark just below where the neckline of your shirt falls. Any higher and he knows you would scold him for forcing you to use makeup to cover it at work, but he toes the line anyway, sucking just a bit higher. Pleased with the marks that make up your skin and the way you’re squirming beneath him, he moves lower, palming your left breast over your bra.

His other hand slides around your back, unhooking the lingerie and letting your breasts free with a small jiggle that has him eagerly grinning.

“Mmph,” you attempt to ask him not to rip or ruin your favorite bra, but the gag does you no favors.

Moving your bra up to rest on your upper chest, Sukuna runs the flat of his tongue over your bare nipple, thrilled when you jolt hard at the suddenness of the metal of his piercing grazing your nipple. “Yeah, baby?”

Your muffled words make no sense as you attempt again to worry about something, and Sukuna’s not having it.

“Stop thinkin’. No sight, no sound, no taste, just feel me. Be a good lil’ slut for me, yeah?”

It’s hard not to listen to him when he talks in that low purr you adore so much, his hands roaming your body as he sucks your nipple between his lips. He flicks and pinches the other bud between his forefinger and thumb, allowing his teeth to graze the sensitive skin between his lips when he grins.

Every reaction is tenfold with how heightened your sense of touch feels right now, every movement by Sukuna increasing in pleasure immensely when it’s all you can focus on as everything fades away. Your head lolls back as he swirls his tongue around your perky nipple, breath coming in fast pants when he switches his attention to the other side. He nips at the perky skin, satisfaction coursing through him when you jerk and jolt, your wrists tugging on the bamboo ropes.

With a final soft kiss, his lips move down to your waist and hips, kissing every inch of your body as he quietly worships you. This may be about you, but Sukuna takes great pleasure in seeing you melt and quiver under his gentle and saccharine touch. After all, he’s not a particularly soft man, so he knows it turns you to putty when he shows another side to him.

He spreads your legs, one hand on each thigh, positioning himself between them so that you can’t close them. Leaning down, he watches the way you fiddle against your restraints, unable to stay still under his attention. He chuckles lowly, though you can barely hear it over the music, when your entire body jerks as he licks a stripe up your damp panties.

“So wet,” he groans, both of his hands roaming up your thighs to your hips and waist, before he brings them back down and pulls your panties with them, discarding them from your ankles. “So fuckin’ wet,” he repeats with a view of your bare pussy.

Unable to see him, your breathing quickens as you eagerly await the feeling of his tongue on your clit, but he only teases you as he runs his fingers through your soaking wet folds. You let out a muffled whine, jerking your hips up to meet his fingers as you chase the friction he won’t bestow upon his poor needy wife, too occupied with teasing you.

His fingers pause as you wriggle in his grip. “Ah-” he clicks his tongue, lightly slapping your pussy. “Be good for me.”

Your body jerks as you shuffle away from him, whimpering at the unexpected sensation and attempting to close your legs. Your husband pulls you back by your thighs, keeping you spread as his weight shifts, before he’s finally where you want him. He tests the waters, pleased when you tense with the small kitten lick he gives your clit. You can feel his grin against your skin when he buries his tongue in your needy cunt.

Your back arches for him and you tug against the ropes when his tongue plunges into the depths of your pussy, the metal of the ball piercing in his tongue amplifying the sensations of pleasure. He moves slowly, enjoying the taste of your slick and the way your body jolts, tenses, and twitches as his tongue explores your body.

He hums in approval when you whimper and whine, accentuated with gasps as it’s all you can manage behind the gag. You can feel drool slipping down your chin, unable to care as Sukuna has you so thoroughly bound, unable to care about anything but him.

You just barely hear him mutter “all mine”, before his tongue moves up to swirl around your clit. Your jaw clenches against the red ball gag as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, intense pleasure coursing through your body.

God, you needed this. You just didn’t know how badly, but the muscles in your stomach are already clenching as you feel the wave of your orgasm nearing its shore, only for Sukuna to pull back. You whine in protest, tugging hard against your binding as you yearn to pull him back down by his hair. You whimper again when you aren’t able to, lifting your lead in an effort to see him, but it’s all in vain. There’s nothing but darkness, no sounds to fill the air but yours and his, no taste but the blandness of the gag, and no smell but him to fill your nostrils.

It’s so overwhelming in all the right ways, unable to think of anything but his touch as you seek him out in whatever way you can. Work is a problem of the past as you clench your thighs.

“Thought I told ya to be good,” he hums, though his only punishment seems to be more serviceable to you, and you certainly won’t complain about that as he plunges his middle and ring finger suddenly into your soaking hole. He hums in approval as you gasp and clench your fists, nails digging into your palms with the sudden wave of pleasure that ripples through you.

He pulls them out slowly, pushing the digits back in to the hilt as you feel the cool metal of his wedding ring sink between your folds. You whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head, attempting to whimper a “please”, but it barely comes out as anything more than “pfff”.

“I know, princess,” he hums, kissing your rib below the swell of your left breast. “Feels good, yeah?”

You manage a nod, crying out when he curls his fingers forward, your stomach clenching each time he expertly hits your G-spot. It sends you into a flurry, legs closing in around him as you chase that same wave from earlier, every muscle tensing as you swear you’re right there, only for him to pull his fingers from you.

Another whine, another tug of the ropes as you’re left hanging right on the edge of your orgasm. Again. Your stomach relaxes as the feeling passes and your chest heaves. You clench your teeth down on the ball again, growing frustrated and needy as hell. Sukuna can see it in the way your brow knits, a crease forming just above the blindfold.

You hear him chuckle again. “Somethin’ got you riled up, sweetheart?” His hand slides from your breast around your body until he’s arching your back closer to him. “Easy to forget all the bullshit when all you can focus on is me, huh?” You can hear the grin in his voice as the flat of his tongue licks a stripe up your right nipple, making your head hang back in sheer pleasure.

Your pussy pulses around nothing, desperate for attention and release. As you buck your hips up towards your husband, he presses you into the mattress with a strong hand.

“Needy girl,” he chuckles, sliding his opposite hand from your sternum to your chin. He runs his thumb along your lips, wiping the saliva from the corners of your mouth as you whine and whimper around the ball gag.

Every sense is completely occupied only by Sukuna, his touch electrifying. A shiver runs up your spine as you just barely hear the scraping of your bedside drawer open once more. The mattress shifts under his weight, before he’s leaning over you again.

His lips brush your ear for a moment, the deep rumble of his voice only making you more wet for him. “You’ll cum when I tell you, got it?”

Whining around the gag, you nod.

With a satisfied hum, the bed shifts beneath you as Sukuna positions himself between your legs again, able to feel his strong thighs seated between your own. He leans down, pressing a startlingly gentle kiss to your stomach that throws you off-kilter, only to meanly bully his middle and ring finger back into your pussy.

Your hands curl into fists as you cry out, desperate to cling to anything as you attempt to close your thighs on your husband, who keeps you spread with his free hand, while your other leg presses against his torso. Sukuna doesn’t let up his pace, hitting the gummy part of your walls with ease and sending bliss straight to your core like lightning.

His name comes out muffled as you attempt to whine for him, bucking your hips up as a knot ties in the pit of your stomach, threatening to come undone at any moment. The second your abdomen begins tensing, Sukuna’s pace slows to an agonizing halt.

“Ah- what’d I say?”

You whine, but he’s not having any of it.

“What did I say?” He repeats lowly.

It surely makes no sense with the ball still between your lips, but you repeat back to him that you’re only allowed to cum when he says. He hums in approval, one large hand leaving your thigh to caress your cheek as he tries to- literally- fuck you dumb, until you forget about your presentation altogether.

And it’s working. Well. 

Your head hangs back against the pillows, your chest heaving as you shuffle against your bindings, whining when he doesn’t pick up the pace at all, even as you obey his commands. The slow in and out of his fingers is just enough to keep you squirming and whining, but equally not enough to satiate your desire.

It’s muffled, but you just barely manage a “please,” much to Sukuna’s pleasure.

“Yeah, princess? You willin’ to beg?” He hums. The bed shifts again, and you jolt when cold steel is pressed to your clit. Gasping at the sudden chill, your body gradually relaxes as the toy is held still for a moment, only to be turned on a second later, the vibration sending a tingling sensation through your body to your limbs.

Your hips jerk and twitch with the subtle movements of the metallic toy, the continued stimulation to your clit and his fingers still slowly curling sending you closer to the edge and closer to overstimulation. You whine out, your stomach tightening as the knot is just about to unravel when he pulls away altogether.

You whine louder, pleading with him behind the gag though it all comes out as little more than mmphs.

Your legs are trembling, your walls pulsing around nothing as Sukuna teasingly flicks your nipple, pulling a cry from your pretty lips. “What’s that, princess?” He chides, tugging on the leather strap of the ball gag and pulling it back just enough to hear your whiny request.

“Please let me cum, Ryo, plea- mmph-!” Your chest heaves again as you pull on your restraints. Your movements are growing wearier the more fucked out you get, and Sukuna figures he might just have some mercy on you.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he purrs, and before you have time to process that he’s there, his tongue is on your clit, sucking hard and sending sparks straight to the knot in your abdomen. It tightens as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bundle of nerves, his teeth grazing it and causing you to jump. He keeps you right on the edge until tears of overstimulation are wetting the blindfold and you’re trembling around his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby,” he commands, latching his lips back onto your clit.

The final push across the finish line are his fingers effortlessly pinpointing your G-spot and sending you straight over the edge in an orgasm that rocks your body. Your husband slows his movements, pulling wave after wave of your climax through you and watching every subtle twitch and jerk of your body as he coaxes you into a completely blissed out state.

Your head hangs back against the pillows as he slowly pulls his mouth and fingers from your core, slipping the soaked digits between his lips. He pulls them out with a sinful pop! and a smirk that betrays his satisfaction, despite the rock-hard and throbbing issue between his own thighs.

His weight disappears for a moment as the volume of the music softens to something low and comfortable, before he’s carefully untying your wrists. No longer bound, he brings them down to your lap before focusing on the gag and blindfold. As he slips them both off and sets them aside, you blink as your eyes adjust to the low lighting of your bedroom.

“How’re you feelin’?” He grunts, gently taking your chin between his fingers and tilting your head in either direction as he searches your skin for any signs that anything might have been too tight.

Yawning, you nod. “I’m good. I needed that, thanks Kuna.”

“Mmm. I could tell,” he smirks, satisfied that the gag and blindfold he bought are to his liking. He checks your wrists over and nods to himself before focusing in on you. “Relax for the night, yeah?”

You nod again. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I was a little snappy earlier.”

He kisses the crown of your hair in acknowledgement before making his way to the ensuite washroom. You watch as he leans over to fill the tub for you, a subtle smile making its way to your lips.

As he returns to your side, you eye the twitching tent in his pants, your gaze sliding up to meet his. “Turn off the bath,” you murmur sweetly, a feline look in your eyes that Sukuna shuts down with a scoff.

A goddamn scoff while he’s looking like that. Bewildered, you stare at him from your place on the bed.

“I got a hand, I’ll take care of myself. Now lemme take care of you,” he gruffs, slipping the sleeves of your blouse off your arms and pulling the straps of your bra along with it. He hoists you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you bridal-style to the bath and setting you on the edge to check the temperature before lowering you into it.

The water warms your skin and you feel your muscles loosen even more, but you still pout up at him. “Are you sure? You could join me, maybe-”

He says your name chidingly. “You’ve had a long day. Relax.”

Letting out a breath, you just smile at your husband. For as rough around the edges as he is, and for how frustrating and stubborn he can be, he’s a sweetheart when it comes to what matters. Pushing up on the edge of the tub, you place a sweet kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” you murmur.

You don’t expect him to reply, he rarely does. He’s a man of action, not of words, so his next movements don’t shock you.

He hums, heading to the cabinet below the sink. “Y’got any of those bath bomb things?” He asks, in his own little ‘I love you’ sort of action.

“Um, probably. Towards the back in a little bag, maybe?”

He rustles through the cabinet for a moment before pulling out a brown stone with a questioning raise of his brow as he presents it to you.

“That’s a pumice stone.”

“So… no?”

Stifling your giggle, you shake your head. “Definitely not.”

“Don’t say ‘definitely’,” he gripes sarcastically. “I don’t know any of this shit.”

You don’t hold back your giggle now, only pausing your laughter when he presents a pink bath bomb to you. You nod, though your fit of giggles doesn’t cease.

Returning to your side, your husband flicks your forehead softly in mock disdain, waiting silently by your side for the water to fill before dropping the bath bomb into the water in front of you. It fizzes softly, dyeing the water (and the side of the tub) a soft pink. With shining eyes and a weary but satisfied expression, you grip Sukuna’s wrist before he can leave.

“Thank you.”

“‘Course. Maybe now you won’t forget my kiss when you get home,” he grumbles, grumpy as ever once again.

Your jaw slacks, gaze narrowing. “Hold on. Is that what this was about?”

Sukuna freezes in your grip, regarding you with a deep scowl. “No. Just wanted you out of the kitchen to cook.”

It’s just about the saddest excuse you’ve ever heard, and while you brushed past it earlier while you were busy, it sounds even more pitiful now. “Ryo.”

“What?” He huffs.

“Come here, you big baby.”

He doesn’t move for a split second, still caught in the grasp of your hand on his wrist, but even with the frustrated scowl he’s sporting, he can’t deny you. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s doing this for you.

Duh.

