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number4syndrome · 1 day ago

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Still Yours | ln4

🌩️ summary: three months post-breakup, one hickey brings him to your doorstep—furious, jealous, and still very much obsessed.

🌩️ pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

🌩️ words count: 3k+

🌩️ warnings: 18+, oral (f receiving), toxic dynamic, jealousy, possessiveness, hickeys, light chocking, messy emotions, post-breakup angst, emotional confession, language, toxic!Lando (ofcc)

🌩️ author’s note: whew! that was so much fun (and chaos) to write!! thank you again for the request—i hope it turned out like you imagined! honestly i don’t even know what to say… it’s juicy, it’s feral, it’s toxic… basically everything i’ve been writing lately… enjoy!! and don’t forget—requests are open, so give me your filthiest desires, lovelies 🫦 kissessss 💕

You shouldn't have worn your hair up.

Not because it didn't look good.

You looked fucking incredible.

The backless dress hugged your curves just right, so short it almost showed everything.

But it was your neck.

The hickey.

You didn't even notice it until you were fixing your lip gloss in the back of the car.

And then you felt it.

That burning stare on your skin.

His eyes.

You looked up—

locked eyes with Lando across the club.

He looked furious.

Like fire and gasoline and the spark that set it all off.

You didn't even have time to move.

He was already storming across the crowd, cutting through it like a knife.

And then he was right in front of you.

So close you could feel his breath on your cheek.

"The fuck is that?" he snapped.

Your arms folded. Chin lifted.

"None of your business," you bit back.

"We're not together anymore."

He grinned.

But there was nothing happy in that smile.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"Wanna try that again?"

You smirked, venom on your tongue.

You whispered back, soft and slow.

"Yes."

And for a second?

He thought he won.

Until you pulled away with a glare and spat,

"Get the fuck out of my face."

And just like that, you turned.

Didn't look back.

Walked right out of that club and into the cab.

It was barely twenty fucking minutes before the knock came.

So loud your front door trembled.

You took your time walking to the door. You liked to make him mad. You loved him when he lost control.

It had been three months since the breakup, but your heart still sank at the thought of what was waiting on the other side.

You cracked the door open just a little.

"Sorry, I'm not interested," you said sweetly, peeking out with a teasing smile.

He didn't even blink.

The door slammed open with a force that rattled the hinges, and you barely stumbled back before it hit you.

"Do you think I fucking care?"

His voice was sharp—deadly quiet and trembling with rage.

He stormed in, chest heaving. His jaw clenched, knuckles white. You watched it all unfold like a scene you'd seen too many times before.

"What's your problem?" you snapped, rolling your eyes. It was instinct at this point—poke the bear, wake the monster.

He scoffed. A bitter, humorless sound.

"My problem?"

He surged forward, hands gripping your waist, spinning you so fast your back slammed into the wall with a thud that shook the frame above it.

His hand wrapped around your throat—not tight, but enough to remind you that you were his.

Still.

Always.

You gulped.

"My fucking problem is this," he hissed, dragging a finger along your jaw, the gesture deceptively soft.

His hand moved to your chin, fingers firm, tilting your head.

"Who was it?"

His voice was so low it was almost a growl, breath brushing against your lips.

"None of your business," you replied, lashes fluttering with a defiant smile. You loved him like this—furious, dangerous, unhinged.

It made your knees weak.

You'd had flings after him. A few bodies. A few mistakes. But none of them ruined you like he did.

You sometimes still hooked up. But only when you were drunk and weak.

The sex was never the problem.

It was everything else.

It was the way he only came back when he missed you—but never stayed when you needed him.

The way he loved you like a drug he couldn't quit—but treated you like a secret he couldn't keep.

He gave you obsession, but never a future.

Chaos, but never comfort.

And still, here you were.

Pinned against the wall.

Heart racing.

Thighs clenched.

So fucking wet you could barely think.

His grip tightened ever so slightly.

"You like flaunting this shit in front of me, huh?" he growled, brushing his thumb across the mark on your neck.

"That little hickey? You think that's gonna scare me off?"

You bit your lip. "I was hoping it would."

He laughed. Cruel. Breathless.

"Too late for that, baby."

"And you know what, sweetheart?" he whispered into your ear, voice like smoke—slow and dangerous.

"What?" you breathed, your body betraying every ounce of pride you had left.

He chuckled darkly, low and feral.

"You're right. It's not my fucking business."

His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate.

"And I don't fucking care."

Because tonight..."

He paused, lips brushing your skin like a threat.

"I'm gonna fuck you until not only will you forget that loser's name—"

He pushed the hem of your dress up, the fabric bunching around your hips.

"—you won't even remember your own fucking name."

You gasped as his fingers slid under your panties with expert ease, pushing them aside like he'd done a hundred times before.

He hissed at the wetness he found.

"Oh, baby..." he moaned. "You're soaked. You missed this, didn't you?"

He circled your clit with a slow, punishing rhythm, making your knees threaten to give out.

"The only name that's gonna be on your mind—"

He bit your neck, not gently.

"—is mine."

You whimpered.

"You wanted me to lose my fucking mind?" he growled, mouth dragging to the spot just under your ear.

"Congrats. You succeeded."

Then without warning, he slid two fingers inside you—deep, hard, unforgiving.

You screamed at the sudden stretch, the overwhelming pressure.

He smirked against your skin.

"Payback time, baby."

He started pushing his fingers in and out like a man possessed—like a man with something to prove.

And in his mind? He did.

Because he lied.

That little hickey on your neck had gutted him.

The idea of someone else touching you—owning a piece of you—

It terrified him.

So now, he needed to take it back.

Claim you all over again.

His thumb circled your clit in tight, merciless little patterns as he lifted one of your legs, hooking it around his hips to angle you just right. The new position made everything sharper, deeper.

You gasped—hips grinding against his palm, your body chasing the high like it was the only thing anchoring you to earth.

His fingers curled—exactly the way you loved. He remembered every spot, every rhythm, every fucking weakness.

"That's it," he growled against your cheek. "Grind on my hand like a good fucking girl."

Your head fell back against the wall, lips parting in a silent moan as he sped up the rhythm—fingers plunging in deep while his thumb kept you teetering on the edge.

"God, look at you," he breathed, voice thick with disbelief and lust. "Three fucking months apart and you're already soaking for me. Missed this pussy. Missed me."

You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket. He didn't flinch. If anything, he seemed to like the sting.

He kissed you then—hard and messy and brutal. Teeth clashing. Tongues tangling.

There was no tenderness in it, only need.

Raw, ugly, aching need.

"You still mine?" he whispered hoarsely, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.

His fingers were still working you open, steady and unforgiving.

"Tell me. Tell me you're still fucking mine."

You bit your lip—out of spite, pride, rebellion—but your body gave you away. You clenched around his fingers, a high-pitched moan slipping through your teeth as your hips stuttered.

He smirked, victorious.

"That's what I thought."

And then he dropped to his knees.

He yanked your panties down in one swift, ruthless motion, the fabric dragging along your soaked folds. You gasped at the sudden cool air hitting your slick heat, thighs trembling from the exposure.

He looked up at you with that crooked grin—the devil himself, with sin in his eyes.

"God," he breathed against your core, his voice low and reverent, like he was worshipping between your legs.

"I missed this pussy. No one—no one—gets to see you like this. You understand me?"

His hand came down hard in a slap, right across your cunt.

The sharp sting sent a cry tearing from your throat as your knees nearly buckled.

"Damn," he laughed, eyes gleaming with something dark, dangerous, and possessive. "You are such a fucking slut for me."

"Shut up," you moaned, grinding your hips forward, desperate for friction—anything—but he pulled back, teasing, infuriating.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and taunting.

"Are you gonna beg for it?"

You let out a breathless laugh, grabbing a fistful of his curls and yanking his face toward your cunt. He grunted.

"If you're not gonna start using that fucking mouth for something useful," you snapped, venom dripping from your voice, "I'm calling the guy who fucked me two days ago."

His eyes went black.

"Fucking hell you're not," he growled—actually growled—before burying his face between your thighs with the fury of a man possessed.

And then?

He devoured you.

No teasing. No warm-up. No mercy.

He licked a fat stripe up your folds, groaning at the taste like he was finally getting a fix after weeks of withdrawal. His tongue flattened against your clit, then circled it with maddening precision, fast and filthy and so fucking wet.

He wasn't careful—he was unhinged.

Sloppy. Desperate.

He ate you like a man starved, tongue flicking and sucking, alternating pressure like he knew exactly how to unravel you.

You cried out, hips jerking forward, but he only grabbed your thighs and slammed them over his shoulders, forcing you against his face.

"You taste even fucking better than I remember," he muttered between licks, the vibration of his voice sending shocks straight to your spine.

He shook his head while eating you out, tongue moving erratically, nose brushing your clit, saliva and slick dripping down his chin as he sucked you like it was oxygen.

It was obscene. Messy. Feral.

You could hear it—the wet, lewd sounds of him lapping at you, tongue dipping into your entrance, curling and fucking into you while his nose nudged your clit over and over again.

You were moaning shamelessly now, one hand braced against the wall, the other buried in his curls, tugging hard.

"Lando—fuck—" you gasped. "Don't stop—don't you fucking dare—"

He growled again, this time deeper. He liked when you begged.

His hands gripped your ass, dragging you closer, grinding you against his face as if he wanted you to ride his mouth.

"You gonna come for me?" he mumbled against your clit, tongue relentless.

Your entire body was trembling, thighs clenched, heart racing.

The pressure was unbearable. The filth of it. The hunger in him. The way he fucking moaned into your pussy like it was his.

And it was.

Still.

Always.

You felt it building—white-hot and unstoppable—your climax crashing toward you like a wave.

You didn't even get to warn him.

You came with a scream, thighs shaking, your entire body tensing and then breaking apart in his hands.

He didn't stop.

He licked you through it. Lapped up every drop. Kept sucking like he wanted to steal your soul through your cunt.

And when you finally sagged against the wall, panting, ruined, he looked up at you—chin soaked, lips shiny, eyes wild—and said:

"Round two's on the couch."

Your legs were still trembling when he grabbed you by the ass and hauled you into his arms, carrying you across the room like you weighed nothing.

He dropped you onto the couch, not gently, not carefully—just needy.

Clothes came off in a blur. His jacket hit the floor. Shirt—gone. Pants—ripped open.

And before you could even process what was happening, he was already yanking your dress over your head, eyes devouring you.

He froze for a second, jaw clenched, breath ragged.

"Still so fucking perfect," he muttered like a confession, like a prayer.

Then he was on you—crawling up your body, kissing down your chest, lips trailing over your collarbone before finding your tits.

He wrapped his mouth around one nipple, sucking hard, teeth scraping just enough to make you whine.

You arched into him, shoving your fingers in his curls, dragging him closer.

"You're gonna mark me," you gasped.

He grinned against your skin. "Good."

He licked a slow, wet stripe between your breasts, then sat back on his knees, cock heavy in his hand as he teased your entrance—dragging the tip through your slick folds, smearing it against your still-sensitive clit.

You hissed.

He moaned.