He gets down on his knees, letting you pull him in for his hard-earned ‘welcome home’ kiss. It’s soft and sweet, filled with the very same love he’s poured into taking care of you.

Your eyes flutter open as you pull back, your fingers tracing the rough stubble poking through his skin along the tattoos lining his chin. “Better?”

He grunts, side-eyeing the wall as if it’s suddenly interesting. “Love you.”

Your eyes widen for a split second before you break into a grin, pulling him in again. Your lips brush his as you whisper your reply. “I love you, too.”

previous l&c oneshot || love & company masterlist || main masterlist

❦ a/n ; hope you enjoyed the return of my fave freaky couple! needed a break from the angst of my ongoing sukuna series [wyk], but the next chapter is about halfway done <33

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist to be added or removed. 18+ only, age must be visible on blog.

@toffeebrat @gojodickbig @4acoffee @billiondollarworth @qyuin

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writing & format © starmapz. art © too-many-owls. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune.

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐚𝐲࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || When the flu hits the Norris household, you're suddenly the full-time nurse, chef, and cuddle provider. With Lando down and sick. It's up to you to nurse him and the kids back to health. ||

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: More of the Norris Family on your feed. Some stories might not be as long as the others. I do apologize, I am swamped with some things, but making it work. As of now, here is some fluff about the Norris family. DOUBLE POST TODAY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

It started with Sebastian.

You were home on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, a warm mug of tea in your hands as the low hum of afternoon silence filled the house. Lyla was upstairs napping, snuggled into her favorite pink blanket with her bunny tucked beneath her chin. Lando had gone out for the afternoon to grab groceries and maybe meet up with Oscar for lunch. It was peaceful. Until your phone rang.

You glanced down, squinting at the screen. St. Mary’s Primary School.

That peaceful feeling? Gone.

You picked up immediately. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sebastian’s mum?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Nurse Rachel, I’m calling to let you know Sebastian isn’t feeling too well. He’s got a slight fever, looks a bit pale, and he’s complaining about a headache and chills. He’s resting in the office now, but we’d recommend picking him up as soon as possible.”

Your heart dropped. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, you were parking in front of the school, your chest tight with worry. As soon as you stepped into the nurse’s office, your heart broke.

There was Sebastian, curled up on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His curls were a mess, flattened to one side, and his eyes looked heavy and dull. His cheeks were flushed, lips dry, and the moment he saw you, he blinked slowly and reached out with a weak little, “Mama…”

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, rushing to his side. You ran your fingers gently through his curls and kissed his forehead. He was burning up.

“Let’s get you home.”

At home, things started okay. You and Lando worked like a well-oiled team—fluffing pillows, taking temperatures, setting timers for medicine, keeping cartoons going on a loop to distract him. You’d been through colds and stomach bugs before. This was just another one. Or so you thought.

But two days in, Sebastian was getting worse.

“He hasn’t eaten anything,” Lando muttered, pacing at the foot of Sebastian’s bed. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed on his son who was lying limp, glassy-eyed, not even responding to his favorite movie playing.

“I know,” you sighed, rubbing Sebastian’s back gently. “He won’t even drink juice.”

“He’s not… him. He doesn’t even want me to read to him.”

You both looked at each other then, the unspoken agreement passing between you like a bolt of electricity.

Doctor. Now.

The diagnosis: flu. A pretty bad one.

“Just rest, fluids, and keep monitoring his fever,” the pediatrician said kindly. “These days, the strains going around have been knocking kids out hard, but with proper care, he should be alright in a few days.”

Lando let out a long sigh once you were back in the car, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay. So we can do this.”

You smiled weakly. “Yeah. We’ve got this.”

You didn’t have this.

Because two days later, Lyla got it.

She woke up wailing in the middle of the night, her entire little body on fire with fever, cheeks damp from tears, and that heartbreaking toddler cry that said she didn’t know what was happening.

“Oh no,” you whispered as you scooped her into your arms.

From the doorway, Lando stood in pajama pants, his shirt long forgotten, with sleepy eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and dark circles under his eyes. “Not her too.”

“She’s burning up, Lan.”

The house descended into chaos.

You barely knew what day it was. There were humidifiers going in every room. Thermometers beeping every few hours. Medicine charts taped to the fridge. Lyla wanted nothing but cuddles. Sebastian was in a zombie state, and you were running on cold coffee and adrenaline.

One afternoon, while you were wiping down the kitchen counter, a soft knock came at the front door.

You opened it to find Oscar standing there, hoodie pulled over his head and holding a large brown paper bag.

“Hey,” he said with a small, apologetic smile. “Lando said you guys were in full-on crisis mode. I figured you could use a hand.”

“Oscar,” you blinked, almost tearing up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He stepped inside, pulling off his shoes. “I brought electrolyte drinks, cold meds, some soup, and—” he pulled a stuffed dinosaur from the bag with a small grin, “a get-well friend for Seb.”

You laughed softly, taking the items. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He looked toward the living room where Lando was sprawled on the floor with Lyla clinging to his chest, half-asleep. “How’s he holding up?”

You snorted. “Heroically. Stubbornly. Recklessly. Pick one.”

Lando looked up just then. “Oi! I’m doing my best over here!”

“You’re gonna catch it too, mate,” Oscar warned.

“Nah,” Lando said, stroking Lyla’s back gently. “I’ve got dad immunity.”

“You mean denial,” you muttered, setting down the soup.

But Oscar was right.

Two days later, you walked in from the store to find the living room in complete stillness.

Lando was lying facedown on the couch, motionless. Sebastian was snuggled on top of his back like a human blanket, fast asleep. Lyla was curled at the base of the couch with her head on Lando’s leg, mouth open, drool visibly soaking into the fabric of his joggers.

He lifted his hand lazily and gave you a pathetic wave.

“You’re home,” he rasped, voice so congested it didn’t even sound like him.

You set the bag of groceries down and crossed your arms. “Lando.”

He turned his head just slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was clearly on strike.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“No, I’m just tired,” he mumbled.

You arched a brow. “Tired? Your face looks like it’s been hit with hay fever, the flu, and a cold front.”

He huffed. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You have a seven-year-old with the flu asleep on your back and a two-year-old sneezing on your leg. You’re now patient three in this house of doom.”

“Don’t diss my babies,” he muttered, sniffling.

You walked over and gently lifted Sebastian off him, carefully not to wake him. “Come on, superhero. Time to go to bed.”

He groaned dramatically, trying to sit up before collapsing again. “This is how I go.”

“Lando.”

He opened one eye. “If I don’t make it, tell Oscar I forgive him for bringing me that soup with ginger.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tell the children I fought bravely.”

“You got the flu from cuddling a toddler.”

“...still brave.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The early morning had become your only moment of true peace.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but soft golden light was beginning to filter in through the tall windows of your Monaco flat, casting long, warm shadows across the quiet living room. The city beyond the glass was still sleeping, wrapped in the quiet hum of a new day not yet begun. No traffic. No coughing. No cartoons buzzing in the background. Just silence. Precious, rare silence.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tiles cool beneath your feet, wrapped loosely in your robe. One hand cradled a warm mug of tea while the other rested against the edge of the counter as you took a breath. Deep. Grounding. You could almost pretend the past week hadn’t happened—almost pretend the house wasn’t still full of flu-stricken chaos, discarded tissues, and sleepless nights.

But you knew better.

Your eyes wandered toward the hallway.

In your bedroom, Lando lay sprawled across the bed, curled protectively around a small, warm bundle. Lyla was tucked up against him, her tiny frame almost disappearing beneath the heavy duvet. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, her thumb still resting against her lips, breathing soft and even. One of Lando’s arms was draped over her securely, his hand resting gently on her back as if shielding her from even the remnants of the flu. His curls were a tousled mess on the pillow, his mouth parted slightly as he slept—exhausted, stuffy, and completely defeated by the same virus he’d insisted he wouldn’t catch.

You’d warned him. Time and time again, you told him to stop letting her cough in his face, to quit letting her nuzzle into his hoodie while she sniffled and sneezed.

“She’s a daddy’s girl,” you had said. “You’ll be the next one down.”

And now, here you were.

Across the hall, Sebastian was finally asleep too, curled up in his bright red race car bed. His tiny body lay limp under a Cars-themed comforter, his arms tucked beneath his pillow, one leg dangling out from under the blanket like it always did—flu or no flu. His cheeks were still a little pink, but the fever had come down overnight. You’d stood in his doorway earlier just to watch him breathe, just to make sure.

He looked peaceful. For now.

And for a few stolen moments, so did everyone else.

You sipped your tea, turning slowly back toward the stove.

“Breakfast,” you mumbled to yourself, eyeing the sparse options you’d managed to keep stocked through the week. There wasn’t much point in cooking something elaborate. Nothing seemed to stay down anyway. Every meal came with the risk of being met with a gag, a grumble, or worse—clean-up duty.

You sighed and set the mug down. “Oatmeal and yogurt,” you decided aloud. “Simple. Gentle. Not likely to end up on the floor.”

You grabbed the oats and a small pot, setting it on the stove to warm the milk. Your hands moved with practiced rhythm—quiet, calm. You sliced some banana, then carefully cut a few strawberries, arranging them in a little dish in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the colors might tempt Lyla or Sebastian to eat something.

The silence was comforting, for once. No crying. No sneezing. No soft calls of “Mama…” from down the hall.

Just you. Your kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The aroma of tea.

And then—ring ring ring.

You jumped a little at the sudden break in stillness and reached across the counter for your phone, sighing lightly. You glanced at the screen and smiled.

Cisca.

You picked up immediately. “Well,” you said with a chuckle, phone pressed to your ear, “it’s nice someone is calling me and not crying or throwing up.”

“Calling to check in on the family!” Cisca’s warm, familiar voice greeted you.

Your smile deepened. Lando’s mom had always been so caring—gentle but no-nonsense, the kind of woman you could rely on. She knew how hard motherhood could get, even with help.

You leaned against the counter, balancing the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “You have impeccable timing. The house is actually… quiet. For once.”

“I was hoping I’d catch you before the chaos starts again. How’s everyone holding up?”

“Well,” you exhaled, stirring the oatmeal slowly, “Sebastian’s fever finally broke last night. He’s asleep in his bed, looking like a little zombie racer.”

“That’s good news.”

You nodded to yourself. “Lyla’s still all sniffles and sleepy cuddles. And she’s in bed with Lando right now.”

Cisca laughed knowingly. “Let me guess—tucked under his arm like a little koala?”

You chuckled. “Exactly. It’s actually adorable. She’s latched onto him like he’s her personal comfort pillow. She refuses to be anywhere else.”

“She always was a daddy’s girl.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk, “which brings me to the bad news—he’s got the flu now too.”

“Oh no…”

You shook your head, scooping the finished oatmeal into a bowl. “I told him. Over and over. Stop letting her breathe on you. Stop kissing her forehead every five minutes. But he couldn’t help himself. He cuddled her through the worst of it and now…” You glanced toward the bedroom door. “He’s just another one of my patients.”

Cisca groaned. “He never did listen to advice when it came to sick days.”

You grinned. “Now he’s snoring like a bear, wrapped around his sick toddler like he’s the one keeping her alive.”

“Well, you’re a stronger woman than me,” she said with a laugh. “I’d have booked a hotel.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

You both laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

“You’re doing great,” Cisca said warmly. “I know this part is exhausting, but it’ll pass. Just make sure you don’t go down next.”

“Knock on wood,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I’m the last one standing.”

“For now,” she teased.

You chuckled again and looked over your shoulder, taking in the morning light filtering across the floor, casting a soft glow down the hallway. Behind those doors were your whole world—sick, tired, and helpless—but still your heart in three fragile, beautiful pieces.

And right now, you were holding everyone together.

“I’ve got it,” you whispered more to yourself than anyone else. “I’ve got all of them.”

The sound of a raspy cough pierced the quiet, interrupting your rare sliver of calm. You gently pulled the phone away from your ear mid-sentence.

“I think that’s my cue,” you murmured with a soft sigh. “One of the tiny patients is awake.”

“Hang in there,” Cisca replied sympathetically. “Call me later if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Cisca.”

You ended the call and set the phone down on the counter, already hearing the familiar rhythm of small footsteps padding against the wooden floors. And then—

“Mama!”

You turned toward the hallway, just as Sebastian appeared—his race car pajamas rumpled, curls flattened on one side of his head, and his cheeks still flushed from fever. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, dragging his favorite stuffed animal behind him.

Before you could respond, Lando stepped into the kitchen behind him, holding Lyla close to his chest. She was bundled in a blanket, thumb in her mouth, her heavy head resting on his shoulder. Her curls were tangled from sleep, her little body completely melted against him.

“Lando,” you sighed gently, though your tone carried the weight of exhaustion, “put her down. You all should be in bed. I’m making breakfast.”

He gave a tired shake of his head, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re fine, love.”

But you saw the truth in his eyes—the fatigue, the faint daze behind his movements, and most telling of all, the harsh cough that followed his words, forcing him to turn away from the stove area.

“Please,” you said more firmly, “not around the food.”

He nodded weakly, patting Lyla’s back as she made a soft noise in her sleep.

You set the spoon down with a soft clink and crossed your arms. “Okay. You three—back to bed. Now. All of you.”

“Mama…” Sebastian whined pitifully. He shuffled forward and leaned into your side, wrapping his arms around your leg. “I want to stay with you…”

Your heart tugged painfully.

You ran your fingers through his curls and crouched down to meet his tired gaze. “Oh, sweetheart… you three make me feel awful. I hate seeing you all like this.”

Lando watched you, still holding Lyla like a sick little koala bear. His lips were pale, eyes heavy-lidded. You stepped closer, gently brushing a hand over Lyla’s back and then across his arm.

“Lando, honey,” you said softly, your voice dipping into something tender, something pleading, “can you please lay back down? Take them with you? Just rest a little longer.”

He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled shakily. “I would,” he murmured, “but my head is pounding and I feel like my whole body’s made of wet paper.”

You sighed, leaning into him briefly, pressing your forehead to his arm. “I told you this would happen.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But she wouldn’t sleep without me…”

You looked down at Lyla, who hadn’t stirred once since they entered the kitchen, her little fingers fisted in the fabric of Lando’s shirt.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Come on. All of you—back to bed. I’ll bring breakfast to the bedroom. Just let me finish getting it ready. I’ll even add a bit of honey to Sebastian’s oatmeal and cut Lyla’s strawberries just the way she likes them.”

Sebastian sniffled and looked up at you. “With the little star shapes?”

You smiled tiredly. “With the star shapes, baby.”

Lando gave you the faintest, grateful grin. “You’re kind of a superhero, you know that?”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you forget it.”

As they slowly turned back toward the hallway—Lando shuffling like a sick penguin, Sebastian clutching his stuffed animal and trailing behind, Lyla still completely draped across her dad—you watched them disappear one by one into the bedroom.

The kitchen was warm with the gentle scent of honey and oats, the steam from the tea curling softly into the air. You moved with quiet care, filling the bowls with the oatmeal you’d just made—each one sweetened with a drizzle of honey and topped with star-shaped strawberries and banana slices. A small cup of yogurt sat beside each bowl, along with spoons, napkins, and the kind of quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the kids would eat today without rejecting it.

You poured a mug of warm tea for Lando—his favorite herbal blend with a slice of lemon, just the way he liked it when he was sick—and then filled a tiny glass with vegetable juice for Sebastian, placing it gently on the tray. You knew he didn’t love it, but he’d promised to try if you made it “look fancy.” Lyla’s sippy cup was filled halfway with the same juice, mostly in the name of fairness.

Balancing the two trays with practiced care, you made your way down the hall and into the bedroom.

What you found made your heart ache in that bittersweet way only motherhood ever could.

Lando had propped himself up against the headboard, hair a complete mess, cheeks slightly flushed. Lyla was curled up on his lap, wrapped in her blanket, her thumb tucked into her mouth as she blinked sleepily at you. Sebastian was leaning into Lando’s side, his little head resting on his dad’s shoulder, still holding tightly to his stuffed bunny.

“Goodness,” you breathed, stepping into the room, “you three amaze me…”

Lando looked up, managing a tired grin as you carried the trays in.

You set them carefully on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you sat at the edge. “Alright, breakfast is served—oatmeal, yogurt, fancy fruit, and drinks you’ll all probably ignore.”

“Ocker!” Lyla suddenly perked up, her voice muffled and sleepy as she looked at you hopefully.

You gave her a gentle smile, brushing a hand over her forehead. “Uncle Oscar’s probably busy right now, baby girl. And you’re too sick—he can’t come over until you’re feeling better, remember?”

Lyla frowned, clearly disappointed, but snuggled back into Lando’s chest.

Lando groaned softly, placing a hand over his face in mock defeat. “Great. Sick, miserable, and now my own daughter is choosing Oscar over me.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging his foot under the covers. “Relax. She’s not picking favorites.”

He peered at you over his hand. “Sure sounds like it.”

You glanced at Lyla, who was now absently poking the edge of her blanket and sucking on her thumb again. “You know when she’s anxious, she gravitates to people who make her feel calm,” you said gently. “And Oscar’s like her giant golden retriever. He’s quiet. Still. And he always lets her talk first, even when she’s babbling nonsense.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I don’t let her talk?”

You gave him a look. “You narrate her every move like she’s a Formula 1 highlight reel.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again, sheepish. “Okay… fair.”

Sebastian let out a soft laugh beside him. “You do that, Daddy.”

Lando gave him a playful nudge. “Traitor.”

You smiled at the sight of all three of them bundled up in bed together—your entire world, messy hair and flushed cheeks and all. You passed out the bowls carefully, helping Sebastian sit up straighter and placing Lyla’s tray on the bed where she could reach it, even if you’d probably end up spoon-feeding her half of it.

Lando took his tea with a grateful hum, blowing on it gently. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Yes, I did,” you said simply, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Because if I don’t take care of you three, who will?”

He caught your hand in his and kissed your knuckles softly. “When this is over, I owe you a week of sleep and massages.”

“Throw in some chocolate and a hot bath, and you’ve got a deal.”

Lyla leaned her head against Lando’s chest again, sleepy and warm, and Sebastian spooned some oatmeal into his mouth with a quiet, “Mmm, the stars are tasty.”

You laughed softly.

Even in sickness, even in chaos—you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Medicine hour. A warzone.

“Lando, for the love of everything, just drink it.” You stood over him, arms crossed, holding the measuring cup filled with thick, cherry-red syrup. “You’re setting the worst example.”

He groaned. “I hate the taste. I’d rather die than drink that stuff again.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, before grabbing a tissue and wiping a smear of sweat off his brow. “But fine. If you die, I’m throwing you out on the balcony so you don’t get the rest of us sicker.”

Sebastian, peeking from behind the kitchen island, gasped. “You’d throw Daddy off the balcony?”

You grinned. “Only a little.”

“Nooooo,” Lyla whined dramatically, half-laughing, half-crying from where she had crawled into Lando’s lap — seeking refuge. “No medicine! No meeeeedicine!”

“She’s hiding behind me,” Lando groaned. “I’m literally dying, and she’s hiding behind me.”

You gave them both the look. “I swear to God—”

10:00 AM They were scattered across the living room like sick little soldiers after battle. Lyla was curled on Lando’s chest, snot crusting around her nose as she finally gave in to sleep. Sebastian lay on his side with a cold rag on his forehead, muttering something about how he was “still in control of the situation.”

You were running on caffeine and desperation, perched at the edge of the armchair, flipping through temperature logs on your phone and timing medicine gaps.

“You okay?” Lando mumbled hoarsely, watching you through tired eyes. You hesitated. “I’ve been better.”

He gave you a weak smile. “I’d kiss you, but I’d infect you.”

You snorted. “You already did.”

12:45 PM Lunchtime was a joke.

Lando tried to stand and help but ended up throwing up water in the bathroom and groaning dramatically like a Shakespearean ghost. You had to threaten Sebastian with no Mario Kart for a week just to get three spoonfuls of chicken broth into him.

Lyla wailed when you brought the soup near her mouth. She refused to even open it unless Lando was holding the spoon, which he physically couldn’t. It ended with you holding Lyla, and Lando guiding your hand to her mouth with both of yours like some sort of messed-up relay.

“Say aaaaah,” you tried.

“No!” “Please?” “Noooooo!” “Fine, then no cartoon time for the day”

Her mouth opened like magic. You almost cried.

2:30 PM Nap time.

Not for you, of course. Never for you.

Lando was finally out cold in bed, one leg dangling dramatically off the side. Sebastian had passed out with a box of tissues under one arm and a Switch on the other. Lyla was asleep on the living room floor, a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest and tear streaks still drying on her face.

You just sat. In the silence. For ten whole minutes.

Ten peaceful, quiet, blessed minutes.

Until Sebastian shouted from his dream, “Don’t touch my kart!” and startled Lyla back awake.

4:00 PM Round two.

You had to strip Lando’s shirt when he started sweating through it again. He barely fought you this time, just muttered something about “this being true love” as you threw it into the hamper.

Sebastian vomited in the hallway. “I didn’t mean to!” “I know, sweetheart. It’s okay.” “Do I still get Mario Kart?” “…We’ll talk about it.”

Lyla bit your arm during her medicine dose. Not unusual considering who her father is.

6:00 PM You finally had them clean, medicated, in fresh pajamas, and watching a movie — a miracle. Lando took your hand from where he lay on the couch.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You haven’t sat all day.”

“Who has time to sit when you have three Norrises pretending they're fine but slowly dying in front of you?”

He laughed softly, rubbing your knuckles. “Seriously… thank you.” You kissed his temple. “Next time you say you’re fine… I’m duct-taping you to the bed.”

From across the room, Sebastian weakly raised his hand. “Me too?” “Yes, you too.” “And Lyla?” Lyla sneezed so hard she fell over. “Nooooooo!”

You exhaled, leaning back at last.

One long, flu-stricken day down. God help you — it probably wasn’t over yet.

But for now… they were okay.

And that was enough.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun had barely crept over the buildings of Monaco, casting soft golden streaks through the glass windows of the flat. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves rolled up and hair tied messily atop your head. The faint hum of the dishwasher was a low reward for your efforts, and the strong scent of lemon-scented disinfectant lingered in the air. You'd deep cleaned every surface before anyone had even stirred. You sanitized toys, aired out bedding, wiped down door handles — anything that had been sneezed, coughed, or whined on.

You were exhausted, but the apartment felt new again — lighter somehow, fresher, like the weight of the past 48 hours had lifted a little. Even Monaco, framed through the glass windows, looked like it had taken a deep breath alongside you.

Just as you were about to sink into the couch for the first time all morning, the doorbell buzzed. You already knew the voice before the intercom clicked:

“Delivery!” came Oscar’s cheerful tone.

You grinned.

Dragging yourself to the door, you cracked it open slightly. “You,” you said with a tired smile, “are the absolute best.”

He laughed as you opened the door the rest of the way. “I figured you needed it,” he said, handing over a large brown paper bag with your favorites — fresh croissants, some fruit, and what you knew was a much-needed double-shot latte.

You clutched the bag like it was sacred. “You're a hero. Truly. Come in?”

He shook his head. “Can’t. On the way to the simulator, but I wanted to check in.”

“How’s Lando? And the others?” he asked as you leaned against the doorway, exhaustion written under your eyes but a soft smile on your lips.

You let out a sigh that carried a world of chaos. “Well… let’s see,” you began, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’ve been running around handling cleaning and cooking and, you know, making sure no one dies from stubbornness.”

Oscar smirked. “Sounds about right.”

“Lando keeps trying to act like he’s fine, defending Lyla during medicine hour like some sort of sick knight in a hoodie. He practically begged me not to make her drink the syrup last night — while sweating through his own shirt.”

Oscar snorted.

“And Sebastian…” You softened a little, glancing toward the hallway. “He wants to do karting. He was almost crying this morning. Said he knows he can drive even if he’s sick — ‘just not with a helmet on because it squishes his head,’” you mimicked gently in Sebastian’s voice. “So, he’s very much stuck in the flat and not happy about it.”

You paused, then added with a chuckle, “And me? Well. I’m surviving. Officially crowned Mrs. Norris and her flu-stricken family. Put it on the mailbox.”

Oscar gave you a soft look, one of genuine admiration. “You always say you’re surviving, but honestly… you’re the one keeping the wheels turning.”

You gave him a tired smile in return, warmed by the words. “Maybe. But next time they all get the flu? I’m moving out. Temporarily. Maybe to your flat.”

“Ha! Yeah, okay. You, voluntarily away from them?” he grinned. “You’d last three hours before you’re texting Lando to send you pictures of the kids in their pajamas.”

You shrugged, accepting the truth. “Alright, fine. But I will complain the whole time.”

He stepped back, giving you a two-finger salute. “Hang in there. And seriously — nap when you can. You’ve earned it.”

You raised the coffee cup like a toast. “Oscar Piastri, Patron Saint of the Overworked Mother.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the corridor.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, sipping your drink, letting the warmth spread through your fingers and into your chest.

The house was quiet again. Peaceful, if only for a few minutes.

You closed the door and whispered to yourself, “Alright. Round three… let’s go.”

The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of soft whines, crumpled tissues, and half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite. Every corner of the flat held evidence of a war against the flu — juice cups only half drunk, bowls of soup pushed aside, little socks strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers.

Sebastian and Lyla had entered the “bickering phase,” where every toy, blanket, or parental glance became a battle.

“Mummy, Lyla stole my truck!”

“Nooo, mine!”

“It’s literally mine!”

You exhaled loudly from the kitchen, gently massaging your temple. “Please�� one moment of peace. One.”

Lando, lying horizontal on the couch with a blanket thrown over his head like a man defeated, peeked one eye open. “Want me to mediate?”

“You fell asleep twice during Cars 2,” you shot back. “You’re barely qualified to stand.”

“I’m fine,” he said for the fourth time today — voice raspy, hair tousled, and one sock mysteriously missing. “Totally fine.”

You glanced at the coffee table, where a half-full mug of cold tea sat untouched next to a bottle of cold meds. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhm,” he said, eyes already closing again.

You didn’t push it. You just picked up another tissue from the floor and added it to the already overflowing bin.

Midday blurred into afternoon.

You dragged a basket of clothes out of the bathroom, a trail of damp towels and pajamas trailing behind you. Every time you passed a doorknob, you hit it with a disinfectant wipe. The light switches, the remotes, the handles to the fridge — all wiped in steady repetition like you were running your own personal hospital ward.

Lyla cried when she couldn’t find Bunny. Sebastian cried when Lyla touched his Mario Kart controller. Lando made a valiant attempt to make toast, only to collapse back into bed five minutes later, claiming the “world got a little spinny.”