"Yeah, that's it," he groaned, eyes dark. "Here's what's gonna happen—

I'm gonna fuck you so hard, this whole fucking neighborhood—no, this whole fucking town—will hear you screaming my name.

And then maybe they'll finally fucking understand who you belong to."

And then he slammed into you.

No warning. No mercy. Just balls-deep, spine-snapping, heart-stopping brutality.

"LANDO—FUCK!" you screamed, nails raking down his back, leaving angry red lines in your wake.

He stilled inside you for just a second, both of you frozen in the heat of it, breath mingling, bodies pressed tight.

Then he started to move.

Not slow.

Not gentle.

Each thrust punched the air from your lungs, your body rocking with every brutal snap of his hips.

His hand wrapped around your throat, thumb pressing into the side of your neck—not choking, just a reminder.

"Look at me," he growled, eyes wild. "Look at me and see who's fucking you this good."

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his.

The moment you did, he snapped his hips even harder, the couch creaking beneath you.

You cried out, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

"Fuck, baby," he whined, voice breaking in your ear. "Still so fucking tight. Still made for me."

He buried his face in your neck, panting, biting down just enough to bruise.

You moaned at the feeling, hands clawing at his back, hips meeting every thrust like your body already knew the rhythm.

It was too much.

Too fast.

Too fucking good.

You were close—again. You could feel it building, pressure curling in your stomach, everything burning.

And he knew. Of course he did.

"You're gonna come again," he whispered against your skin. "I can feel it. Gonna fucking come all over my cock like you always do. Do it. Let go."

One more thrust—angled just right—and you shattered beneath him.

You screamed his name, body clenching around him, legs locked tight as your orgasm ripped through you like lightning.

He cursed, hips stuttering, losing control.

"Fuck—fuck, fuck," he gasped, gripping your hips and driving in deep, one final time—

And he came.

Hard.

Spilling inside you with a strangled moan, his whole body tensing as he collapsed against you.

You both stayed there, bodies still joined, breathing heavy, sweat-slicked skin sticking to each other.

His forehead pressed to your shoulder. Your hand slid into his hair.

You felt him breathing into you—slow, heavy, almost desperate.

Like he was trying to breathe your scent in. Memorize it. Bury himself in it.

Your brows furrowed as you gently combed your fingers through his hair.

He'd never stayed like this before.

Usually, after he fucked you like this—ruthless, possessive, raw—he'd catch his breath, pull away, and leave.

But this time... he didn't move.

He stayed. Still tangled with you. Still holding on.

"Lan?" you whispered, your voice cautious, careful. "Are you okay?"

He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck. His arms tightened around your waist like he was afraid you'd vanish.

"No," he said, voice thick and low. "I'm not fucking okay."

Your heart stuttered. "Lando... what's wrong? You're acting weird."

You tried to tilt his face up, needing to see him, but he resisted for a moment. And when he finally looked at you—

His eyes were glossy. Brimming with tears.

"Lan," you breathed, thumb brushing gently along his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I know I should leave. That's what I usually do, right?" He let out a shaky laugh. "But I can't. I don't want to leave. I don't want to be without you. I want to stay. I want to be with you. Not just to fuck—for everything."

He kissed your chest softly, reverently, then trailed kisses up your jaw, pausing at the corner of your mouth. His eyes met yours, wide and vulnerable.

"I know I fucked up," he whispered. "So many times. But since you left, I haven't been the same. I miss you, baby. I miss us. I want you back."

You blinked, stunned, breath caught in your throat.

"I love you," he said.

The words hit you like a wave.

"Lando..." you gasped. "You don't mean that."

"I do. Fuck, I do. I think I've always loved you. I just—"

He swallowed hard, pressing his forehead to yours.

"I didn't know how to show it. I'm a stubborn asshole who always picked pride over you. And I was wrong. So fucking wrong."

He kissed a tear as it slipped down your cheek, his voice barely a whisper now.

"But I love you, Y/N. I really do. Can you—can you give me another chance?"

His voice cracked. "Please. I'll make it work this time. I'll be better. I swear."

You hesitated.

You wanted to say no.

You wanted to protect yourself.

You wanted to guard the part of you that still ached from the last time he left.

But you loved him.

God, you loved him. You never really stopped.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for his jaw, tilting his face toward yours.

"One more chance," you whispered.

He exhaled—relieved, wrecked—and a lazy, lopsided smile bloomed on his lips.

"Thank you, baby," he murmured, leaning in to kiss you.

But you stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Don't you dare fuck it up again, Norris," you said, dead serious.

"I won't," he whispered back. "I wouldn't even dare."

And then he kissed you—slow and soft, the kind of kiss that tasted like love and promise and everything in between.

You knew it wouldn't be easy.

You knew there was work to do.

But as you looked into his eyes, saw the honesty there—the fear, the hope, the love—

You knew one thing for sure:

He meant every fucking word.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris #f1 #f1 fanfic #formula 1 #lando norris smut #landonorris #mclaren #angst #emotional angst #post break up #request #number4syndrome

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jaysbaefie · 3 months ago

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bullshit | sjy

synopsis: in which months of mocking jake online comes back to bite you, and he makes sure you regret every single word—on your knees.

genre: idol au

pairing: idol!jake x blogger!reader

warnings: dubcon? bratty!reader, petty!jake, mean!jake, big dick!jake, kidnapping (sort of kind of??), oral (m.rec), cum swallowing, reader grinds down on jake’s shoe, mention of daddy kink (but it’s not used), forced submission, manhandling, titty sucking, marking, begging, degrading. self degradation, rough and unprotected p in v, orgasm denial, overstimulation, light spanking slapping and chocking, creampie, spitting, recording for blackmail purposes. i think that’s it….

wc: 15.1k

a/n: this took a lot more time that i initially thought it would … but it’s here now! this draft has been sitting in my archives for years like literal years. back when i used to write on wattpad for bts i had this plot written for tae but scrapped it because i lacked creativity to make it happen. but here we r ! also side note this is not edited to the best of its abilities so if u c a mistake… im sorry :D hope you enjoy, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :)

✎﹏﹏

the dorm door slammed open, the sound of sneakers dragging across the floor echoing behind it. the 7 exhausted boys spilled into the living room, all drained and sweaty from the insane dance practice that had run two hours longer than scheduled. jake collapsed face-first onto the couch, groaning into a throw pillow as he stretches his limbs before he feels a cramp in his leg.

"i think my spine is permanently bent," he mumbled, not moving an inch.

sunghoon flopped onto the floor, using his hoodie as a pillow. "i think i disassociated during 'bite me.'"

"you always disassociate during 'bite me,'" heeseung shot back, tossing a towel at him making sunghoon scowl.

jay, meanwhile, had his phone out, thumb lazily scrolling through twitter as he half-listened to the chaos around him. he was about to put his phone down when a thread caught his eye.

"kpop idols who probably have the smallest dick (a very unserious thread)"

"...oh?" jay blinked, intrigued for all the wrong reasons. a grin formed on his lips as he clicked, the list started off wild.

1. jaehyun nct - idc what y'all say. he screams below average. 2. jeno nct - this is a hater post. cry about it. 3. jake from enhypen - golden retriever energy but gives micro vibes. sorry not sorry.

jay let out a loud, sudden laugh at the description given for jake—catching everyone's attention.

"yo, jake," he wheezed, turning the screen toward him. "look what someone said about you."

jake rolled over lazily, half hazy, "what?"

jay shoved the phone in front of his face. jake read the tweet once, then again. then a third time. his brows furrowed deeper with each pass, almost as if he couldn't believe what he was reading.

"...are you serious right now?"

he sat up, yanking the phone from jay's hand to read it himself. his eyes scanned the username, the post and then the likes. 10k likes for a bullshit post, jake scoffed in disbelief. he scrolled down to read the replies which were full of people either agreeing or arguing like their lives depended on it.

"no because she's right and she should say it louder" one of the comments read, jake furrowed his eyebrows before scowling.

"i love him but... yeah."

"nah he gives big dick energy actually"

"this is so mean LMFAOOO"

jake's mouth opened in shock. "why am i even on this list? what did i do to deserve this? how does someone look at me and go, 'yeah, micro dick.' what the hell?"

jay couldn't stop laughing. "it's so random, too. like. where did they get the data? did they run a poll?"

"this isn't funny!" jake snapped, slapping jay's shoulder with the back of his hand. "i'm being slandered in front of thousands of people. tens of thousands!"

sunoo peeked over jay's shoulder. "ooh. and someone made a follow-up post. wait—found their tumblr. they said he looks like he apologizes after missionary.'" sunoo cackles, "i can totally see that."

jake nearly choked on air, "what?!"

he snatched sunoo's phone this time, heart pounding as he scrolls violently across your twitter page. he followed the breadcrumb trail from twitter to a tumblr blog: @s0ftbrat666.

the header was a blurry photo of a cunty hello kitty, and the bio just said: "unserious about everything but dick size."

"who the hell is this? why do they hate me so bad?"

niki, who had been quietly sipping water from the kitchen, muttered, "maybe they're a fan of yours. like, weirdly obsessed. reverse psychology or something."

"no. this is personal. this feels targeted," jake muttered, already downloading and opening the tumblr app on his phone. "i'm not letting this slide."

he made a new account. he picked the most ironic, absurd username he could think of: @goldenjake420.

because that screams, 'i'm the real jake sim!!'

he messaged you immediately, his hands shaking in rage as he smashes his fingers into the screen.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

"this is so stupid," he muttered, tossing his phone beside him.

jay raised a brow. "you really just dm'd a twitter troll on tumblr?"

"yes. because the truth matters, jay. i do not have a micro dick!" he exclaims, clearly frustrated from his group mates lack of empathy. he looks around the room in hopes of his members reassurance, only to receive looks of disturbance.

"cmon guys, you know i don't have a micro dick.." he trails off when he sees sunoo grimace at his words.

heeseung smirked from the other side of the couch suddenly sitting up right, ignoring his aching body. "you should send a pic to prove it."

jay cackles before agreeing, "yeah, downwards angles always make that shit look like a tower."

"SHUT UP!" jake shouted, face red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

the room erupted in laughter as jake sat there fuming, arms crossed, waiting for a response. he had no idea the person he messaged was already rolling their eyes and preparing to block him.

and this was only the beginning.

you were no stranger to the occasional deranged and delusional fan losing their mind over a post. it was social media, not a diplomatic summit. if you said someone's fave had bad fashion sense or gave off weak dick energy, it was bound to stir drama—but you thrived in it.

what you didn't expect, though, was to get a dm from an account called @goldenjake420 claiming to be jake himself. not just a fan defending him. not someone crying in your inbox about how you were "too mean."

no. this person had committed to the bit.

@goldenjake420: hey just saw your post about me having a micro dick on twitter. not sure why you said that but i can assure you that it's not true kinda rude ngl maybe take it down?

you blinked at the message, snorted, and sat back in your chair.

"okay..." you muttered under your breath. "we've reached new levels of delusion."

you clicked the profile. no posts. followed no one. default layout. pfp of a blurry golden retriever. and the username?

goldenjake420.

"oh my god," you wheezed. this was peak fandom brainrot.

you stared at the message for a minute, thumbs hovering over your keyboard before you decided, you know what? fine. you wanna play jake sim? let's play.

you typed:

@s0ftbrat666: omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry... i didn't know you had a tumblr account i feel so bad now omg i'll take it down right away thank you for being so mature and respectful about it... ugh i feel terrible lol

you hit send. then burst out laughing, eyes watering as you cackle alone in your room.

and five minutes later, you posted a new post on your blog.

—— post by @s0ftbrat666

just got a dm from someone PRETENDING to be jake sim because they were mad i said he has a micro dick LMAOOO. like babes be serious... jake sim is not on tumblr dot com messaging me with a blurry pic of a golden retriever and the username @/goldenjake420. but since he's here reading my posts, hey jake! if u're mad now wait til u see what i post next

anyway updated my list: "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version" jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes and gifs as evidence. enjoy :] ——

you tagged it: #jake sim #enhypen #pls don't take this seriously #except jake if ur reading this then yeah take it seriously

you sat back and refreshed the notes every few seconds. it was already blowing up. likes, reblogs, someone screaming in the tags: "NOT THE FOOTNOTES."

you were thriving, satisfaction filling you as the comments seemed to hype you up.

unbeknownst to you, somewhere in a dorm across the city, jake was screaming into a pillow.

jake was laying on his stomach, face shoved into a couch cushion, aggressively refreshing your tumblr page like a man on a mission. the first message he sent you hadn't gone exactly how he expected. he thought maybe—maybe—you'd feel a little guilty, take the post down, maybe even apologize. instead, he was met with:

"omg jake??? THE jake sim??? i am so sorry..."

at first, he blinked. then smiled. you were going to apologize and take it down..great!

okay, he thought, that was easier than expected.

but then he saw the post you had published just a few minute later.

—— "kpop idols who give off submissive missionary micro dick energy: extended version." jake is now first on the list. i've added footnotes. and gifs. enjoy :] ——

"NO I AM NOT," he yelled into the pillow, voice muffled but full of sheer disbelief.

he rolled over and shot upright, shoving his phone in jay's face. "do you SEE this? i was already called micro dick jake, but now i'm a submissive pillow princess? where is she even getting this from?"

jay looked over the post with a calm expression and said, "well... you did say 'ngl' in a tumblr dm. that's kinda submissive."

"jay."

"i'm just saying."

jake's blood pressure was actively rising. he was pacing the living room now, phone clenched in his fist. "this isn't a joke anymore. she's making footnotes. gifs, bro. there's like a whole academic paper on my dick energy. and worst of all, PEOPLE ARE AGREEING."

sunoo peeked around the corner. "maybe just let it go? like... it's tumblr. no one's gonna remember next week."

"it's twitter too! no. no, she wanted to make it personal. it's personal now."

he went back to tumblr, typing furiously in your dm's.

@goldenjake420: okay first of all?? i was acc being really nice u said some really rude stuff and i still tried to talk to u calmly but now ur doubling down with footnotes?? idk y ur so convinced i'm a submissive pillow princess but ur wrong like so wrong scientifically inaccurate levels of wrong

he hit send. then stared at the screen.

nothing. no response. refresh. refresh.

"error: message could not be delivered."

"...what?" jake frowned, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he desperately tried sending his messages again.

he clicked your profile.

"you've been blocked by this user."

the silence that followed was deafening.

"she blocked me," he whispered, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. "she actually blocked me."

jay cackled from across the room. "maybe now you'll stop fighting the tumblr girl who thinks you're a bottom."

"i'm not a bottom!" jake snapped, defensive. "and i'm definitely not a pillow princess!"

jay peers over jake's shoulder, his face pulls into a grimace as he reads jake's messages. "maybe it's a good thing that those didn't deliver... you're proving her point." jake rolls his eyes in response, not wanting to deal with his friend.

he opened twitter, then paused. was he really about to tweet about this?

he closed the app.

instead, he opened his notes app and started typing:

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick."

this wasn't over.

if he had to write a dissertation, he would. he was reclaiming his name. one footnote at a time.

you were in bed, face smushed into your pillow, scrolling aimlessly when the tag notification came in. you were about to ignore it—probably another reblog of your cursed "submissive missionary micro dick energy" thread—but the caption caught your eye:

@s0ftbrat666 you need to see this LMAOOO he made a THREAD. a whole thread.

confused but curious, you tapped the post.

and there it was.

a full thread. by a tumblr user named @truthaboutjake, which already gave deranged energy, but it got better.

"debunking tumblr slander: why i, jake sim, am not submissive nor do i have a micro dick (a thread)."

you nearly dropped your phone, a giggle leaving you as you excitedly click on the thread.

the first slide was formatted like a presentation. bolded title, bullet points, and an unnecessary amount of spacing like someone had spent way too long formatting it.

—— slide 1: addressing the accusations • the tumblr user @s0ftbrat666 has made multiple posts claiming i am submissive • she has also accused me of having a micro dick • both of these are false, offensive, and based on no real evidence ——

no real evidence, he said. like you were in court.

"what in the deranged.." you muttered to yourself, re-reading the text a second time to make sure you were hallucinating.

you snorted, swiping to the next.

—— slide 2: rebuttal • i've been told i give off dominant energy • no one who owns a denim jacket collection that big can be submissive • as for the size... let's just say i've never received complaints ——

you had to pause there, hand over your mouth, wheezing. "denim jackets radiate peg me," you cackle to yourself.

this wasn't a thread written by a deranged fan. no, this was someone personally offended on a soul level. and the way it was written? the tone? the wording?

it was giving him. it was jake.

no one else would be this pressed.

you laughed so hard you had to sit up.

this man had been so insulted by your dumb, unserious thirst post that he created a whole alternate account, wrote a google-doc-tier thread, and was now trying to clear his name in the notes app format. you were obsessed.

you hit reblog.

—— @s0ftbrat666: i have never in my life witnessed a man fight for his dom rights this hard the denim jacket argument almost had me convinced ngl

jake sim if this is actually you: 1. calm down 2. you're literally proving my point 3. post the evidence since you're so confident ——

the comments came flooding in:

"NOT HIM MAKING A PRESENTATION" "'never received complaints' is CRAZY" "he could've just logged off but now he's in too deep" "@truthaboutjake is shaking"

you weren't done though. oh no.

you clicked the original post again and dm'd @truthaboutjake directly.

@s0ftbrat666: wow a thread? you really sat down and made a powerpoint about your dick this is the best thing that's happened to me all week but you still haven't proven anything so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era i'll wait <33

you hit send with a shit-eating grin.

this was your roman empire now. you were going to be thinking about this thread forever.

jake stared at your message like it physically slapped him.

"so until i see hard (and i mean HARD) evidence you're staying in your submissive micro dick era"

his jaw dropped.

"e-evidence?!" he sputtered aloud, standing up in the middle of the dorm living room like he'd just been accused of murder.

jay, sitting across the room with earbuds in, pulled one out and glanced up. "what now?"

"she wants evidence."

jay blinked. "like...?"

jake gestured wildly at his phone. "like evidence evidence!"

jay raised both brows before grinning "...so what i said about the downward angle, i'm telling you jake that shit makes it look h—"

"NO!" jake practically yelled. "i'm not sending a picture of my dick to some random troll on tumblr!"

he fumed. typed. deleted. typed again. then, finally, sent:

@truthaboutjake: okay. listen. i'm not sending you a dick pic. i don't care how much you want "evidence" that's weird. this whole thing is weird. i'm literally just trying to correct a false narrative about myself

you saw the message and immediately rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. you were curled up on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, typing with vicious speed.

@s0ftbrat666: omg. are you serious right now?? NO ONE asked for actual dick pics. what the hell is wrong with you. you're literally so deep in this delusion you really think you're jake sim like?? be serious for once you are a grown man on tumblr dot com pretending to be an idol and defending your imaginary dick size this is next level behavior. you need to touch grass and maybe talk to a therapist jake sim would never you are EMBARRASSING yourself rn.

you hit send and sighed, rubbing your temples. it was funny at first but the more you interacted with this person the more brain cells you lost, it shocked you that people would go to such lengths to defend their favs.

this was beyond fandom drama now. this was a case study. and the worst part? you were kind of impressed with how committed he was to the bit. concerned of course, but impressed too.

like... he was spiraling. but passionately.

still. you weren't going to let up. because whoever this man was, he needed to be humbled.

you opened a new post draft and typed:

—— @s0ftbrat666: update: he dm'd me again and accused me of demanding dick pics because i said "evidence"

i rest my case. this is not jake sim. this is some 32-year-old man who unironically uses reddit and thinks being called "submissive" is a slur

log off, drink some water, and go outside before you get a nosebleed from rage

#jake sim #not the real one obviously #this is tumblr not onlyfans relax ——

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to move on.

he really did.

after the dick thread. after being labeled a submissive missionary pillow princess. after the fake fan accusations and being accused of roleplaying as himself—he made the conscious choice to stop checking your blog. he muted your username. closed tumblr for a solid 24 hours. he even turned off his notifs.

he was healing. growing. rebuilding his sanity.

until a member sent him a screenshot.

it was sunghoon.

of course it was sunghoon.

sunghoon: yo y tf she got sm time on her hands icl tho she funny asf

attached was a photo of your newest tumblr post.

jake opened it, eyes squinting. then he saw it.

—— @s0ftbrat666: watched enhypen's most recent stage and i just wanna know WHO chose those pants for jake like bffr. i can see his entire situation

the dick print? front and center. and it's not giving what he thinks it's giving

it's giving: he begged the stylist to let him wear those pants so he could prove me wrong and i'm here to tell you... babe... don't ever do that again.

i'm LAUGHING.

#enhypen #jake sim #pls don't wear tight pants if ur not ready for the scrutiny king #it's not looking good ——

jake froze.

his phone was literally vibrating with how hard he was gripping it.

"she's watching performances now?" he whispered to himself, horrified.

jay looked up from across the room, warily. "...oh god. again?"

"she's analyzing my crotch, jay. she made a post about my dick print."

jay blinked. "that's... new."

"and she said it's 'not giving'!" jake practically screamed, spinning his phone around to show him. "not giving what?! not giving big dick energy?!?!"

jay read it silently, lips twitching. "...it does kind of sound like she thinks you're trying to prove her wrong. which, to be fair, you kinda are." he pauses for a second, "but i thought she deemed you as a deranged fan, does she think that you're actually texting her?"

jake shrugs, "who knows what she's thinking, clearly way to much of this is the shit she posts. also i wasn't even thinking about her when i wore those pants!"

"you literally made a thread defending your dick size last week."

"NOT THE POINT."

jake felt like he was going to combust. it was like every time he clawed his way back to peace, you dropped another post from hell and dragged him back into the pit.

and this time?

this time you targeted his outfit. his styling choices. his crotch visibility. he couldn't even enjoy the stage anymore without wondering if you were out there in a hoodie, behind a screen, zooming in on freeze frames of his pants.