And you… you kept going.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d reheated your coffee. You hadn’t brushed your hair since early morning, and your hoodie had a suspicious smear on the sleeve — you didn’t ask what it was. But still, you moved through the house like a quiet force, taking care of your people, checking temperatures, brushing sweaty hair from little foreheads, rubbing Lando’s back when he coughed hard enough to wince.

You were tired.

Utterly drained.

But you looked at them — at the mess, the madness, the family-shaped hurricane swirling around you — and your chest still swelled with that quiet kind of love.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not the mess. Not the noise. Not even the flu.

Because they were yours.

And all you wanted… was for them to feel better.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three more days.

Three more days of the same rhythm: tissues, thermometers, scattered toys, the faint beep of the washing machine in the background. You moved through the apartment with quiet determination, never stopping for long — cleaning surfaces with one hand, balancing a bottle of electrolyte solution in the other. You knew exactly how many crackers were left, how low the medicine was getting, and which blanket belonged to which feverish body.

You restocked what was needed, organized medications by time, wiped down doorknobs like it was second nature. You were the engine keeping the flat running — quiet, steady, reliable. But it was draining, and though you didn’t say a word of it out loud, your body ached with exhaustion, your eyes stung when you blinked too long, and your thoughts grew foggy from lack of sleep.

Lando noticed.

Even in his haze — buried in the couch, skin pale, lips cracked from dehydration — he watched you.

And it hurt him.

Every time he opened his eyes and saw you wiping down the remote or cleaning Lyla’s pacifier again, he felt it deep in his chest. Not the ache of the flu — but the ache of helplessness. The guilt.

He wanted to get up and take the load from your shoulders. He wanted to hold Lyla while you slept, chase Sebastian around the flat again, make you tea and tell you to lie down. But his body betrayed him. Every time he tried, the wave of nausea, of exhaustion, of weakness pulled him right back down.

Still… he silently promised himself: As soon as I can stand, I’m making it right.

And then — slowly, things began to shift.

Day Four of Illness.

It was subtle at first. But you noticed.

Lando made it to the bathroom on his own. No dizzy hands braced on the wall. No stumbling. Just… quiet steps down the hallway, and a simple, calm return to bed. He even flushed this time, a small miracle. When he laid down, he muttered, “Didn’t even gag this time.” It was ridiculous — and still made your heart squeeze.

His appetite came creeping back. He managed to finish toast without wincing, and even reached for a banana. “Don’t get too excited,” he said weakly when he caught your proud smile. “I’m still a shell of a man.”

Sebastian’s voice was still hoarse with a lingering cough, but he was no longer buried under four blankets in bed. Instead, he was camped on the couch, one leg hanging off as he watched cartoons, munching slowly on dry cereal. His eyes were brighter, not glassy anymore, and he even complained about how boring it was to be sick now.

“Can I go karting today?” he asked. You raised a brow. “Buddy… you’re still coughing.” “But I feel fast.” You laughed softly. “You’ll be fast again soon, promise.”

And Lyla — your little whirlwind — was finally playing again. Her fever had broken. She was dragging her plush animals around the living room like royalty, babbling half-words, climbing into your lap only to squirm out two seconds later. Her energy was returning in soft waves — not chaotic, but present.

And you?

You finally noticed you weren’t holding your breath anymore.

You weren’t setting alarms every few hours in the night. You didn’t have to make midnight runs to the bathroom cabinet. You no longer counted coughs or worried about temperatures spiking.

The house still held signs of the storm — the tissues, the blankets, the smell of menthol lingering in the air — but it was passing. Slowly, but surely, your family was healing.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you laid down in bed and didn’t immediately feel the pressure of duty pulling you back up.

And when Lando turned over to face you, his voice was low, scratchy, but more him than it had been in days.

“You can sleep now,” he whispered, his hand gently brushing yours under the blanket. “We’re okay.”

And you believed him.

So you closed your eyes.

And slept.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You almost thanked the heavens out loud when color returned to your family’s faces.

Sebastian was up earlier, bounding down the hallway with his usual chaotic energy, no longer curled up on the couch like a sad, blanket-wrapped burrito. He was asking about karting again, insisting he was at “90% top speed, maybe 95 if I have juice first.”

Lyla had less whines and more giggles, finally dragging her plush bunny around like a queen commanding her court. She followed Sebastian with a trail of toys and an occasional squeal of laughter, her little feet pattering like soft rain across the living room.

And Lando — God, Lando was himself again. Teasing the kids, poking Sebastian in the ribs until he laughed too hard and snorted, lifting Lyla over his shoulder with ease as she squealed “Daddy noooo!” through laughter. His eyes had lost that fever-dull glaze. His cheeks held their warmth again, his playful smile was back.

It was perfect. Finally.

You could breathe. You could wipe your forehead, toss the washcloth into the laundry, and declare — with exhausted triumph — mission accomplished. You’d nursed your flu-stricken army back to health. You'd survived the storm.

Dinner plates were no longer left half-full. No one was clutching their stomach or whining about sore limbs or sweating through pajamas at 2am. They were whole again.

And then, like cruel irony, a week later… it hit you.

It started slow. A dull ache behind your eyes. The scratch in your throat. A heaviness in your body that you desperately tried to shake off.

No, you told yourself. Not me. I’m the caregiver, the strong one, the immune one. I don’t get sick. I fix sick.

But the ache deepened. The energy drained. And by the time you found yourself in the kitchen, hunched slightly over the steaming bowl of chicken soup, elbows on the counter, face slack with fatigue — you knew.

It got you. The flu finally got you.

Your head lolled to the side as the world tilted just slightly under your feet, and you groaned, nose wrinkling. You didn’t even hear him come in, not until that familiar voice softened behind you.

“You okay, baby?”

Lando’s tone was light, but laced with immediate concern. You turned your head sluggishly and gave a small, pitiful hum.

“Think the flu is trying to attack me,” you mumbled, punctuating the sentence with a weak cough into your sleeve.

He was at your side instantly, hand brushing your lower back. You saw his face fall just slightly. Not the dramatic Lando face he gave the kids — the real one. The worried one.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “go lay down. No arguments.”

You groaned. “No. I still need to finish—”

“Nope. Don’t care. You took care of us. Now we take care of you,” he said, gently taking the spoon from your hand and setting it down. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn. You were a badass nurse. It’s my turn to suck at it.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You’re going to be the best and worst nurse. Somehow, both at once.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Right. Now off you go. Shoo. Mama’s off duty.”

You were about to turn, maybe even argue a little more — but then, with a cheeky grin, he slapped your ass. Hard enough to make you yelp.

“NORRIS!” you barked, rubbing the spot with a soft wince.

“What?” he laughed, completely unbothered, “I’m just encouraging the patient to move along. Nurse’s orders.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, incredibly handsome.”

He winked, ushering you toward the hallway.

You dragged your feet, muttering, “A nurse does not hurt the person he’s caring for.”

“Oh come on,” he murmured, catching up to you, kissing the edge of your jaw. “It’s my favorite part of you. Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

You turned back to give him the dirtiest look you could muster — half-hearted at best — and he smirked again.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he said, following close behind.

From the living room, Lyla squealed in laughter and Sebastian shouted something about racing plush animals. You smiled faintly, even through the growing ache in your head. They were okay. They were whole again. That was everything.

Lando guided you toward the bedroom, one hand still gently on your hip.

“Oh, and babe?” he added, grinning, “If I nurse you back to health, I get baby number three.”

You spun slowly on your heel. “You really wanna try that while I have the flu?”

He raised both hands. “Just planting the idea. Let it simmer. Like your soup. Which I’m now in charge of, by the way.”

You laughed softly — hoarse and worn, but genuine.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, pressed a kiss there. “Go sleep. I’ll check on the kids, do dinner. You’ve earned it.”

You nodded, curling under the blanket a few minutes later, body finally letting go.

Your husband — your teammate, your chaos, your comfort — was the biggest pain in your ass. But he was also the one always ready to carry you when you couldn’t walk.

And really, that made him the best damn nurse of all. Even if he had wandering hands.

[buckysleftbicep]

bent and bruised (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x fem!ex-hydra!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, dark themes, winter soldier!bucky, dub-con/non-con themes, unprotected sex, creampie, ptsd, a whole, whole lot of angst

summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. inspired by this request

word count: 4.4k

author's note: hi my loves! i am finally back with another series! it took me a whole day to get this up and i hope you guys will love it as much as i do! i am so excited to do up this series and i would love to hear your thoughts! i love ya guys and please stay safe out there! ❤️

series masterlist

The room hummed with stale tension and recycled air, the kind that clung to your skin no matter how long you’d been inside.

It was too clean, too sterile—like the whole place had been scrubbed raw of personality. No windows. Just steel, flickering monitors, and the faint tang of ozone bleeding from exposed wires somewhere in the walls.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed in that maddening, uneven way, stuttering against the matte black of the long conference table. Weapons were laid out in clinical precision—pistols, serrated knives, a few modified explosives lined up like surgical instruments. 

The projection screen threw ghostly glows across their polished surfaces, and somewhere in the corner, a feed flickered with static before cutting back to drone footage of the mission site.

Unnerving silence settled between Valentina’s clipped sentences, the kind of silence that had weight behind it. Anticipation. Or maybe dread.

The compound was quieter than usual, Yelena wasn’t talking. Ava wasn’t pacing. Walker hadn’t cracked a joke in at least five minutes, which was practically a record. Even the air felt heavy, like it knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, half-shadowed, arms folded tight across his chest.

He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

The leather of his jacket creaked faintly every time the fingers of his vibranium hand twitched—just enough to betray the restlessness he didn’t bother to show.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Didn’t need to. He could feel it—like static crawling beneath his skin. Whatever Val was leading up to, it wasn’t just about the mission. 

It was something else. He never liked waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Infiltration’s scheduled for 0400,” Val said finally, breaking the silence with a sharp tap of her pointer against the digital display. A red dot blinked, pulsing like a heartbeat on the map.

“You’ll drop half a click from the perimeter, make entry through the north access shaft here. It’s still mostly underground—remnants of an old HYDRA stronghold, retrofitted for black market manufacturing. Radiation cloaking, signal dampeners, camo tech. Nothing simple about it, but manageable.”

The map shifted, highlighting the tunnel system in pale blue.

“You go in quiet, plant charges along the assembly line, tag the shipments, get out clean before the buyers show up.”

“And what exactly are they shipping?” Ava asked, her tone clipped. Her fingers tapped against the armrest, but not out of nerves—calculated.

Val lifted a brow, pleased by the question. With a click of her remote, the schematic changed. A plasma rifle rotated slowly in high-definition detail—sleek, brutal, and unmistakably advanced.

“Reverse-engineered Stark tech,” she said, voice razor-edged. “Plasma rifles, miniaturized arc pulse grenades, destabilizers. It’s genius work, honestly. Someone in there knows what they’re doing. These prototypes could down a jet with a single discharge. They’re selling to buyers who make AIM look like a fucking Etsy page.”

Yelena let out a low whistle. “And here I thought tuesdays were boring.”

John leaned back, tossing a small knife between his hands with lazy disinterest. “So we blow it to hell. Make it loud.”

Val shot him a pointed look, all warning and no warmth. “Clean,” she said again. “Surgical. No mess, no headlines. We’re not making a scene.”

That was when it happened.

Her mouth curled, just slightly. A new edge slipped into her voice.

“And,” Val continued, drawing the word out just enough to shift the air in the room, “you’ll be joined by a new agent.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Yelena arched a brow and leaned forward on her elbows. “Oh god, Don’t tell me it’s Walker’s twin.”

Walker snorted. Didn’t even glance at her. Just flipped her off mid-spin of the blade.

Val chuckled. “No. She’s one of mine. Freelance up till now. Ex-mercenary. Former ghost. One of the best I’ve ever worked with, she's efficient, lethal, tactical as hell. I’d say she rivals even you, Barnes.”

The room tilted—just a little.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Barely a reaction. Just a subtle shift in the line of his shoulders. His jaw ticked. Nothing more. But his eyes locked on Val’s, a flicker of something unreadable burning deep beneath the surface.

“Okay, now I curious,” Alexei said, reaching for a protein bar from his jacket pocket like the team wasn’t just a fucking step from a horror movie.

Val didn’t say anything.

The screen changed. And time fractured.

Name: (Y/N) (L/N) Gender: F Born: 1941 Recruited: 1963 (HYDRA OPERATIVE) Status: Cryo Recovery — Completed Subjected to: Experimental Super Soldier Serum (1963, Switzerland, Geneva Facility) Current Role: Active Operative 

Your file blinked across the screen in clean, bureaucratic lines. But it was the photo that struck like a bullet to the ribs.

You. Alive.

Not the way Bucky remembered you—not exactly. You looked older now, as you should’ve. But it wasn’t the years that aged you. It was something else. Something far worse. Your expression was empty—neutral, professional, cold.

But your eyes… Fuck. Your eyes.

They were still the same shape, glassy, still the same damn colour, still framed by lashes he remembered fluttering closed against his jaw, his throat, the cold table beneath you as you had locked your legs around him.

But they were different too.

Sharper now. Harder.

Like glass that had been shattered, then put back together without the intention of being whole. A reconstruction, a warning.

You’d seen the worst of humanity. He knew you had.

Because you’d seen him. You had seen the soldier.

Bucky’s throat dried, his pulse thudded loud in his ears. For a second, the rest of the room faded. No Val. No briefing. No mission.

Just your face, twenty feet tall on a screen that didn’t understand the weight of what it displayed.

His vibranium fingers clenched into a fist against his thigh.

Because before the blood, before the years, before everything—

He remembered you being shoved into his cell. He remembered what they made you for. Him.

Geneva, 1963

The restraints clicked loose with a mechanical hiss.

The sound echoed like a countdown, bouncing off the concrete walls of the cell—sterile and dim, soaked in shadow and the sharp tang of metal. The air in the room was cold, almost painfully so. It reeked of antiseptic, dried blood, rusted bolts, and fear.

It was always cold, always humming, always watching.

He sat motionless in the center of the room, body lit by the faint glow of overhead lights buried in steel mesh. His breathing was even. Controlled. Programmed. Like the rest of him.

There were voices still murmuring in the back of his mind—Russian syllables sharp and precise like scalpel cuts. Orders etched into the bone.

The Soldier didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Not until the door opened.

It wasn’t loud—just a low, hydraulic groan—but it might as well have been an earthquake. The room shifted with it. Tensed. And then you stumbled in.

Barefoot.

A paper-thin robe hung off your shoulders, barely tied, the cheap fabric fluttering like the wings of something dying. Your skin was pale beneath the harsh light. Translucent and cold.

You had been trembling—not dramatically, not childishly, but with a quiet, contained sort of fear. The kind that sat behind your eyes like a scream you weren’t allowed to voice.

Your breathing was shallow. Your arms wrapped tight around your middle like maybe you could still keep something for yourself. Dignity, perhaps. Sanity.

He could hear your heart skipping.

Thud. Thud. Skip. Thud.

The Soldier's head tilted slightly.

You didn’t speak. You weren’t supposed to. He of all people knew that.

Another set of footsteps followed behind you. Louder. Confident. Casual in that way only men who enjoyed this part could be.

Your handler stepped in, gloved hands tucked behind his back, expression amused—like this was just another thursday night for him. He smelled of aftershave and smoke and arrogance.

“She’s new Soldier,” he said, like he was introducing a piece of meat. “Fresh out of the chair. ты полюбишь ее (you'll love her)."

The Soldier’s eyes tracked him, no reaction. Just coiled stillness. The quiet before a storm—or before something breaks.

The man stepped behind you, took a fistful of your hair, tilted your head back with casual cruelty. His other hand held a gun. Not raised yet—just dangling. Just there.

He pressed the barrel to your chin.

“You were modified, my dear,” he said, voice slick, smiling like this was a joke between old friends. “Tailored just for him”

You blinked back a tear and Bucky remembered how you tried not to move, tried to not let the tears slip.

But he saw it, god, he always saw it.

“Our Soldier here,” the handler continued, “is very effective when he’s satisfied. But lately—” he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “—he’s been a little… what do you say? wound up.”

He dragged the pistol slowly down the column of your throat.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine,” he whispered, then slapped your cheek—not hard, but just enough to make your teeth clack. Just enough to remind you that your body didn’t belong to you anymore.

It belonged to him.

Your lip trembled. You flinched. But you didn’t cry out.

The handler smirked, pleased with himself. Then he shoved you forward. Hard. You stumbled toward the metal table in the center of the room, hands catching on the edge. It was freezing beneath your fingertips.

“Strip,” he said.

You froze.

There was a pause—barely two seconds—before he raised the gun again, pressing the muzzle to your throat.

“Я сказал, черт возьми, разденься.” (i said fucking strip)

Your hands moved without your permission. Wooden. Shaking.

The knot on the robe came loose in one tug. The fabric slipped from your shoulders like it had been waiting to betray you. It crumpled around your feet.

The cold hit instantly. Like knives.

You stood there—naked, spine taut as a wire—while the handler looked you over like you were nothing. Just skin. Just parts. A means to an end.

Behind you, the Soldier stood.

The restraints had fallen from his wrists minutes ago. He hadn’t moved until now.

But he did now.

Silently. Predatory. Like a tiger stalking its prey—measured, patient, deadly in its grace. There was no urgency in the way he moved. No rush. Just inevitability.

Each step echoed, booted and deliberate, closing the space between you until the scent of steel and gun oil and winter settled over your skin like a second prison.

You turned, barely.

Your eyes met his—wide, glistening, pleading. A silent cry for mercy, for recognition, for something human. But what stared back at you wasn’t mercy.

His eyes were cerulean—stunning, almost unnaturally bright. A shade of blue that might have once held the sky, the sea. But now, they were stripped bare. Cold and hollow. Like frost on glass, beautiful only because of how dead they looked beneath the surface.

There was no spark behind them. No flicker of recognition. No trace of the man he’d once been almost twenty years ago before HYDRA wiped him clean.

As if the color remained only to mock you—brilliant, vivid, human—in a face that had long since forgotten how to be.

You made a sound. Soft. Fractured.

“I-I… please—”

The door behind you slammed shut.

The locks engaged. One by one. Click. Click. Click.

You were alone.

No—worse. You were with him.

The Soldier said nothing. Not a grunt, not a breath—just a slow, deliberate advance. Each step was measured, silent, lethal. Until his chest hovered a hair’s breadth from yours, the heat of him a violent contrast to the chill in the room.

Up close, you could see it—the constellation of scars across his chest, old and precise, carved into him like tally marks. Not injuries. Not history. Inventory.

His metal hand rose, unhurried, as if pre-programmed, the plates catching the light in glinting, surgical flashes. It wasn’t a caress—it was an assessment. He gripped your jaw with cold, steady fingers, tilting your face as if cataloguing you.

Not a woman. A directive.

Then, without a word, he shoved you back.

Your spine struck the edge of the table with a dull, metallic thud. The bite of cold steel sank into the soft flesh of your thighs, shocking enough to draw a gasp from your lips.

His hands were on you in the next breath—both of them now. Flesh and metal. One rough, the other unfeeling. They clamped around your hips, dragging you into place with bruising force.

His hand moved with the cold precision of routine—sliding down your waist, between your thighs, parting you like it was nothing more than protocol. A function, a command.

There was no softness in the touch, no pretence of seduction. Just the calloused drag of flesh and steel against trembling skin, searching for an opening, finding it.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t whisper.

He just pushed inside.

No warning, no mercy.

You gasped—loud, broken—your back arching sharply as the brutal stretch hit you all at once. He was thick, unforgiving, too deep in a single thrust that tore a cry from your throat before you could swallow it down.

It had hurt, not in the way pain was supposed to make you feel alive. In the way it emptied you. In the way it made your eyes burn.

The air left your lungs in a ragged choke as your hands scrambled along the table, trying to hold onto something, anything solid.

But there was nothing to brace against. Just cold steel and the shuddering rhythm of your body being rocked by a man who wasn’t a man anymore.

He groaned low, a sound scraped from the chest of something feral. Not passion. Not need. Just release. His hips snapped forward, brutal and mechanical, burying himself deeper with every thrust—hard, fast, relentless.

The table beneath you scraped against the concrete floor, metal screaming in protest, matching the ache building between your legs where he kept driving into you without care.

You clenched around him without meaning to—instinct, panic, maybe some misplaced hope that it would ease the burn.

It didn’t. If anything, it made him move faster, more ragged, like your body’s reaction was fuel. His pace stayed wild, uncalibrated. There was no rhythm, no escalation. Just motion, just violence, just function.

Your nails dug into his back. Deep. You clawed without thinking, dragging jagged lines down skin that didn’t bruise, didn’t bleed. You needed to feel something. Needed him to feel something. But he didn’t even flinch.

Still, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t speak, he didn’t stop.

He took you like he was built to, like this was your only purpose. His grip bruised your thighs. His hips slammed into yours over and over, until your sobs bled into the sound of flesh hitting flesh, too soft to echo, too raw to ignore.

Your body had given up on resisting—it simply endured. And the worst part was that he never lost control. Not once. Every movement was calculated. Efficient.

When he came, it was with a final, forceful thrust, burying himself as deep as you could take him, hips stuttering with brutal impact.

His breath flared hot against your neck—shallow, sharp—but he didn’t make a sound beyond that low, choked groan. His release filled you in waves, thick and unforgiving, and he stayed there, seated inside you, unmoving.

You expected him to pull out.

He didn’t. Instead, he just stayed.

You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, your body aching in too many places to name. And then, something shifted.

He moved—barely.

The fingers of his metal hand rose, brushing your hair back from your damp, tear-streaked face. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t deliberate. It felt… automatic. Like some trace echo of the man he’d been, long before all of this, had flinched to the surface. A reflex. A ghost of care where none should have existed.

You didn’t think. You just leaned forward, lips trembling, and kissed him.

Soft. Desperate. Human.

It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about desire. It was survival. The kind of kiss you gave a weapon in the hopes it might remember it once had a heart.

He didn’t kiss you back. But he didn’t pull away, either.

Bucky jerked back to the present like he’d been shocked.

A breath caught in his throat, too late, too loud. His fists were clenched beneath the table—metal fingers biting into flesh, the cool of vibranium digging into his palm.

For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Not really. Everything around him had gone flat. Colourless. The voices around the room blurred into a low, warbling hum, like sound underwater. Just static and noise. White walls and ghosts.

His jaw was locked so tight it ached. Sweat beaded along the nape of his neck, cold against the collar of his shirt. He could feel it rolling down his spine in thin, uncomfortable rivulets. His skin itched like memory.

No one had noticed. Not yet.

Val’s voice kept going, sharp and indifferent. She was pacing in front of the screen now, still debriefing. Her heels clicked against the floor, a rhythmic metronome against the pulse pounding in Bucky’s ears.

“She went off-grid for years,” Val was saying, her tone too casual, like she wasn’t talking about someone’s stolen life. “Cryo-freeze probably scrambled most of her memory—hell, we barely know what happened to her during that period. The files are a fucking jigsaw puzzle. But she’s clean. She’s loyal.”

Loyal.

He nearly laughed. Bit down on it so hard his tongue pressed into his molars.

She didn’t know. None of them knew.

Val tapped her remote again. The screen dimmed, your face fading into black. The mission map reappeared. But he could still see you—burned into the back of his eyes like an afterimage.

Every line of your face. That expression. The way your mouth had been pressed flat, neutral, like you hadn’t been torn from time. Like you weren’t a bleeding wound in his memory.

Val turned back toward the table.

“And she’ll be joining your team,” she said smoothly, “starting tonight.”

Silence.

Then her gaze found him—pinning, expectant.

“You okay, Barnes?”

He forced himself to move.

Just a blink. A breath. He straightened his spine with mechanical precision, muscles flexing against the weight in his chest. His lips parted, but the words didn’t come right away. They stalled. Caught. Died somewhere in the back of his throat like smoke.

He swallowed it down.

“I…” he cleared his throat, low and quiet. “Yeah. No issue.”

No issue.

The lie settled bitter on his tongue. Metallic. Like blood.

There was every issue.

Because the girl he had once touched without mercy—the one who had gasped beneath him, shaking, cold, silenced by fear and force—was alive. Real. Breathing in the same air he was. Walking somewhere above their heads in this building.

And if the universe had any cruelty left in it—and it always did—you remembered.

God, maybe you remembered everything.

Maybe you remembered the cold metal table. The way he’d gripped your hips like you were something disposable. Maybe you remembered the weight of his body bearing down on yours with no tenderness, no humanity.

Maybe you remembered the sharp sting of the floor against your knees. The sound of your own breathing hitching against his shoulder. Your name reduced to nothing. Your voice swallowed by silence. The tears that had trailed down your cheeks when you thought no one was looking—except he had been. He always had been.

Maybe you remembered the way he hadn’t stopped.

The way he hadn’t spoken.

The way he hadn’t cared—because HYDRA had taken that part of him and burned it until only the weapon remained.

He’d fucked you like you were a tool to be used, like you were part of the mission. And when it was done, when his seed was leaking from between your thighs and your fingers had gone limp against his skin, he hadn’t pulled away.

He had just stared. Like he couldn’t understand what had just happened. Like part of him—some distant, buried part—could.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

But… there had been one night.

One fucking night.

Late, in the middle of another mission cycle. He wasn’t fully reset. Not yet triggered. Just… quiet. Breathing. Blinking. Human, for a few stolen hours.

And you had touched him—not because you were forced to, but because you chose to.

Your fingers slid into his hair like you were anchoring yourself to something real—something still breathing beneath all that silence.

The strands were damp with sweat, thick and soft between your fingers, and you clutched them not with control, but with need. Gentle, but trembling. A desperate touch dressed up as tenderness.

You pulled him closer. Not rough, not forced—just certain. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t have the courage to say aloud.

His face hovered just above yours, his breath hot against your cheek, uneven now. Slower. Like for one stolen moment, the programming had fractured and something human was leaking through the cracks.

You tilted your head, lips barely brushing his ear—featherlight, sacred. Like a prayer.

And you whispered it.

Not Soldier. Not Asset. Not the name HYDRA had soldered into him like metal to bone.

You whispered, “James.”

Soft. Breaking. Yours.

Like you knew him. Like you remembered. Like some piece of the man still buried inside him might crawl toward the sound of it and stay.

He had cum that night too. But not because HYDRA told him to.

Because he wanted to.

Because you were soft, and you had kissed him, and for one second, the world had felt quiet. Real.

And fuck—

Some part of him wanted to believe that you remembered that.