"this is psychological warfare," jake muttered.

sunghoon looked up from his phone, his face annoyed. he was tired of hearing about this, "just block her again."

jake clenched his jaw. "she'll post about it. she'll brag."

he scrolled back up, reading the caption again. and again. his fingers hovered over your username.

he didn't message you. not this time.

instead, he posted on his burner account:

—— @truthaboutjake: some people spend their lives spreading negativity online because they have nothing else going for them. if you spend your free time zooming in on people's bodies just to make fun of them, seek help.

also, the pants looked fire. ——

he hit post. and then, two minutes later he opened the group chat.

jayke: whoever styled me last week. never again. we're going back to loose pants. i'm not doing this with tumblr anymore

✎﹏﹏

jake tried to stay composed. he tried.

but every time he opened tumblr, there you were—lurking in his psyche like a demon with wi-fi.

at first it had been a few jabs, sprinkled here and there between your usual posts about other idols. someone's hair, another's dance move, one guy you kept thirsting over for his "evil smirk" and "long fingers." whatever. jake didn't care.

until suddenly—your entire blog became about him.

not in a cute, stan-like way.

no.

it was relentless.

"jake sim update: still looks like a man who apologizes during sex."

"new era, same micro dick energy."

"his pants looked like they were holding in a lie."

"i know he fumbles the aux every time. just look at him."

your followers ate it up. reblog after reblog. tags like "#he's just so bashable" and "#jake sim slander is self-care" filled the notes.

there were polls. there were graphics.

you made a tier list of idols based on who looked like they cried after sex, and jake was placed right at the top with the caption: "he looks like he'd say 'was that okay?' while tucking his soft dick back in his briefs."

jake was spiraling.

the worst part? you didn't even seem like a hater. you didn't hate him.

you just... targeted him like it was your job. your content was crafted with care. effort. borderline affection.

jay leaned over one afternoon while jake doomscrolled through another one of your polls—this one titled "which idol do you think would last the shortest in bed (no offense)", where jake was winning by 68%.

"you know," jay mused, "i think she actually likes you."

jake looked up, eyes wide with horror as he looks at jay disgusted. "what?"

jay shrugged. "she's obsessed. it's giving weirdly specific attention. enemies-to-lovers coded."

"jay. she made a gifset of my crotch."

"exactly."

jake nearly threw his phone across the room.

it wasn't just slander anymore—it was becoming personal. and the most infuriating part?

you were so sure. so smugly sure.

every post was laced with casual cruelty and the sharp confidence of someone who truly believed they knew him. his vibes. his music taste. his dick size. like you'd studied him and filed a damn report.

and the urge to prove you wrong? it was eating at him.

he'd see one of your posts and get this itch. this slow, simmering burn in his gut. like he had something to prove now. like he wanted to walk up to you and say—

"say that shit again. to my face."

he'd fantasized about it more than once.

cornering you at a fansign, maybe. or catching you backstage if he ever figured out who you were. you with that smug little expression, your arms crossed like you knew everything. and him, leaning in, low and sharp, and making damn sure you knew you were wrong about everything—especially that.

he wasn't even mad anymore. not just mad. he was determined.

this wasn't just tumblr slander. this was a challenge.

and jake sim? he didn't lose.

✎﹏﹏

jake laid in bed, phone hovering above his face, lit only by the blue glow of tumblr's godforsaken app. it was well past 2 a.m., and he'd already scrolled through your entire blog—again.

he told himself it was just to see if you'd posted anything new. which, of course, you had,

but really, he was spiraling.

another post. this one read:

—— @softbrat666: something about jake sim just screams whines when it doesn't slide in all the way like he'd pause mid-thrust to ask if you're okay because he came too fast

he'd definitely say 'but you just feel so good...' as an excuse ——

and the worst part?

jake read every single reply. studied them, even. like they held some kind of twisted insight into how you saw him. how you imagined him. you were building this whole persona of him in your mind and then broadcasting it to thousands of followers like it was gospel. and the most messed up part?

you had just enough accuracy to make it sting.

and yet—you remained anonymous.

faceless. untouchable.

he'd tried to find out who you were. he dug through old posts, clicked your tags, searched your url on twitter and insta.

all he found was: • you lived in seoul • you were 21 • you drank too much iced americano • and you had audacity in excess

that was it. no selfies. no personal posts. no full name. you were just a sassy username and a collection of jake sim hate posts.

meanwhile, he was a public figure with his whole government face on blast while you dragged him through the mud constantly.

he hated how much he thought about what you looked like.

were you soft and bratty, like your tone suggested? did you smirk when you wrote those captions? were you the type to twirl your hair and say, "what? it's not that deep," while ruining a man's reputation?

he imagined you walking around seoul, laughing with your friends, ordering overpriced coffee with that smug, evil-little-gremlin energy.

he imagined running into you.

he'd play it cool at first—polite, casual, maybe even a little flirty.

watch you ramble. watch you squirm. and when he caught you slipping—maybe when you made some offhand comment about k-pop or tumblr—he'd hit you with it:

"so how's that blog going? still think i'm a submissive pillow princess with a micro dick?"

he rolled onto his side, fuming into his pillow. you lived in his head rent-free and you didn't even know what he looked like at night when he was losing sleep over your bullshit posts.

it was unfair.

you got to stay invisible while he was out here analyzing his own stage outfits to figure out what clip you were gonna slander next.

he scrolled back to that gif set you made of his recent performance. paused on the close-up. the zoom-in.

the goddamn caption: "not jake sim trying to start a dickprint redemption arc. spoiler: it's not working."

his eye twitched.

"this girl is the devil," he muttered.

and yet... he couldn't stop checking. he needed to know what you'd say next.

✎﹏﹏

you wake up to absolute chaos.

your phone is buzzing. not one or two notifications—hundreds. group chats. twitter and tumblr dms. unknown numbers. missed calls. it's like your phone caught fire overnight.

you blink against the morning light, groggy and confused, heart picking up speed. something's wrong. you can feel it. you squint at the screen, drag down your notifications, and the first notification you see makes your stomach drop.

"girl you're trending rn... what did you DO???"

then another.

"is that actually your name???"

your pulse is pounding before you even open twitter. your fingers shake as you type your own @ into the search bar, and the second you hit enter, your breath catches.

it's you.

your name. your photo. your phone number. everything.

someone—no, a group of people—had clearly gone full fbi. they'd taken all your casual, dumb little posts over the years and pieced them together like a fucked-up puzzle.

and now your full name was in a viral thread titled: "this the girl behind the jake sim micro dick blog?"

with a photo of you at a party two months ago, smile beaming.

people were quote-tweeting it with comments like: "she built like someone who'd have beef with jake sim for no reason." "oh she definitely owns a stan twitter burner too." "her blog is my roman empire i need her in therapy immediately."

your blood turned to ice. you were exposed.

fully.

not just as a shitposter but as the jake sim hater. your inbox was flooded—death threats, confessions, apologies, people asking if it was really you. tumblr dms screaming:

"TAKE THE POSTS DOWN BEFORE HE SEES THEM."

too late.

you scrambled to log into tumblr. your hands fumbled across the keys. it took three tries to get your password right.

the second you were in, you did the only thing you could do.

you hit deactivate.

the blog was gone. years of posts. thousands of notes. all of your followers, your drafts, your hate-poll templates.

deleted.

and then the panic really set in.

your hands were trembling. your ears were ringing. and all you could think about was @truthaboutjake, your mind racing. it was him, you realized that it was him.

"he knows. jake sim fucking knows who i am."

and the worst part?

you had no idea what he'd do with it.

✎﹏﹏

jake found out the same way everyone else did—waking up to a string of texts from jay and sunghoon absolutely losing their shit.

jay: bro. check twitter. sunghoon: she got exposed. jay: HER NAME IS OUT LMAOOO jay: bet she's sweating rn sunghoon: she's kinda cute tho

he blinked hard, still groggy, and tapped open the thread that seemed to be trending.

your face stared back at him.

his heart flipped.

you looked... nothing like what he expected. he'd imagined someone smug. cold. maybe with villain bangs and a cigarette habit.

but no—there you were, face flushed in a group photo, laughing mid-sip of iced americano. you looked normal. it almost hurt to admit, but you were pretty.

you looked real.

and now, you were reachable.

he did what anyone would do: searched your name on instagram. he found your linked facebook.

scrolled. scrolled.

paused.

you had your workplace tagged in an old comment.

"juniper bean café - seoul branch."

he stared at it for a long moment. then, very calmly, he stood up, threw on a hoodie, cap, and mask, and left the dorm.

✎﹏﹏

the café was a little tucked away spot with plants hanging from the ceiling and a chalkboard sign outside that said "kiss me, i'm caffeinated."

jake walked in, glancing around. he spotted you immediately, behind the counter, head down as you punched in an order.

he could tell that you had a rough morning, good. your posture was tense. your hair was pulled back messily. your voice was strained. you looked tired, your eyes that seemed so full of life in your leaked photos had disappeared.

he stepped up to the counter. waited. his eyes trailed down your figure, your frame was draped with a loose fitted sweater and some baggy light wash jeans. you wore a black apron, cinching at your waist—allowing his hungry eyes to capture your curves.

you were trying to look invisible. trying not to stand out. but to him—you were glowing with guilt.

he watched you fumble with a stack of napkins, pretending you didn't feel his eyes burning into you. finally you cleared your throat, still not looking up.

"hi, what can i get you?"

he smiled behind his mask, slow and wicked. he pulled it down just enough to speak—voice dripping low, sharp with mocking sweetness.

"you gonna spit in my drink too?" he asked. "or just keep running your mouth somewhere i can't see?"

you froze.

head snapping up. eyes locking with his. and there it was—that flash of horror, recognition, disbelief. it was him.

you had to admit, he was just as if not more handsome in person. your mouth dried up when you watched his lips curl into a smirk and his eye twitch.

your mouth opened. closed. no sound.

"hi," he said, almost sweetly. "miss me?"

you fumbled a reply—something, anything—but he leaned in, resting his elbows on the counter like he had all the time in the world.

"you disappeared fast. what happened? got leaked and lost all your guts or did you burn through all your micro dick material?"

your coworker looked between you both, utterly confused and in awe that jake was standing in front her. you took a breath. straightened your spine. tried to salvage your dignity.

"this is harassment," you muttered.

"this is karma," jake shot back, his smile dark. he twitched in anger, how dare you call this harassment—what about what you had been doing for the last couple of weeks? "i wanted a latte, by the way. no sugar. unless you're finally ready to be sweet to me."

you nearly dropped the milk jug.

he didn't care. he was so amused. you were the girl who wrote entire essays dragging his dickprint and his imagined bedroom habits? you, flushed and stammering behind a café register?

he wanted to laugh. he wanted to lean in closer. he wanted to ruin you back.

and this? this was just the beginning.

your hands were shaking. milk frother sputtering. heart pounding in your chest like it wanted to escape. and he—jake fucking sim—just stood there.

smiling.

smug.

head tilted slightly like he was thrilled by your discomfort. "you gonna make that latte, or you gonna keep fumbling around and glaring at me?" he drawled, voice low and casual.

you gritted your teeth, turned back to the machine, and fumbled through the motions of making the drink. you could feel his eyes on you the entire time—watching, drinking you in like you were the fucking joke.

you finally slid the drink across the counter, trying not to slam it.

"here. now leave."

he didn't move. just sipped slowly, then licked a bit of foam from his lip like it was the most dramatic thing anyone had ever done in a coffee shop.

and then—he leaned forward. elbow on the counter. voice quiet, words slow and deliberate:

"what time do you get off?"

you blinked, "excuse me?"

"your shift. when does it end?"

"why the fuck would i tell you that?"

his smile widened, all teeth now, sharp and smug. "because there's going to be a black car waiting for you outside." he continues, "when you clock out, you're going to get in. and then you're going to follow instructions."

you stared at him, genuinely floored. "are you insane? what the hell are you talking about?"

he tilted his head, mockingly sympathetic. "i get it. you're scared. probably embarrassed." he grins, "but see, that's the thing about defamation—once it's public, i can take legal action. and you've been very public."

your stomach dropped, "you're bluffing."

he shrugged. "wanna bet your savings account on that?"

you opened your mouth. closed it again. because—fuck. he wasn't bluffing. he didn't have to. you'd posted too much. said too much. and now he had your face, your name, your location.

"you can't just—kidnap me," you said, weaker than intended.

he laughed.

"it's not kidnapping if you get in willingly, sweetheart."

then he slid the latte off the counter, turned, and started to walk toward the door. before he left, he glanced back, over his shoulder.

"9 p.m., right?" he called out. "don't be late. i hate being stood up." he grinned, fuck him.

the bell jingled as he left. the door shut behind him.

and you stood there, in your apron and sneakers and sweaty palms, absolutely rattled. what the fuck did you just get yourself into?

✎﹏﹏

9:03 p.m.

you were pacing behind the café. your shift ended three minutes ago, but you hadn't stepped outside yet. you couldn't. your feet felt like bricks. your stomach twisted with anxiety, hands clenched in the pockets of your jeans.

what the fuck am i doing?

you shouldn't go. you know you shouldn't go. this was literally stranger danger 101, except instead of a stranger it was a kpop idol whose dick size you flamed online for weeks.

your brain was screaming at you. your nerves were a warzone. your inner monologue sounded like one long anxiety spiral:

"you're insane." "this is how people get murdered." "he's rich. he could make you disappear and blame it on anxiety meds." "but also... maybe he just wants to talk?" "or maybe he's gonna sue you in person with his scary legal team and laugh while you cry." "or—worse—what if he takes a picture with you and posts it with some shady ass caption like 'finally found her :)' and now you're really cooked?"

your fists clenched tighter.

this was your own fault. you were the one who made that blog. you were the one who said he looked like a pillow princess. you were the one who photoshopped a pacifier into that one fansite photo and captioned it "baby boy can't handle coochie."

and now?

now he knew your name. your face. your shift schedule.

and there it was, waiting on the curb like a horror movie prop—a sleek black car, windows tinted, headlights glowing like eyes.

you stared at it.

and then, finally, took a deep breath and walked towards it.

the back door opened before you could even touch it. you slid inside, hesitating, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield. you looked around the dimly lit interior. leather seats. no jake.

just a stone-faced driver in a black cap.

"um," you said cautiously. "where are we going?"

no response.

you leaned forward slightly. "hello? i just—can you at least tell me if jake is—"

silence.

he kept driving.

great.

you sat back, heart still racing. the lights of the city blurred past the windows. you couldn't even track the direction—you were too jittery to focus. every turn felt like it took you farther from safety.

and god, the silence was suffocating.

you hated it. you hated him.

jake sim and his smug face and his legal threats and the fact that this whole thing was so humiliating.

how the hell did he turn it around on you? curse those people who leaked you.

you were supposed to have the power. the upper hand. you were the one who had thousands of people laughing at his expense. you were the one whose posts got quoted like bible verses on stan twitter.

and now?

now you were alone, in his car, being driven to god knows where because he told you to.

you should've never fucking posted about his dick. you should've stayed anonymous. kept your mouth shut. deleted the pacifier post when it hit 10k notes.

the car slowed. you peeked out the window. it wasn't some mansion, like you feared. wasn't a dungeon either—at least you think so.

it was a private-looking building—modern, sleek, tucked down a quiet alley with a gated entrance. definitely expensive. definitely secluded.

you were dropped off at the curb. the driver didn't say anything—just nodded toward the front door.

you stepped out slowly, phone gripped tight in your hand, ready to fake an emergency call or scream if necessary.

a man, different from the driver, opened the front door. another silent guy in all black gestured for you to follow.

you hesitated, then followed him down a short hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, until you reached a door with a single number carved into it: 17.

he knocked once, then opened it.

you stepped in—and stopped.

jake was inside.

he was leaning casually against a wall, dressed in all black—hoodie, chain, jeans, hair tousled, like he hadn't even tried and still looked like a good.

he was scrolling on his phone when you entered, then looked up.

and grinned, "hey." he stops, letting his gaze travel down your trembling form, "glad you could make it, hate blogger."

you wanted to punch him. you wanted to turn around and leave. but most of all—you wanted to know what the hell came next.

and by the look on his face?

he was very ready to show you.

room 17 is quiet. too quiet.

you stand near the door, gripping the strap of your bag like it's your last line of defense. jake hasn't moved from his place against the wall, but his eyes haven't left you for a second. he looks too calm. like this is just some casual meetup and not the most batshit confrontation of your entire life.

"you still haven't told me why i'm here," you say finally, voice tight, trying to sound unbothered even though your throat is dry.

he doesn't answer right away. he just studies you, eyes flicking from your clenched fists to your shifting posture to the tiny, almost-invisible tremble in your knees.

then he lets out a soft little chuckle, the kind that feels mean. smug and quiet and condescending.

"you really don't know?" he asks, stepping away from the wall at last. his strides are slow, deliberate, like he knows you won't run—but that you should.

you take a step back automatically, bumping into the door behind you.

"if this is about suing me," you mutter, chin lifting defensively, "you could've just emailed your legal team. this whole drama king act—" "i'm not suing you." he cuts you off, voice calm but sharp. he walks past you and locks the door with a soft click. your stomach flips.

"then what the hell is this?" he turns back to you, expression unreadable, "this is about correction."

you blink, "what?"

"you posted things that were... inaccurate." he steps closer. you press yourself further into the door. "about me. my body. my performance. my preferences." another step. you swear you stop breathing, "so now i'm giving you a chance to see the truth."

you stare up at him, wide-eyed, "you're joking."

"does it look like i'm joking?" he murmurs.

you're momentarily speechless. your brain is whirring, trying to process what's happening. jake sim—international idol, global heartthrob, the man you've memed within an inch of his digital life—has dragged you to a private room to debunk his dick size?

you should laugh, but you can't.

because he's standing too close. because he's looking at you like prey. because his voice is dipped in amusement but his eyes are furious.

"you're out of your mind," you whisper, eyes wide and your jaw slacked.

he shrugs, "maybe."

his hand lifts, knuckles brushing your chin—just enough to make your breath catch.

"but you made this personal. you dragged it out. you turned it into a running gag." he leans down slightly, until your noses are nearly brushing. "and now you're gonna watch what happens when you say shit you can't back up."

your throat works around a swallow. your persona starts to crack.

still—you can't not be a brat.

"so what, you're gonna just pull your dick out like some frat boy in a scandal?" you snort. "you're so mad over a joke, you're—"

"baby," his voice cuts you off again, soft but dangerous.

"a joke is calling me clingy or annoying. a joke is editing me into a pink onesie." he steps even closer, "but accusing me of being a submissive pillow princess with a dick that couldn't break a hymen?" he tilts his head, mocking, "that's slander."

you flush. deeply, "you saw that post?"

"i've seen every post," he says coolly. "and the reblogs. and the tags. and the memes."

you suddenly feel so small. not because he's taller—though he is—but because you'd spent months building this image of jake sim as a joke. a punchline. a target.

and now he's right here. and he's pissed.

"you're really that bothered?" you ask, but your voice is quieter now, unsure. "bothered?" he repeats, almost scoffing. "sweetheart, i was obsessed." his hand lifts again, brushes your hair away from your face, fingers dragging a little too slow behind your ear.

"you don't understand what it's like to be degraded by someone who's too cowardly to even show their face." he pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips, "but i'll show you."

you swallow hard. "so what?" you ask, trying not to waver. "you want me to apologize? to... take it all back? post a formal retraction about your dick?"

he grins. slow and sharp, "nah."

"i want you to see it," he pauses, lets the words sink in. "and then i want to see the look on your face when you realize you were dead fucking wrong."

your mouth opens. no sound comes out. your heart is pounding so fast you think you might throw up. because there's teasing and there's joking and there's flirting with danger—but this? this is crossing the line, and you don't know if you want him to stop.

you laugh, it comes out breathy and nervous and completely unconvincing. "okay," you say, holding your hands up a little, trying to cut the tension with sarcasm, "haha, very funny. you got me. you've officially scared the shit out of me, and if that was your goal, congratulations."

jake just stands there. watching you. expression unreadable, unreadable and dark. you shift on your feet, trying to find a way out of this, trying to reclaim some sense of control.

"look," you continue, "i'll take everything down, okay? every post. every meme. every stupid out-of-pocket caption." you swallow. "i'll issue an apology. hell, i'll write a thread. a whole google doc. whatever you want."

you inch away from the door, toward the side of the room, trying to put some space between you.

"i crossed a line. i get that now." you laugh again, weaker this time. "like—clearly."

jake still doesn't speak, he starts walking.

slow. silent. like a cat with its prey cornered.

your back hits the wall.

"i'll stop posting about you," you rush out, your heart beating frantically when you feel jake's breath fan against your cheek. "seriously. no more degrading content. no more jokes. you win, okay?" his palm hits the wall beside your head with a sharp thud.

you freeze.

he leans in.

"i don't want a fucking apology," he murmurs, voice thick and low, the sound of it making your legs weaken. you try to hold his gaze, but it's hard when he's this close. when you can smell his cologne—clean and warm, like cedar and skin. when you can see the heat in his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

"i want you to look at me," he says, "and admit you were wrong."

"i just did—" "no." his other hand comes up, fingers ghosting your chin, tilting it up. "not because you're scared. not because you think i'm gonna sue your ass. i want you to say it because you know."

you suck in a breath as his fingers graze your throat. not squeezing. not threatening. but claiming, staking a presence.

"you think i'm some submissive little pushover," he whispers, "who just lays there and takes it. soft. boring. harmless."

your heart pounds in your chest so loud you swear it echoes. "you think you own the narrative. that you get to decide who i am, what i'm like in bed, how big my fucking dick is."

you flinch at the way he says it, so vulgar and harsh it shoots straight to your core.

"but the second i show up—" his thumb brushes your bottom lip. "you're quiet. nervous. twitchy. like you already know you were talking out of your ass."

you suck in a shaky breath and try to bite back the heat that's crawling up your neck. "you're insane," you whisper, but there's no bite behind it.

his body is so close now, you can feel the heat radiating off him. he hasn't even touched you properly and you already feel like your knees are going to give.

"what do you want from me?" you ask, voice barely holding together. he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"i want to fuck the lies out of your mouth." his voice is so low, it vibrates down your spine. "i want you to choke on everything you said about me and realize i was never the one being dominated."

you let out a small, shaky sound—and that's when he finally kisses you.

not soft.

not slow.

possessive. like he's claiming what he's owed.

like he's trying to shove every insult back down your throat, one filthy kiss at a time.

your mind blanks the second his mouth claims yours. his tongue pushes past your lips without hesitation, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you right where he wants you, and you feel it deep—too deep. like he's trying to crawl inside your ribcage and brand himself there.

his kiss isn't gentle. it's punishment. all teeth and tongue, your back shoved harder into the wall as he presses against you. his body completely, deliberately dominating yours.