That buried beneath all the violence, beneath all the tears and orders and years of cryo and blood, you remembered that there was one moment—just one—when he wasn’t a monster.

When you had invoked that one emotion he thought was long gone. Love.

Even if he didn’t know what the hell love was supposed to feel like anymore.

The meeting dissolved slowly.

Chairs scraped against the floor in discordant, screeching notes as the team stood. Screens powered down with mechanical hums, one by one, the mission data fading into darkness.

Someone cracked a joke—probably Alexei—but Bucky didn’t hear it. The sound passed through him like wind through a ruined building. His gaze lingered on the now-empty monitor, as if your photo might flicker back to life one last time.

But it didn’t.

You were gone again. Until you weren’t.

Val was already talking to Ava, pulling her aside, issuing last-minute adjustments. Walker yawned and stretched like they were heading to a sparring match instead of a black ops infiltration.

Yelena glanced over her shoulder at Bucky, something in her look almost—almost—curious. But she didn’t press. No one did.

He hadn’t moved.

He waited until the room cleared out.

Until the buzz of the briefing dulled into silence and the last bootsteps disappeared down the hallway.

Only then did he breathe.

It came out shaky. Shallow. Wrong.

His now vibranium hand flexed at his side, joints creaking softly in the cold air.

The adrenaline had faded, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. It was heavier now. Anchored deep. He rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand, dragging his fingers through his hair like maybe he could dig out the thoughts still looping in his mind.

But they stayed. They always did.

He finally stood.

The chair groaned beneath him, echoing in the empty room like a warning.

Bucky moved on autopilot, one boot in front of the other, out the door and into the corridor. The halls were narrow, dimly lit, the walls humming faintly with the energy of the facility.

Security cameras tracked his movement, but he didn’t care. He knew these halls well. Too well. They never changed—no matter the country, no matter the decade. Metal walls, low ceilings, air that smelled like oil and old wiring.

It reminded him of HYDRA. Everything did tonight.

He walked past the tech lab, the weapons vault, the intel room—every step tightening something behind his ribs. And then he reached the gear room.

Inside, it was quiet. Cold. The lockers were lined in rows, half-open, half-forgotten, each one a sealed little coffin of someone's war.

He opened the locker slowly. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside: his gear. Gloves. Boots. Custom tactical vest. The knives he preferred—weighted, balanced, perfect for close-quarters.

The gloves were folded carefully on the top shelf. Next to them was a file folder someone had left—probably more mission data. Or maybe your file again. It didn’t matter.

He didn’t touch it.

Instead, he sat down on the bench beside the locker, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed forward like he could hold himself together with posture alone.

And for a moment, just one moment, he allowed it to crack.

His eyes fell shut. His hands trembled. Not violently. Just enough that he had to lace his fingers together to keep them still.

You were alive.

After all these years. After all that pain. After cryo, after war, after HYDRA, after everything—they’d kept you frozen, tucked away in some forgotten chamber while the world moved on without you.

He wondered if it had hurt you to know what year it was. He wondered if it would hurt more to see him again.

Because what was he now?

Just a reminder of everything that had ever gone wrong. Of every scar on your body you hadn’t deserved. Of every night you’d cried into a concrete floor, trying to convince yourself that the Soldier wasn’t a real person. That he didn’t feel it. That he didn’t want it.

But he had.

He had wanted you. Not in the way HYDRA demanded. In the way that made his hands softer, just once. In the way that made him linger too long inside you, not because he was ordered to—but because he couldn’t bear to leave.

That was the part he never forgave himself for.

That flicker of love that bloomed in the middle of a crime scene.

It wasn’t pure. It wasn’t good. But it was his. It was the only real thing he’d felt in decades that he was tortured. And it was with you.

He opened his eyes. Swallowed hard.

Somewhere upstairs, you were being debriefed. Checked. Cleared. Suited up in your new uniform, maybe. Maybe Val was smiling that smug little smile of hers as she handed you your new orders.

Maybe you were asking about the team. Maybe you’d asked who was leading it.

And maybe, just maybe, Val had said his name.

James Buchanan Barnes.

And maybe that name meant something to you.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe you’d look him in the eye tonight and feel nothing. Maybe you wouldn’t recognise him at all.

But Bucky had the feeling—deep, raw, gut-level—that when your eyes met his again, something would break. In you. In him. In both of you.

And whatever broke… it wouldn’t be fixable.

Not this time.

He stood. Slowly. Gathered his gear without ceremony. Buckled his knives to his thigh holster. Pulled on the gloves.

Every movement felt heavier than the last.

The next time he saw you, it would be face-to-face. On mission. Under pressure. With blood in the air and history in the room like a second skin.

He didn’t know what would happen. He just knew it had already started.

a/n: i am starting on chapter 2! and gosh, i am so excited already! i hope you love it and if you do, please drop a comment or a reblog, i am forever grateful for your support <3333

[levigarden999]

bakugo's biggest fangirl ₊˚⊹ᰔ

₊˚⊹ warnings : smut , +18 , overstimulation , p!v , f!orgasm

ever since you saw katsuki bakugo effortlessly blowing up a villain up on tv, you were smitten. the cocky grin he did after the successful attack, the small amount of smoke that was rising from his fingertips, and the tight black tank top which showed off his shoulder and back muscles perfectly definitely did things to you. the cherry on top was his slightly smug yet nonchalant attitude as the perky reporter bombed him with questions after the villain was done.

eh, it was nothing. just another extra getting in my way.

he didn’t even make eye contact with the camera nor the reporter.

this is daily business. nothing special.

after that, you googled him. you watched videos of him from youtube. you even made a folder on tik tok just for him, which was now filled with edits of your beloved dynamight. your friends didn’t really get you as you showed them his pictures and squealed how perfect of a human being he was – they thought he was hot, yes, but they also thought he was rude and boring.

however, you had no idea what was coming. who would know the dynamight would actually allow you to fuck yourself on his cock?

it happened after a fan meeting with the most liked heroes of the city. katsuki was one of the heroes who were attending (mainly for the money), and you obviously was one of the first ones who were in the line, waiting for an autograph and a selfie with your subject of adoration.

when katsuki then saw you, his jaw nearly dropped. your wide, glimmering eyes were filled with adoration as you stared at him, as if there was no one else in the area but him. katsuki was used to people ignoring him and going for the ’better’ heroes such as todoroki and izuku, so he didn’t often meet fans who were so solely focused on him. you were smiling so widely, so beautifully, cheeks flushed and eyes nearly tearing up. as if katsuki was a god to you.

however, the thing that really piqued his interest, was the clothes you were wearing. a tiny white top, cleavage full on display, the words ’dynamight’ printed on the fabric just above your boobs. as if you were asking for him, only him, to stare. a small tennis skirt made your figure look absolutely perfect in his eyes, a little slutty but not too much.

katsuki now knew you were there for him. to see him. to seek for acceptance, anything from him. he had never experienced attention like this and it really boosted his ego. finally someone was there to be all over him. finally the damn icy hot was being ignored by a beautiful girl who was instead focusing all her attention on him.

katsuki demanded you to not take the shirt off while you were fucking. he wanted to see his hero name written on your body, as if you were belonging to him, being his little fan girl who was pathetically whining on his cock like it was your life goal. well, it sort of was.

katsuki’s hands moved from your hips to your tits, shoving the fabric down and watching how your tits spilled out and bounced just over his hero name. it was a mesmerizing sight to him, something he swore he’d never forget. he grasped your hips again, guiding and bouncing you, his own hips slightly bucking against yours to really stretch your pussy out.

”fuck- ah- dynamightttt-” you moaned as you felt the occasional slam of his tip against your cervix. you looked down at him with half lidded eyes and cheeks blushed, your eyes meeting his red and hungry ones.

”’s too much, i-i’m tired” you whimpered, thighs trembling from the continuous muscle movement you were doing on him.

katsuki only groaned and smacked your ass gently, before grabbing it, fingers sinking into the flesh there.

”this was what you wanted, right? wearing that tiny fuckin’ skirt and this top-” he panted and murmured, hands finding your breasts again as he leaned forward a little and placed a few kisses on your sore nipples and skin. you whined.

”-asking for me to fuck you - no – asking for me to allow for you to fuck yourself on me” he continued rasping, eyes shooting a piercing look up at you. your fingers tangled in the back of his hair, his words encouraging you to go on and seek for that release that was slowly beginning to approach you like a damn tsunami.

”say it. say it you wanted my cock” katsuki groaned and leaned back again, hands guiding your hips again.

you nodded frantically, the knot of a powerful orgasm forming in your abdomen.

”wanted it – fuck – s’ much, wanted dynamight’s cock-” you found yourself moaning, mind nearly dizzy from the overwhelming pleasure in your body and the tiredness in your thighs.

”fuckin’ good girl-” he grunted and slammed his hips up against yours, making the air leave your lungs as the single stroke he did caused for your orgasm to crash over you. your thighs were trembling, hips twitching, nails digging into his muscular shoulders as you came undone, moaning his hero name.

once you finally came down from your high, you calmed down and relaxed yourself on his lap. however, katsuki grabbed you by the hips, lifted you up effortlessly and slammed you down on your back on the couch.

“you think i’m done, huh?”

[mooningningg]

ᴊᴊᴋ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ - Notes, in loveee with softie ryo, ty anon.

★ Drummer!Sukuna calms down only for you.

It started with a snapped drumstick.

And not the usual “he went too hard in the bridge” kind of snap — no. This was deliberate. Sharp. Cracking wood and tension alike as Sukuna chucked the broken stick across the room with a guttural, “Fuck!”

Rehearsal came to a standstill.

Suguru paused mid-riff, blinking slowly as he adjusted a tuning peg. Toji leaned back on his bass stool, chewing gum like this was nothing new. Gojo muttered a breezy, “Here we fucking go again,” into the mic. And Choso… well, Choso just sighed and started organizing his synth cables, clearly preparing for another ten-minute tantrum.

Sukuna was pacing behind the drum kit now, shirt already off, tattoos on display, jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might shatter. No one dared ask what exactly pissed him off this time — maybe the sound engineer fucked up the levels, maybe Gojo had made one too many jokes, or maybe Sukuna was just in one of those moods where his rage needed a place to land.

“Sukuna,” Suguru called, tone dry. “Just grab another stick, man.”

“Shut the fuck up, Geto.”

Choso glanced at you from across the room. You just raised your brows and kept sipping from your water bottle. You weren’t in the band, Sukuna had invited you over, yes... you're his girl.

Sukuna didn’t acknowledge your presence. Not yet.

He was ranting to no one now, pacing harder. “You think I’m gonna play when the fucking kick sounds like it's underwater? And Gojo’s off-key screeching over it? Don’t waste my fucking time.”

“Y’know I’m right here,” Gojo chirped.

Sukuna flipped him off without turning around.

“Sukuna,” Choso tried, gently. “Just—”

That was when it happened.

The smallest thing.

You stood up from your corner of the studio, walking slowly over to the drum kit. You didn’t say anything dramatic. No scolding. No begging him to chill. You just tilted your head slightly and said, voice low, even:

“Ryo.”

And like someone yanked the emergency brake on his whole body — Sukuna stopped.

Like muscle memory, his head whipped toward you. The look in his eyes changed instantly. From fire to smoke. From wreckage to warmth. His breath slowed. Jaw loosened. And for a solid three seconds, it was dead silent in the room, the tension flickering out like a blown fuse.

“...What?” he muttered, lower this time. The venom was gone.

You blinked innocently. “You done being dramatic?”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you.

Toji snorted behind you. “Holy shit.”

Gojo leaned into the mic, still holding his guitar. “That’s all it takes? One little ‘Ryo’ and suddenly he’s not breathing fire?”

“Shut up,” Sukuna grumbled, grabbing a fresh pair of sticks like nothing happened.

But he still glanced your way again. Like he needed to make sure you were still watching. Still there.

And you were. You always were.

The rest of the band took the cue. Suguru counted the beat. Toji gave a low hum of amusement. Gojo said something about getting a new nickname for himself (“What if I called you ‘Sato’? Will you behave then?”). Choso, bless him, just hit play on the metronome.

And Sukuna?

Sukuna played like nothing happened. But when he sat behind the kit again, he tapped the stick twice on the edge of the snare. A signal.

For you.

And then, to you—so quietly only you could hear, just before he sat back down and started warming up again—

“...Thanks, baby.”

[shina913]

Tumble Dry | CSC

Tumble Dry

Pairing: Choi Seungcheol x AFAB!Reader

Rating: M 🔞; NSFW

Genre: Established relationship; domestic AU; smut; some fluff

Warnings: mentions of ovulation/menstrual cycle; cussing; breast play; fingering; oral (both giving/receiving); unprotected sex; PIV sex; ass smacking; dirty talk; creampie

Word count: 3.3k words

Summary: Sure, a man doing chores is hot. But a man who does the laundry, folds it, and puts it away? Absolutely irresistible.

A/N: The monkey is off my back and I finally channeled my Cheol Burstday comeback brainrot into this!!! Thanks to @roaminginthenights for always enabling me in the DMs. This is for you!

Throughout the workweek, you and Seungcheol text frequently. It’s your way of letting each other know you’re thinking of one another. You share the most mundane things, like mismatched socks on laundry day, or talk shit about coworkers you’d gladly dump on a deserted island along with your other annoying acquaintances.

Occasionally, the messages turn spicier, sent during quiet moments at your desks.