"still think i'm soft?" he growls against your lips when he pulls back, breath ragged, thumb digging into the underside of your chin to keep you looking at him.

you don't answer. you can't.

your mouth is open, panting, lips wet and swollen from how violently he just kissed you. your knees barely hold.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, and lower.

he smirks.

"you look scared," he says, tilting his head slightly. "thought you liked writing filthy shit about me. what happened to all that confidence?"

you swallow hard, still in absolute disbelief, "you're—you're actually insane."

"and you're actually still turned on." his hand drops to your hip, gripping hard, pulling you flush against him—and fuck. he's hard. painfully hard. pressing right against your lower stomach. and he knows you feel it.

your eyes widen. you try to squirm away but there's nowhere to go, your back hits the wall again and his thigh wedges between your legs.

"not so micro now, is it?" he breathes against your neck. you let out a broken sound—half gasp, half groan—and that's when jake loses it.

he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, other hand sliding beneath your shirt, grazing skin and pulling a shocked noise out of you. he doesn't give you room to breathe.

"say it," he growls. "say you were wrong."

you shake your head. still stubborn. still you.

"no?" he scoffs. "fine." his thigh presses harder between your legs, rocking up once. your clit throbbed pathetically at the feeling, it was just enough friction to make your eyes roll back. you try to keep your composure, but he watches your face change—watches your pride falter.

"don't lie to me, baby." his voice drops lower—hungrier. "you're dripping. over the same guy you dragged for months."

you gasp, trying to turn your face away from him, but he leans in again, his nose brushing your cheek.

"you gonna blog about this too?" he whispers. "tell your little followers how jake sim manhandled you and made you eat your words with his cock halfway down your throat?"

you whimper and it disgusts you how fast your body betrays you. how wet you already are. how much you want him to ruin you just to prove you were wrong.

and he can tell.

he sees the shift in your expression. how your resistance is slowly, deliciously, falling apart.

your wrists are still pinned, your breathing uneven, chest rising and falling fast as jake leans in like he owns the air around you.

"i'm done hearing you talk," he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw. "i think it's time you showed me just how sorry you really are."

he releases your hands and steps back. you don't move. your legs are trembling, your pride hanging on by a thread.

"on your knees," he says simply.

you scoff, arms folding defensively across your chest, "you can't be serious—"

he tilts his head, "i'm not asking again."

there's no loud threat. no yelling. just the terrifying calm of someone who already knows he's won. you hold your ground—barely. but something about the way he looks down at you, already palming the bulge in his jeans, makes your body respond before your mind does.

you sink, slowly. knees hitting the floor like it's a confession. he watches you with quiet satisfaction, like he's waited for this exact moment.

he had been dreaming about the moment he would get you to himself, on your knees—right where he wanted you.

"look at me," he says, and you do—eyes meeting his as he unzips, the sound ridiculously loud in the silence.

he's already thick in his hand when he pulls it out, and your mouth goes dry. you don't want to admit it, but fuck. it's big. way bigger than you ever gave him credit for. your throat tightens at the sheer weight of it, thick and flushed and veined.

his smirk deepens when he sees the way your eyes drop.

"what was that again?" he mocks, giving himself a slow stroke. "micro?"

you glare up at him, heat crawling up your neck. "i was clearly misinformed."

"say it properly."

you hesitate, his free hand tangles in your hair—firm, but not painful. just enough to tilt your face up toward him.

"say. it."

you grit your teeth, "i was wrong."

"about what?"

you groan. "about your dick. okay? you don't have a micro dick."

he raises an eyebrow, "that all?"

"it's big," you mutter, cheeks burning. "you made your point." he laughs—low and satisfied—and guides your face closer, "not yet."

you gasp when you feel his tip touch your cheek, he grins at your expression—feeling satisfied with your shock. he does a few experimental taps, dragging his length over your lips. you hold in a whine when he smears his pre cum over your bottom lip, almost as if he was applying lipgloss on you.

and then he pushes in.

there's no easing into it—he gives you the thick weight of his cock all at once, making you choke. your hands scrambling to grip his thighs as he holds you there, watching with dark, satisfied eyes.

"look at that," he murmurs. "mouth so full of me you can't even talk shit now." you gag again, but his grip stays steady, fingers flexing against the back of your head as he rocks his hips in slow, controlled thrusts. just enough to make you feel how deep he is and prove how wrong you were.

he could feel how warm your mouth was around him, basking in the feeling of not only pleasure but the satisfaction of shutting you up.

"this what you wanted?" he groans. "to see what i've been hiding in those pants you loved to degrade?"

you can't respond. not when he's using your mouth like a cock sleeve, fucking every insult out of you with a punishing rhythm. spit drips from out of your mouth and onto your chin. tears prick at your eyes and yet—somewhere deep in your gut—you like it.

jake's grip on your hair gets stronger, the pain causing your jaw to slack as you continue to take his brutal pace. you could feel the head of his cock rub against the back of your throat, the force not strong enough to make you gag but enough to cause a stream of tears to run down your face.

your nose touched his pelvis with every thrust, indicating how deep he was going. "fuck. look at you, __. who knew cock being in your mouth is the only way to shut you up."

you whine at his words, looking up at him with pleading eyes—yet you didn't know what exacting you were begging for. you rub your thighs together in hopes for some temporary relief, the scene so lewd that you could feel yourself gush in your panties—holding in the urge to let your hands wander down to touch yourself.

jake looked down at you with hungry eyes, his lip twitching as his grip in your hair grew tighter with each thrust. he let low moans slip from his mouth every time his dick grazed the back of your throat.

"aren't you a dirty little whore.." jake drawls out, his chest heaving with pleasure when he notices how tightly you have your thighs clenched. "getting all worked up for someone you've publicly shat on for having the least sex appeal."

you moaned around him when suddenly he pushed your thighs apart with his foot, wedging his sneaker between your legs—giving you something to ease up the tension in your core.

you mewl when he pushed against your clit, almost urging you to grind down against him while he used your mouth to his hearts content. slowly, but surely—you allowed yourself to ground yourself against him. it sickened you how desperate you had become in just a span of a few minutes.

jake almost cums when he sees you move your hips, desperate for any kind of friction to relieve you from your throbbing clit.

the familiar feeling in his stomach begins to tighten, his grip on you becoming unforgiving as he loses self control and allows himself to push himself into your mouth as much as he could. his tip hits the back of your throat repeatedly now, a mixture of his cum and your spit dribbling out of your mouth.

"f-fuck," he groans. "m'gonna cum.. you're gonna take it? yeah? take it in that bratty mouth, hm?" jake murmurs to what seems himself just before he combusts in your mouth. you swallowed a chocked moan when you feel his warm cum coat your mouth, gagging around him as he twitches.

jake felt as if he was on cloud 9, his head lulling to the side as he keeps your head planted where it is—ensuring that you swallow what he gave you fully.

when he finally pulls back, cock glistening with your spit and his cum, your jaw aches as you swallow the salty yet sweet taste of his release. your chest heaving like you've just survived something.

"mouth open and tongue out," he demands. you hesitantly open your mouth, your tongue out as you show him that you swallowed everything.

you whine out desperately when he slides his foot away, leaving you aching again. jake tsk's, "desperate slut."

he crouches down to your level, thumb wiping the corner of your mouth.

"still think i'm a pillow princess?" his voice is a little breathless now. dark and smug. "or you finally ready to admit you don't know shit about me?"

your throat still burns. your lips are swollen, coated in spit and shame, and jake's leaning over you like he's just getting started.

"on your feet."

you hesitate, still panting, still dazed from the way he fucked your mouth like it was owed to him. but something in his voice—firm, expectant—makes you move. your knees tremble as you rise.

jake doesn't give you time to adjust. the second you're upright, he steps in close, hands on your waist, guiding you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed.

you're pressed back against the mattress, thighs parted under his hands, still catching your breath from how rough he'd just been with your mouth. but instead of backing down, you do what you do best—deflect.

"look—how about this," you say, voice shaking but holding onto some scrap of cocky defiance. "i'll just say the blog was satire. irony. you know, performance art or something. no one has to know i meant any of it."

jake's expression doesn't change.

"or better yet—i'll make a new post trashing someone else. redirect the attention. easy." you flash a grin that's all teeth. "maybe i'll even throw in a little praise for you. balance it out."

he just blinks at you. slowly.

"you think you're negotiating right now?" his voice is calm, but the grip on your thighs tightens.

you blink. "i mean, i'm trying to be reasonable—"

"reasonable?" he laughs, but there's no humor in it. "you publicly dragged me for weeks. humiliated me. and now that you're caught, you want to rewrite the narrative?"

"i'm offering solutions—" "you're offering bullshit," he snaps, and in a second he's climbing over you, his body slotting between your legs like it was made to be there. "and you think you still have leverage? cute."

your breath hitches. your hands push at his chest, but he grabs your wrists and pins them down again, harder this time—your body arching into him involuntarily.

"here's what's really gonna happen," he says, leaning in, nose brushing yours. "you're gonna try to flip this. act like you're still in control. try to turn the tables on me."

your throat tightens.

"but you won't. because the second you try, i'll remind you who made you beg. who had you gagging on the dick you said didn't exist." his voice drops lower, dangerous. "and then i'll ruin you all over again."

you glare up at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and defiance."you know what? fine." your voice is sharp, shaky. "you wanna play games? i'll play. let's see how fast you fold when i turn this around."

he raises an eyebrow. "is that right?" you reach down between your bodies—slow, deliberate—wrapping your hand around him. he's still hard. unfairly so. hot and heavy in your palm.

"maybe i was wrong about the size," you murmur, stroking him slow, his breath hitching. "but maybe you really are just a pillow princess. maybe you like being praised more than you like fucking."

his jaw ticks.

you press a kiss to his neck, voice a taunt against his skin. "what happens if i ride you instead? if i make you cum all over yourself."

he freezes.

"what if i write about that next?" you sit up dragging your tongue along the edge of his jaw. "'jake sim—big dick, zero stamina.' think the internet'll love that?"

you think you've got him.

until suddenly—he flips you.

you yelp, back hitting the mattress again as he rips your hand away from his cock and shoves your thighs up around his waist. the shift is fast, dominant, practiced.

"you really thought that'd work?" he's laughing now—mean, breathless, hungry. "thought you'd rile me up and get the upper hand? you forget who tracked you down and got you here in this room." his voice is pure venom now, thick with want. "who had you gagging and drooling on your knees while you fucked yourself on my shoes not even 5 minutes ago?"

his hands expertly yank off your jeans, his thumb hooked around the waistband of your baby pink cotton panties—teasing you. you writhe beneath him, but he doesn't budge—he presses into you, cock sliding between your clothed folds just to tease, just to show you what you don't get to control.