But today has been brutal. The kind of nonstop insanity that barely lets you glance at your phone, let alone reply. You feel guilty for leaving him on ‘read’, but you couldn’t get a moment to break away since there were too many fires to put out.

Seungcheol could tell the week was eating you alive. You’d been venting about that looming deadline, and judging by your radio silence, he connected the dots. Without saying anything to you, he heads out of work early to start dinner and knock out a few chores, just so you can walk in the door and finally decompress.

Back at your desk, you glance at the clock. Just a couple more hours until you can escape the madness and burn off every last ounce of tension with him. The thought alone has you pressing your thighs together. You lick your lips, letting the anticipation settle into the base of your belly, using it as motivation to power through the rest of the day. And you can come home and claim your well-deserved reward.

******

The scent of dinner cooking welcomes you as you walk through the door after a long and trying day. At the end of the hallway, you catch a glimpse of Seungcheol in the kitchen, his broad back turned to you while he unloads the dishwasher.

The exhaust fan hums softly, and music is blasting in the background. You figure this is why he hasn’t responded to your text that told him you were on your way.

You cock your head and watch him for a moment. Your heart swells with appreciation at the sight of him taking care of some chores at home without you asking him.

He looks up at the jangle of your keys as you hang them on the wall. He beams instantly when his gaze lands on you. “Hey, love! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

He’s in sweats and one of his old college shirts, whose sleeves he proudly hacked off himself. It used to hang loose around his shoulders, but now it clings and stretches nicely over his biceps. They’ve been looking more defined lately, and you’ve mentioned more than once how good he looks in that shirt.

You spot the V-shaped sweat mark beneath his collar that tells you he just finished a workout. You can’t help but hope he’s not completely spent, and that he’s saved some energy for you.

Honestly, you’re hoping for a little more than “some.” You want—no—need to be manhandled tonight. After hours of trying to hold things together today, you’d want nothing more than to give up control and have him take over.

He strolls over and greets you with a kiss. A grin spreads across your face. “You didn’t have to cook!” you say. “I was going to order takeout, because I thought you’d be working late tonight.”

He turns back to the stove, lowering the flame beneath one of the simmering pots. “I was,” he says, “But Joshua owes me a favor, so I asked him to finish up the rest of the cases. Told him there was an emergency at home.”

You tilt your head, brows knitting in curiosity. “Oh? What kind of emergency?”

He crosses the room again, cups your cheeks, and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. His eyes soften as he meets yours. “The kind where I need to take care of you.”

He’s so cheesy—but your heart still melts. “Ugh... I love you,” you gush.

“Love you too. Now go get changed—dinner’s almost ready.”

******

After dinner, as the food coma settles, you and Seungcheol curl up on the couch to catch up on your favorite show. You’ve changed into an oversized sleep shirt and stretched out sideways, your legs draped across his lap. His eyes are on the screen while his thumb traces lazy circles over your knee.

You’re not really watching the show—your gaze keeps drifting to his profile, bathed in the soft, warm light of the nearby lamp.

“Thank you for dinner,” you murmur. “It was perfect… especially after today.” A slow smile spreads across your face.

He turns to you with a gentle look. “You’re welcome. I know this week’s been a lot,” he says, his voice low and warm. “I thought if I came home early and took care of a few things, maybe you could just… breathe a little easier this weekend.”

“Like what things?”

“Just a few chores. After grocery shopping, I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up your prescription…”

You could cry listening to him list many of the errands you planned to do this week, but never found the time for. How is it possible to love him even more than you already do?

“Then, before I started cooking, I did the laundry.”

Your shoulders tense up.

Every time he did the laundry, it was utter chaos—darks, lights, and delicates tossed into the same load. You never knew if your white tees would survive unscathed or come out with a tinge of pink. The last time, he left everything in the dryer overnight, and you spent the next morning re-running cycles just to tame the wrinkles. Since then, he’s been unofficially banned from doing laundry unsupervised.

He sees your expression shift and quickly adds, “Don’t worry. I sorted everything. Even used the pre-wash on the sheets—just like you showed me.” He gives you a reassuring look, promising there wouldn’t be a repeat of last time.

Your eyes go wide. “You did what?”

He hesitates. “I… did the laundry?” He breaks into a sweat as he starts to question every decision he’s made in the last couple of hours.

You shake your head. “No, no—what did you say after that?”

“I sorted it and ran a pre-wash cycle?” He winces, hoping this answer will get him in less trouble.

When he sees your jaw drop with a gasp, he assumes the worst and scrambles for an explanation.

“Okay, hear me out. I know I messed up before, but I swear, I did it properly this time. I even folded the clothes and put them away in our closet. I’m just waiting for the last load to finish in the dryer.”

You find yourself…inexplicably aroused by all of this. The thought of him in his cutoff shirt, doing a load of laundry, and carefully folding everything. Not only that, but most importantly, doing it exactly the way you like it—is enough to get you hot and bothered.

He sits there anxiously, completely unaware of the effect this has on you.

“I was just trying to help. Are you mad?”

Instead of answering him, you lunge forward and kiss him.

“Whoa, what? What’s happening?” He’s perplexed, yet pleasantly surprised by your sudden aggressiveness.

You shift to straddle his hips. “You had me at ‘sorting the laundry,’” you breathe against his lips before kissing him again, harder this time.

He pulls away again, still looking confused. “Wait, seriously? The laundry?”

It’s not just the laundry. Your hormones are already raging from ovulating, which not only piles onto your stress and irritability at work, but it also leaves you feeling unbearably horny.

The dinner he made had briefly distracted you, but now he’s stirred the memory of what you’d really been looking forward to since walking through the door.

You glare at him in exasperation for trying to derail your plans again. “Yes! Now, are you going to interrupt me again or do you want to get your dick sucked?”

He blinks slowly, your words echoing in his head. Then a slow smirk tugs at his lips, and his gaze darkens. He mimes zipping his mouth shut, hands lifting in mock surrender. He sinks back into the couch, arms stretched, eyes locked on you with quiet amusement.

“Good choice!” You cup his nape and pull his mouth to yours.

You kiss him with slow, deliberate strokes of your tongue—each one driving him crazy with want. Your hunger is intoxicating, only rivaling his scent: a heady mix of body wash, sweat, and the savory aromatics from the dish he cooked. It’s the perfect cocktail that sends your senses into overdrive.

When you break the kiss, you tug his shirt over his head. Then you lower yourself again, pressing soft kisses along his jaw, tracing it with gentle licks that elicit a low moan from his throat. Your mouth travels down his chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses as you slide from his lap, then finally sinking to your knees between his legs.

He lifts his hips when you tug at his waistband, helping you slide his bottoms, just enough to pull his cock out.

You tease the tip with a gentle flick of your tongue, making him inhale sharply. You slide your mouth down his length, drawing another gasp from him. At the first hint of suction, he sinks his head deeper into the cushions and groans in pleasure.

“Holy…f…uck…” The rush of wet heat from your mouth over his sensitive tip is so intense, he struggles to catch his breath. Your lips tighten around him, your tongue massaging that perfect spot on his cock that you know makes his toes curl.

You pull upward, then tease him with your fingers, stroking with just enough pressure to make him crave more.

His hands are in your hair, his neck straining to get a glimpse of your mouth sliding up and down his cock.

“Fuck, baby…” he hisses through his teeth, “So good.”

You peer up at him and see his lip caught between his teeth, eyes heavy-lidded, face etched with pleasure—the visual intensifies the throbbing between your legs. Unable to resist, you slip your fingers into your panties to ease the ache. Being extra sensitive during this phase of your cycle, it doesn’t take long before your fingers are coated in your slick.

The hum of your moans vibrates through him, fueling his torment and driving him closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs tense, hear it in the way his breath stutters. Then suddenly, his hands grab your sides, breaking your suction as he pulls you upward.

“C’mere.”

His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt, gliding to cup the backs of your thighs and the curve of your ass. He pulls you in until your center hovers right over his face.

“Take it off,” he whispers, eyes gazing up at you with dark anticipation.

Without hesitation, your top comes off in one fluid motion.

He presses slow kisses across your stomach, each one making you sigh with pleasure and weak in the knees. His fingers hook into your panties, easing them down your legs, and he guides you back onto his lap.

You gasp as your overly sensitive nipples brush against his bare chest, sending a burst of sensation straight to your core.

“I want you inside me,” you whisper, nuzzling his nose with yours.

“Yeah?” His fingers find your nipple, pinching and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. You whimper when the sharp but pleasurable pain makes goosebumps race across your skin.

“How bad?”

You grind your soaked folds shamelessly along the length of him, then tease the seam of his lips with your tongue. “Really, really bad.”

Seungcheol flashes a cocky grin, clearly pleased with your answer. For a second, you think he’s about to finally put you out of your misery. But instead, he surprises you, lifting you off the couch.

His hands steady beneath you, he tightens your legs around his waist. You band your arms around his neck, clinging to him as he carries you down the hall—both of you giggling and kissing between breaths.

He angles his body and bumps your bedroom door wider. Your thighs hit the edge of the mattress first, and then he lowers you gently onto your back.

With a sly, teasing smile, he leans down and kisses you quickly.

“My turn.”

He hovers over you, then down—his hot mouth trailing over your breasts, your stomach, and finally, your center. You gasp, arching as his tongue flutters over your clit, every flick sending jolts through your body.

His hands slide up to cup your breasts, fingers teasing your nipples while his mouth devours you with unrelenting focus. The more you beg him to fuck you, the longer he makes you wait, savoring every sound you make, every tremble of your body.

“Cheol, please…”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he just slips two fingers inside you and curls them, pressing and stroking that sensitive spot deep inside you.

You’re close to tears when he makes you come once. Then again. And again. By the time he finally lets up, your legs are shaky, your body limp with aftershocks. You lie still, your limbs heavy, your clit still pulsing from his relentless mouth.

You barely register him speaking when his finger strokes you gently across your cheek. “Are you okay?”

You nod weakly.

He chuckles, clearly pleased with the satiated look on your face.

“Time for bed?”

The second the words register, your eyes snap open, and you push up onto your elbows, protesting. “What? No!”

The corners of his mouth twitch. That’s exactly the response he wanted. He leans in close, his breath fanning against your skin.

“Can you take more?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, then his lips trace a path down your cheek before claiming your mouth again.

“Please. I just want you inside me.”

He’s seen that look in your eyes before—hunger, need. And because Seungcheol aims to please, he gives in.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You give a vague nod and your body’s already moving, scrambling upright, too eager to wait another second.

He leans in again, his breath warm on your cheek as he gently tucks a few loose strands behind your ear.

“Say it.”

A small smile curves your lips as you kneel on the bed, hands resting obediently on your thighs, sitting back on your heels–like a good girl.

His teeth catch his bottom lip. God, he could come just from seeing you like this.

“Ask me again.”

He steadies himself, shifting his focus to hang onto his last shred of control. He wants to make this last—for both of you.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?”

“Yes.”

He takes a couple of steps back, and your mouth waters as you watch him peel off his sweats. His hand wraps around himself, slowly stroking, before he climbs onto the bed with you.

“Lean into me,” he murmurs.

You shift until your back presses against his chest, resting your cheek against his shoulder. One hand cups your face, tilting your mouth up to his for a kiss, while the other slips between your legs, fingers pumping steadily inside you.

“You ready?” he purrs.

“I’ve been ready,” you whine breathlessly.

He chuckles. “Go ahead,” he coaxes, his tongue touching yours with teasing licks. “Put me in then.”

Reaching back, your hand wraps around his length. He adjusts to line himself up for you. You sink your hips as he pushes up simultaneously, both groaning at the sensation of stretch and constriction.

He wraps his hand gently around your throat, his palm flat against your stomach. He withdraws, then thrusts so hard into you that you could swear you see stars. He holds you firmly in his arms, pumping in and out of you steadily, his groans thrumming against your spine.

“Yes, yes…harder,” you pant, reaching behind and sinking your nails into the flesh of his ass, beyond needy.

You don’t have to ask him twice—he’s already on it. He pulls out, guides you down to the bed, and steadies you as you bend at the waist, cheek pressing into the mattress. His hands grip your hips firmly, and he slides in deep, pulling a whimper from your lips. This is exactly what you wanted, and he’s all too happy to give it to you.

Your insides tense, clenching desperately around him. He grunts through clenched teeth, pulling out just enough before pushing back in intensely. Again and again. Each time, hitting every one of those tight bundles of nerves inside you.

“Don’t stop…” You whine.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me hear you.”

He smacks your ass hard, the stinging sensation causing your insides to clench around him in a vice-like grip. Your fingers claw at the sheets, deep moans rumbling from your throat.

Your legs tremble with a particularly rough stroke, but you’re still desperate and hungry for more. The steady rhythm of his hips and the sounds you make only add to his own insatiable need for you.

He spanks you again, before he picks up the pace, pounding into you, his fingers circling your clit add to the torment. Your cunt squeezes around him as another orgasm nears.

His movements grow unsteady and erratic—after delaying his gratification for so long, he’s now racing toward his orgasm.

He comes with a drawn-out, throaty growl, your knees buckling with the rush of his release melding with yours.

You both collapse onto the bed, skin flushed with a gleam of sweat, limbs tangled in the mess of sheets that he had, ironically, just washed.

He lets out a hoarse, breathless laugh. “Sorry if I went too hard.”

You giggle. “Are you kidding? No complaints here—at all!”