"you wanna test stamina?" he growls. "i'll fuck you 'til that smug little attitude disappears. 'til you're begging me to stop. 'til you're crying and calling me daddy."

you gasp—rage, arousal, panic blending in your gut—but you can't deny the throb between your legs. the way your body betrays your pride.

he feels it too.

his free hand runs up your sweater, your breath shaking as you feel him run his fingers up your stomach and make themselves comfortable on your tits. letting your hands go momentarily, he's yanking your sweater off and throwing it across the room.

"didn't know bratty girls like you wore baby pink. ruffles, lace trim—bows?" he grins, his hands playing with the frills of your bra as you twitch beneath him.

"fuck you," you spat out, voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. jake only smirks, his hand reaching up to pull the straps of your bra down—letting your tits fall out. "oh i will," and with that he's taking one of your nipples hostage in his mouth. his grip on your wrists stays planted, not allowing you to move or struggle against him when he nips at the sensitive skin of your breasts.

he switches from left to right for a few minutes, basking in your whimpers and mewls before he kisses down your stomach. pulling away he's back to being face to face with you, a smug look on his face before he plants a kiss to your jaw. the kiss turns into bites, nipping at your neck and chest as he leaves behind purple splotches.

"maybe you can post the marks i left and then bash me," jake grins against your skin. you roll your eyes in response only for jake to shoot you a look that says: behave.

he moves your underwear to the side, exposing your cunt to his hungry eyes. he runs his thumb through your slit, gathering your slick.

"so wet," he mutters, dragging the head of his cock against your slit. "guess your body knows who's in charge, even if your mouth doesn't." he slams into you—deep, all at once—and you scream.

no teasing now. no easing in. no prepping.

just punishment. just proof. just him, ruining you from the inside out like it's the only way to shut you up.

"gonna make you forget every insult," he grits, hips snapping into yours over and over. "gonna fuck the hate right outta you."

he could feel your velvet walls convulse, sucking him in like a vacuum as he thrusts into you. you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders, back arching, mind blurring. you hate how good it feels. how right.

"gonna ruin you," he whispers, lips at your neck. "and you're gonna thank me for it." his mouth traveling down to your tit to engulf one of your nipples once again.

your body jolts with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping and moans filling the room as you struggle to adjust to his girth.

you're still trembling when jake lifts your chin. his touch is deceptively gentle, but there's nothing soft in his expression. smug. commanding. dangerously patient.

"you still think you were right?" he asks lowly, voice scraping down your spine like velvet over steel. you blink up at him, lips parted, but your throat is dry. no sass now. not with the way your body's still recovering, knees weak, throat raw from every choked sound he pulled from you.

when you don't respond jake stops his movement, his hips go still as he simply stares down at you with a dark look in his eyes.

you were falling apart.

his cock was deep inside you, filling you so completely you couldn't even think straight— but jake wasn't moving. he just held you there, pinned beneath him, wrists trapped against the mattress, his hips grinding slow and mean against yours.

you whimpered, hips twitching up against him helplessly, desperate for more. he smirked down at you, cruel and smug, loving the way your body shook, the way your face twisted in frustration.

"what's wrong?" he murmured mockingly, leaning in so close his lips brushed your ear. "thought you'd be tougher than this."

you rationed with yourself for a moment, were you really going to beg? yes.

you tried to twist your wrists free but his grip only tightened. "please," you gasped out, tears welling in your eyes from how badly you needed to cum. "please, jake, i need it—"

he laughed, low and sharp, and snapped his hips forward once—deep and brutal—making you cry out. but then he stilled again, ignoring your desperate whines.

"you need it?" he repeated, pretending to think. "need my cock? need me to make you cum like the stupid little whore you are?"

your cheeks burned, shame rolling through you, but you nodded frantically.

"say it," he ordered, voice dropping, rough. you squeezed your eyes shut, humiliated, but the words still poured out.

"i need your cock," you sobbed. "please jake, please—i'll do anything, i'll be good, just let me cum—"

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied with himself.

"should've thought about being good before you started running your mouth online," he muttered, dragging his cock slow and deep inside you, making you arch and cry out.

you were shaking now—your whole body burning, every nerve stretched tight and ready to snap.

"you want it that bad?" he asked casually, grinding his hips just enough to make you sob.

"yes," you choked out. "please, jake—please, i need to cum, i can't—"

he grinned wickedly and finally, finally started fucking into you hard—deep, punishing thrusts that made you see stars. your walls clung onto how dick like a suction in attempt to milk him dry.

your moans spilled out loud and wrecked, your whole body bowing off the bed.

"good girl," he murmured darkly, "you're gonna cum when i say. not a second before." you nodded frantically, not trusting yourself to speak without crying. and when he finally, finally leaned down and growled, "cum for me, slut,"

you shattered.

you came so hard you were sobbing, spasming around him, your body giving out completely under his.

jake fucked you through it, laughing under his breath, dragging every last bit of pleasure and humiliation out of you until you were left shaking and gasping for air.

and even then, he wasn't done with you yet. he hadn't cum yet, and at the end of the day that's what you were here for—to be his little cum slut. you barely had time to breathe—your body still spasming from the orgasm he tore out of you before jake grabbed your hips and pulled you back down onto him, grinding even deeper.

you yelped, broken noises spilling out of your mouth, trying to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

"no," he snapped, voice sharp and final, one hand locking tight around your waist to keep you from moving. "you don't get to run."

your head lolled back, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body a twitching mess.

"too much," you sobbed, trembling violently.

he laughed—laughed—at your misery.

"too bad," he muttered against your ear. "you're not done." he set a brutal rhythm, fucking into you hard, fast, merciless. your thighs shook, your nails dug into the sheets, your mouth fell open in helpless, gasping cries. you could feel yourself spiraling again—pain and pleasure tangled together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"you think you're in control?" he grunted, slamming into you harder, making you scream. "you think you can say whatever you want about me and not pay for it?"

your whole body jolted with every thrust, the humiliation making your head spin.

"say it," he growled. "say you were wrong."

you whimpered, stubborn even now, biting down hard on your lip. he slowed down, grinding his cock against your sensitive walls in deep, deliberate circles that made you keen helplessly.

"say it," he repeated, cruel and low, "or i'll edge you until you're fucking crying."

your pride crumbled fast.

"i was wrong," you gasped out, voice cracking. he smirked, hips snapping forward again. "about what?"

you squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. "about—about your dick," you choked out. "i lied, you're big—you're fucking huge—"

he chuckled darkly, like he already knew. "good girl," he breathed, voice dripping with mockery. "what else?"

you shook your head frantically, body jerking with overstimulation. he pulled almost all the way out—your cunt squeezing around nothing— before slamming back in so brutally you cried out.

"what else?" he hissed against your throat.

"i—i'm just a stupid bitch who doesn't know what she's talking about," you sobbed, face burning hot.

he laughed again, so fucking satisfied, so cruel.

"that's right," he murmured. "a stupid little whore who can't stop begging for the cock she said was too small."

you whimpered, broken, humiliated beyond repair. and still—your body clung to him, desperate for more. you realized with a sick twist in your gut that you would do anything—say anything—just to have him fuck you harder.

and jake knew it too.

he leaned down close, mouth brushing yours cruelly.

"beg," he whispered. "beg me to ruin you."

you could barely think. your body was burning, trembling, stretched tight around him— your mind a broken mess of shame and need. and still jake kept fucking you deep, rough, relentless.

his hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, your throat, your jaw—manhandling you like you were nothing more than a toy for him to use.

you whimpered when he grabbed your face, forcing you to look at him.

"beg," he ordered again, voice dark, breathless with lust. "beg me to ruin you, slut."

you shook your head at first, a broken little sob tearing from your throat. he growled low, slammed into you even harder—your back arching, a scream ripping from your lips.

"you don't get to say no," he hissed. "you wanted this." tears streamed down your cheeks, your body trembling violently.

"please," you gasped out, the word slipping before you could even think. "please jake..ruin me, use me. fuck me however you want—"

he laughed, so fucking smug, dragging his cock out slow just to make you whine. "good fucking girl," he murmured. "finally learning your place."

you babbled desperate nonsense, sobbing into the sheets, your pride shattered into dust.and jake fucked you through it all—using you like a fleshlight, pounding into you until your legs gave out, until your voice was wrecked and broken.

"this what you wanted, huh?" he sneered, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a sting. "to get fucked dumb? to get put in your place like the stupid little whore you are?"

you nodded frantically, gasping, sobbing, brain completely mush. "can't even speak anymore," he muttered, mocking. "just a cockdrunk mess." your nails clawed helplessly at the sheets, your cunt squeezing him so tight he groaned.

you felt another orgasm building—sharp, unbearable—but you were too gone to even ask permission. you just sobbed and gasped and let him take everything from you.

"yeah, that's right," he growled, voice thick with pleasure. "cum all over my cock, slut. make a fucking mess."

you shattered, your whole body convulsing around him, screaming his name like a prayer, a curse, a broken confession. and jake fucked you through it, dragging every last bit of your pride and resistance out of you, until there was nothing left but a crying, ruined mess on his cock.

you were shaking. your body was limp, wrecked, trembling under the weight of everything he made you feel.

and jake still wasn't satisfied.

he kept moving, grinding his cock deep inside your overstimulated cunt—mocking every broken sob that fell from your lips.

"what's wrong?" he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "too much?"

you could only whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he grabbed your face again, rough, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his.

"you wanted to run your mouth so bad," he sneered. "now you can fucking thank me." your brain barely processed the words, too fogged with shame and pleasure. he slapped your cheek lightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to snap your attention back.

"say it," he barked. "say thank you."

you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"th-thank you," you stammered, voice barely a whisper.

he smirked, cruel and satisfied.

"louder," he ordered, snapping his hips forward viciously, making you cry out. "thank you!" you sobbed, your voice hoarse and broken.

he chuckled darkly, his hand sliding down your throat, pressing lightly just enough to make your head spin.

"thank me for ruining you," he muttered, rolling his hips slow and deep, dragging another helpless moan from your lips.

your pride was turned into ash, your mind gone.

"thank you for ruining me," you gasped out, shaking uncontrollably, completely destroyed. he groaned, clearly getting off on how ruined you were—your body slack, twitching, drooling, your cunt spasming weakly around him.

"pathetic," he muttered against your ear. "look at you." you could feel how wet and messy everything was—your thighs sticky, the sheets underneath you soaked.

and still—still—he wasn't finished.

"gonna fill you up," he rasped, voice rough with the effort of holding back. "gonna fuck you so full you'll be leaking for days."

you sobbed, the humiliation sinking deeper into your bones.

"please," you whispered, because you didn't know what else to say anymore. he grunted low in his chest, thrusting faster, chasing his release. he could feel that familiar tinge in his stomach, he was close.

"such a good little cumdump," he growled. "just a hole for me to use." you broke again, another weak orgasm rolling through your abused body.

and jake finally spilled inside you—deep, hot, filling you up exactly like he promised.

he didn't pull out immediately. he stayed pressed deep, making sure you felt every drop. when he finally did pull out, you collapsed completely, a ruined, twitching, crying mess.

and jake just chuckled, so fucking smug. running his fingers down your slit before plugging your fluttering hole, making sure that his cum stays in you for as long as it could.