You both settle into a comfortable silence as your breathing steadies and heartbeats slow to normal.

After a moment, he glances over at you and asks, “Hey… are you ovulating, by any chance?” His tone is light, but there’s a hint of apprehension to it.

You narrow your gaze, intrigued. “Y-eah,” you draw out the word. “Why?”

He nods, as if that confirms something. “Figured.”

You tilt your head in amusement. “And how exactly could you tell the difference?”

His voice drops as he locks eyes with you. “Because I can feel it.” 

Sure enough, you’re much wetter, and he slips right into you with ease.

You bite back a grin. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on that kind of thing.”

He shrugs, all nonchalant about it. “We’ve been together long enough for me to know you tend to like it rough around this time.”

You glance at him, cheeks warming. He wasn’t wrong. You wanted to be manhandled, and he delivered, as he always does. “Is that weird for you?”

His mouth curves into a smirk. “Weird? Nah. Hot?” He gives an exaggerated nod, eyes trailing over you, and blows out a slow whistle.

You tilt your head back, laughing softly at the ceiling. “Well, I never thought properly done laundry would end up on my list of turn-ons, and yet, here we are.”

You catch his cheeky grin from the corner of your eye.

“Well, in that case,” he drawls, “I should mention that I ran the delicates cycle. Even used that little mesh bag you keep stashed above the washer.”

You roll onto your side and slow-blink at him, as if he’d just grown an extra head.

“And,” he adds, his voice dropping, “I vacuumed.” His eyebrow arches in that cocky way that sends your pulse racing and your self-control straight out the window.

You sit up slowly, crawling toward him with purpose. “Oooh, Mr. Choi,” you whisper, fingers trailing up his chest, “Keep talking dirty to me.”

He breaks into that throaty laugh you love so much. “Round two, then?”

Main SVT Fic Masterlist

Thank you for reading!

Interaction/feedback is appreciated but *not* required. But just in case you feel comfortable enough to comment or just say hello, my inbox 📩 is open 💜💎

[gloomwitchwrites]

Poppy~!! I saw that you're taking requests now and I wanted to know, if reader had to pretend to be the spouse of a 141 member for a brief undercover mission, how do you think that would go? 🤭 I'm thinking maybe someone has a love they think is unrequited until they discover it isn't, someone else was indifferent to the act but ended up enjoying the scenario too much, another one maybe was just waiting for a chance to pin you down and this is a prime opportunity, and maybe someone else was already involved in a secret relationship and now they're "married", so it works out perfectly? Idk idk, this is my first time requesting anything from you and I am just so excited to see where you would take this idea! Thank you so much for your time, love ya!! 💖

Anon, I know you asked for this forever ago, but I never forgot about it! I certainly went the naughty route with this one. I hope that's okay! These men are thirsty, and they're salivating over the opportunity to be flirty and forward. Enjoy!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x 141!fem!reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, brief alcohol use, flirting, vaginal fingering, piv penetration, sex club, fake relationships, mutual pining, dirty talk, voyeurism

Word Count: 2.4k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“You clean up nice.”

“Not so bad yourself.”

Captain Price’s smile is sultry and glowing, his gaze hungrily devouring every inch of you. This is a mission. This man is your superior. And yet he’s always John to you. Your John. The man you love and secretly meet when others aren’t around.

Over his shoulder the setting sun bathes the ocean in a beautiful orange, almost as if the water is on fire. The two of you linger on a balcony overlooking the ocean, pretending that the two of you are married and in simple conversation. Within is a party. Live music. An open bar with flowing liquor. Waiters with hor d'oeuvres.

Malta is beautiful. It might be summer, but the air is surprisingly cool. The salty breeze sticks to your skin. John reaches out, brushes away a few salty flecks with the pad of his thumb. He brings it to his mouth, moaning softly.

“Be professional,” you scold with a teasing smile.

“I am,” he croons. “To them, you’re my wife.” He leans in, brushing his lips along your ear. “And my wife deserves attention.”

As his lips land on your throat, licking up the bit of wayward ocean salt, John’s hand delicately grasps your ass, squeezing.

“We have a job to do,” you murmur, grasping his arm, giving him more of your throat.

“We have the whole week. Target isn’t going anywhere. Not when he’s the honored guest.”

“Champagne?”

John draws back, shifting his stance to block your view of the waiter. “Thanks, mate,” grins John, snagging two flutes. He offers you one.

“This isn’t a vacation,” you chide, taking the flute. The bubbly liquid bursts and fizzes on your tongue.

“We’re in Malta. Staying in a castle. And I get to spend the week referring to you as my wife.” John takes your hand, his thumb brushing over the gold band on your finger. “Think I like this.”

“You think?”

John glances up, and your heart stops. “Would you like that? Wearing a band that marks you as mine?”

“John,” you breathe.

“Say yes,” he murmurs. “And we’ll go back to the room right now.”

“You’d risk the mission just to fuck me?”

“No question, love.”

John’s hand descends again, cupping your ass, squeezing roughly. “If you don’t want to go back to the room and fuck—”

“Oh, stop,” you giggle, smacking his chest.

“—then how about we have a dance.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Your cheeks flame as you turn away from the faces in the room.

It’s not that any of them are really looking at you, or where Johnny’s hand is, or what he’s doing with his fingers. Nearly everyone else in the room is doing something lecherous—something dirty. Johnny is simply fitting in, pushing the agenda, making those around him believe that he’s fingering his wife and not his fucking teammate.

“You’re a fucking lucky man.”

You roll your eyes, and then stifle a moan as Soap pinches your clit between thumb and forefinger.

“Oh, aye,” croons Johnny, nipping your earlobe. “The luckiest.”

Burying your face in Soap’s neck, your breathing quickens, nails digging into his shoulder. A little moan escapes you, but it’s eclipsed by others who are much louder.

This wasn’t part of the mission. The mission was to attend this gathering, for Soap to be nothing more than a businessman seeking a lucrative deal, and you nothing more than his pretty arm candy. What wasn’t supposed to happen was a fucking orgy.

The target in question is sitting in a lounge chair next to Johnny, his mistress in his lap, legs spread open so the whole room can see her bouncing on his cock. They aren’t the only ones engaged in sexual activity. Most of the room is doing something, or they’re watching.

Noticing the shift, Johnny had dragged you into his lap, situating you so that he could easily finger-fuck you but no one would be receiving a show. For that, you’re thankful, but fuck, you weren’t expecting this, let alone enjoying it as much as you are.

With perfect precision, Soap rocks two fingers in and out of your pussy, his thumb rubbing your clit in tandem with his movements. The orgasm sprouts, blooms, explodes in color. You bite down on Soap’s shoulder to muffle the cry.

“She’s a lovely thing,” the target groans, and the blissful mood dissipates.

“Careful,” growls Soap. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”

You’re fake wife, you mentally correct. But you smile, preening with the way Soap stakes a claim.

Johnny’s hand starts up again, and you shiver.

“You’re doing so well, lass,” he whispers against your ear. “So fucking tight.” Your pussy clenches around his fingers, and Soap groans.

With his other hand, Johnny tugs at the front of his pants, opening the fly. Reaching down, you slip your hand underneath, grasping his cock. Johnny’s eyelids flutter, and when he looks at you, you understand the silent communication. Like everyone else in this room, the two of you will be expected to fuck.

Better him than a stranger.

Johnny helps, bringing you into his lap as your stroke him to hardness. This will never leave this room. You will never mention this to the rest of the team. As you sink down on him, Soap adjusts your dress, covering what’s happening beneath. You grasp the back of his neck, using it as leverage to come down on him as he pumps up into you.

You press your forehead against his, exchanging breaths.

“Making a proper wife of you,” he teases.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you smile.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“We look good together.”

Kyle’s comment catches you off-guard. “What?” you laugh, pressing your hand to your fluttering stomach.

He saunters up beside you, lowering his head in an intimate familiarity. “Captain made the right call. Putting us together.”

You giggle, lightly pushing him with a carefully placed hand to the middle of his chest. “It’s pretend, Kyle. We’re bugging the place and then we’re leaving.”

“We can have a bit of fun,” he smiles, tapping the tip of your nose. “We’re married.”

His teasing and playful smile is warming something low in your belly. You’ve always had a soft spot for Garrick, but you’ve never pushed it any further than some light teasing.

“Fake married, sergeant.”

Kyle drapes his arm around your back and over your hip, pulling you in close. “Need to act like we love each other.” Slowly, and with such affection your heart skips a beat, Kyle presses his lips to your throat.

You twist out of his grasp, flustered and overwhelmed by the attention. But Kyle is all smiles, reaching for you again as the two of you walk up to the house. An “Open House” sign with an array of balloons is out front. Several groups of couples and realtors in suits linger out front chatting about the lawn. The house itself is large, bordering on mansion.

But you and Kyle aren’t there to house shop.

This home is owned by a wealthy businessman. He used to make his money on real estate, but now he’s shifted into drugs and weaponry. More lucrative. Under the table. This home is just one of many targets. The goal is to bug it.

There might be a “for sale” sign out front, but it’s for show. The property already has a buyer. This is just to make it look legit.

“Welcome. I’m Heather.”

Heather, the realtor, extends her hand. Kyle accepts it, keeping his other hand attached to your lower back.

“It’s a beautiful home,” replies Kyle. “Eager for a look.”

Heather beams. “It really is stunning, isn’t it?”

“How big are the bedrooms?” asks Kyle. “Plan on growing our family. Space is important.”

“You’ll love the master. Lots of room,” replies Heather, gesturing toward the open front door. “The rest of the bedrooms have a good range in size to be used as bedrooms for children. Office space. A nursery.”

“Hear that, love,” smiles Kyle. “Lots of options.”

“Sounds like we need to take a look,” you say with an easy smile, leaning into Kyle’s arm.

“Grab a refreshment and explore. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Thank you,” nods Kyle, urging you further into the house.

When the two of you are out of earshot, you pinch his arm. “You’re having far too much fun.”

Kyle chuckles. “Don’t like the idea of me knocking you up?”

“Kyle,” you hiss, smacking his arm.

“They’d be cute little buggers.”

You smack him again.

“Could start now.”

You playfully dart away. “We have a house to bug,” you hiss.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“He likes a show.”

“I know,” you murmur, pressing closer to Simon’s chest.

He’s being a gentleman about the whole fucking thing, and for that, you’re thankful, but neither of you expected this when you agreed.

“Won’t come otherwise. Need him alone.”

You sigh, tapping your forehead against Simon’s bare chest repeatedly. “Why did he have to be a voyeur.” Simon’s rumbling chuckle is soothing.

He runs his hands up and down your back. “Promise I’ll be gentle.”

“Gentleness isn’t what I’m worried about,” you murmur. “I know you won’t hurt me.”

Simon’s arms tighten around you, his tone dropping to a teasing tone. “Think I won’t make you come?”

You bark a laugh, and then stifle it by smothering your face into his chest. “You’re not funny.”

“It’s only for a bit.” Simon grasps the back of your neck, drawing you back so he can gaze into your eyes. “All they know is that we’re married and we like it when people watch. Which is why the target is interested. We need him to watch us. To get comfortable. Let his guard down. The team will swoop in and take care of the rest.”

You inhale deeply. “I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

You nod, and Simon draws your mouth to his. It’s tender. Soft. A ghost of a touch. You open for him, and Simon dives in, tongue meeting tongue. You grow dizzy. Light-headed. When he breaks the kiss, you almost stumble.

Simon smirks. “You can pretend that you like me.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

You grasp his hand, pushing back the black curtain, revealing the dimly lit room. The edges of the room are all in shadow, but in the center, where the lone light illuminates, is an elevated platform. It’s covered in plush black velvet and pillows. An altar. You lead Simon to it, swaying your hips in a slow dance.

Just as you turn toward Simon, you glimpse the target seated in the corner. Most of his face is obscured, but you recognize the shape. If Simon notices him, he doesn’t show it. His attention is fully on you, his dark eyes burning behind the half-skull mask. You have a matching one, also in black to pair with the lace bralette and panties.

Simon’s hands are everywhere, grasping, touching. His lips find yours, and you sink into him, trying to focus only on him. That is the point after all, to pretend that he’s your husband, that you’re here for him to fuck you in front of others.

And that’s exactly what he does.

The intensity in which Simon puts you on your back, strokes your legs, and opens you wide is more than a job. He is worshiping you, lips traversing over every inch, hands touching everything. You groan and gasp, arching into his embrace, crying out when his tongue finds your sensitive clit.

You don’t care that there are others in the room. That you’re being watched. It’s nice, actually, to be desired in both ways.

“Taste so good,” groans Simon, running his tongue over your pussy.

You’re lost in him, and when Simon ascends to slot is cock at your entrance, your legs fall wider. Hooking his arms around your legs, Simon thrusts relentlessly, each connection pushing bright bursts of air from your lungs.

The pleasure of him inside you is so profound, that you don’t realize the room is being stormed by men in tactical gear until Simon throws himself atop you, shielding your body from view. He acts protective, and in moments the room clears, and the target is dragged away. You cling to him, unmoving, both of you breathing heavy.

“We should go, shouldn’t we?” you ask after a few lengthy seconds. Simon remains where he is, unmoving. His cock is still inside you. “Simon?”

His lips find yours again, and then he’s thrusting, lifting you against him. “Need to finish pleasing my wife.”

“Simon. I’m not your wife,” you whimper as he grinds his hips against you.

“Oh, love. You could be.”