"maybe next time you'll think twice before running your mouth about me," he said, releasing your wrists before he gets off the bed. he left you there, spread open, dripping, humiliated beyond repair.

and you realized with a sick twist of your gut— you liked it.

you fucking loved every humiliating second of it.

✎﹏﹏

your body aches.

not in the romantic, soft-lit, post-orgasm kind of way.

no. it's raw. it's degrading. it's embarrassing.

your legs are trembling so badly you have to lean on the sink just to stay upright. your thighs sticky, sore. your throat dry and stretched thin from the pathetic, wrecked sounds he pulled out of you.

you yank your clothes back on as fast as your shaking hands allow, muttering curses under your breath. you can't even look at yourself in the mirror. because you know what you'll see: the ruined, wrecked version of yourself jake created.

and you hate him.

you hate how smug he looks when you finally stumble back into the room—hair mussed, shirt untucked, standing like he didn't just break you open with nothing but his cock and his fucking mouth. you hate how he leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with a look that says he's already won.

you hate that he was right.

and you really, really hate that you liked it.

you roll your shoulders back, force yourself to stand straight even if your body is begging you to drop.

"that what you wanted?" you rasp out, voice wrecked and scratchy. "you win. congrats. want a trophy or something?"

jake doesn't say a word. he just watches. calm. amused. smug.

and it pisses you off. burns you alive from the inside.

"you got what you wanted. you ruined my pride," you snarl, stepping closer even though your knees are ready to give. "so what now? supposed to kneel and thank you? beg you to keep ruining me?"

he cocks his head slightly, lips twitching.

you hate how unbothered he looks. you hate it so much it makes you reckless.

"you don't actually believe i meant all that, right?" you spit. "you really think i meant it when i said you're big? when i cried about how good you fucked me?"

you scoff, shaking your head with a cold, sharp laugh.

"you're pathetic. you got played because i moaned a little."

and that's when everything shifts.

because jake steps forward—smooth, controlled—grabbing your jaw so hard you gasp, slamming your back against the wall without even looking like he's trying. his face is inches from yours, breath warm, eyes dark and furious.

"still lying?" he murmurs.

your heart pounds wildly. you try to twist away but his grip on your jaw tightens, bruising.

"you begged for my cock," he hisses, thumb dragging across your trembling bottom lip. "you fucking cried for it. and you're gonna stand there and lie to my face?"

you choke on your words, humiliation pouring down your spine in cold waves.

he laughs bitterly, the sound vibrating low in his chest. "guess you really are as dumb as you look."

you flinch.

and jake leans in closer, voice dropping lower, meaner. "you wanna pretend you're still in control?" he taunts, dragging his fingers down your throat slow, almost tender. "you wanna act like you didn't cum so fucking hard you couldn't even say my name?"

you tremble.

but you don't back down—not yet. pride and fear tangled up, keeping you frozen.

he chuckles darkly.

"fine," he says, voice a low threat. "i'll remind you."

his hand snakes between your thighs, shoving your jeans down again, your underwear dragging with it, baring you completely in seconds. you gasp, struggling—but he's too strong, too fast. he grabs you by the hips, throws you onto the bed like you're weightless.

and then he's on you.

he presses your wrists to the mattress with one hand again, his weight pinning you down, his other hand roughly forcing your legs apart.

you barely have time to gasp before he's inside you again—deep, brutal, fucking the defiance out of you one savage thrust at a time.

you cry out, throat raw. he fucks you like he's furious, every slam of his hips meant to punish. "not so fucking smug now, huh?" he pants against your ear.

you whimper, broken sounds spilling out without permission.

"what happened to all that fake confidence, princess?" he mocks, rolling his hips harder, forcing your body to take every inch. "thought you said you could handle it."

you sob, writhing under him, but he doesn't let up. he leans down, dragging his teeth across your jaw, making you shudder helplessly.

"gonna make you beg again," he growls. "gonna make you say it like you fucking mean it."

you try to shake your head—but you're drowning. he's everywhere. he's everything. and no matter how much you try to cling to your pride, it crumbles between your shaking hands.

you're crying now—humiliated tears streaking down your flushed face—as he pounds into you mercilessly.

"please," you choke out, voice cracking.

he chuckles, cruel and satisfied.

"please what, baby?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to a deep, punishing grind that makes your whole body twitch and seize.

"please," you sob again, shame burning you alive. "please let me cum."

he leans back slightly to look at you—hair a mess, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"you don't deserve to cum," he says, voice mocking. "whores who lie don't get rewards."

you whimper, hips stuttering against his, desperate, broken.

"but," he adds slowly, almost lazily, "if you beg real nice... maybe i'll consider it."

you sob harder, pride shattered into dust. and then—you beg.

you beg like a good little whore.

"please, jake," you cry, voice wrecked and hoarse. "i need it—i need to cum—please, please—"

he grins, dark and cruel, and finally—finally—lets you fall apart again, your body convulsing, cunt clenching around him helplessly as he fucks you through the brutal, soul-crushing orgasm. and you barely have a second to breathe before he's moving again—pulling out, grabbing your face in both hands, forcing your mouth open.

"open wide," he orders.

you're so wrecked you don't even think to disobey. you just open—lips trembling, eyes wide and glassy.

and jake leans over—spits straight into your mouth, thick and wet and humiliating.

you gag slightly, tears burning your eyes.

"swallow," he commands sharply.

you do.

you obey without even thinking.

and he smirks—grabbing his phone, flipping open the recording he just made of your pathetic begging, letting you hear it on loop while you lie there ruined, body trembling, throat raw.

he tucks his phone into his pocket, grabs your chin again, forcing you to look up at him. "remember this next time you wanna talk shit," he says, voice low and smug.

he kisses you—mocking and possessive—and leaves you there: used, wrecked, humiliated, and so thoroughly owned that you can't even pretend anymore.

jake sim ruined you and there's no taking it back.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

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mercurial-chuckles · 3 months ago

Text

Strings

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F! Reader WC: ~400 Warnings: Bucky's house wife kink gets activated | Established Relationship | Fluff | Bucky has thots | Minors DNI | Language | Allusions to smut | Soft dom!Bucky vibes | Very much canon divergent |Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I'm missing anything. Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Hell no! You've gotta be kidding me.

Bucky cursed internally.

He was thirsty when he walked into the kitchen, but one look at you, and he was fucking parched.

You were wearing an apron, mixing something in a giant bowl, your tongue peeking out in concentration. Bucky took in the surroundings on instinct, but only vaguely. Nathaniel, Clint's youngest, was sitting on the kitchen island, talking to you with an adorably serious expression. Peter was at the table nearby, working on his laptop. Bucky could tell you were fully engaged in both the conversation and whatever you were making.

You didn't notice Bucky right away, and he took his time taking you in. Fleeting images of you greeting him like this in your shared home flashed through his mind. You looked absolutely ravishing, and he was flooded with sinful thoughts as he took you in.

When you did look up, you smiled sweetly at him, "Bucky. Come sit with us, I'm making your favorite cookies."

Bucky was miserably turned on, and a pathetic groan slipped out.

Fuck.

He needed to leave. He shouldn't be standing there like this, not with kids around. He turned away abruptly and walked back to his room.

Jesus Christ, this was insane. But again, it was you. And Bucky had absolutely no control when it came to you. He leaned against the wall beside the door, trying to will away his hard-on, but his mind kept feeding him images. He kept thinking about how it would feel to fuck you on the counter, and how you'd look with a swollen belly, carrying his baby. He let out a pained grunt.

Bucky stilled when he heard the door creak open. He hadn't heard you approach, and he blamed it on all the blood rushing south.

"Bucky, what's wrong," you had followed him. Of course, you did. He should've guessed. You worried too much when it came to him.

Then he looked at you, apron still tied at your waist over those damn shorts, and Bucky nearly teetered.

He stared at you, jaw tense, eyes dark, "Don't," he said through clenched teeth, stepping back.

You blinked. "Bucky…did I do something?" you asked, voice soft, almost scared out of your wits.

You should be scared, he thought. Because his control was snapping.

"You did," he growled, taking two steps closer.

"Wha…"

You didn't finish.

Bucky lifted you off the ground and threw you on his shoulder carrying you to the bed. You laughed breathlessly, and let out a strangled moan when he smacked your ass.

"On your knees." He rasped, throwing you onto the bed and straddling your form. His teeth grazed your jaw and nibbled on your earlobe, and you were already thoroughly drenched.

"Strip." He ordered, kissing the corner of your mouth. "But the apron stays."

Hope this quenched your thirst. 🤭

Leave your thoughts if you enjoyed reading it. 💞✨

If you'd like to be tagged/removed from my works, please do so here.

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cherrysinner · 15 days ago

Text

── A BUNNY AND A PIG ♡

♡ pairing: bf!clark x reader

♡ summary: you and clark do facemasks together.

♡ warning / tags: fluff! suggestiveness. MDNI wc: ~800

♡ author's note: someone requested doing facemasks with clark and i thought it was the most adorable idea <3 i hope you enjoy!!

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST ♡

"look what i got!" you exclaimed in a sing-songy voice, sliding to lay on the bed where clark was working, holding up an array of sheet masks you'd bought that day, all with different animal patterns on them. clark looked up, taking one of them and looking it over, "they're cute. what do they do?"

"well, the bunny one moisturizes, the pig one is good for pores, the panda nourishes, the cat one makes your skin glowy, and the dog one makes your skin firm." you snatch the pig mask, "i'm doing this one. do you wanna do it with me?"

"which one do you think i should do?" "maybe the dog one since it firms your skin, i'm starting to see some serious crow's feet, my love." you teased, tracing a wrinkle that wasn't there with your finger, your boyfriend rolling his eyes as he tapped your forehead with the face mask. "i think i'll do the bunny one."

"suit yourself." you shook your head in mock disappointment as you got up off the bed, "but don't blame me when they start offering you the senior discount at 40!" clark laughed at your quip, shaking his head as he followed you into the bathroom, and only moments later, clark's hair was pushed away from his forehead by a soft, bunny-themed headband.

his steel-blues were closed, and a gentle smile stayed on his lips as you were putting the mask on him, "you're not supposed to smile." you tutted your lips, your remark making your boyfriend let out a quiet chuckle as one of his eyes opened, "i can't help it. i like it when you touch my face. you have really soft hands."

"sounds like you just love facials."

clark's lips turned into a slight grin, "no, from what i remember from the other night, they definitely seemed to be more your thing, see i prefer sw- ouch!" your boyfriend exclaimed in feigned hurt as you gently smacked his forearm, "do not make this dirty." "sorry, i couldn't resist it. you just look so alluring in a pig mask." clark smiled at his own joke as you shook your head, unable to resist the smile on your face.

"alright, you're all done." you tapped his shoulders, pressing a quick peck on clark's lips, "give it fifteen minutes, and we'll take these off."

"what should we do in the meantime?" clark asked, his hands going to your hips and slipping under the hem of the shirt that used to belong to him, but now was more often worn by you, stroking the skin on your lower back with his thumb in a way that made shivers run up your spine.

when you pressed yourself into clark's muscular chest, however, you were interrupted by the loud buzzing of the buzzer, "cockblocker." you rolled your eyes, "that's dinner."

"i'll go get it." clark said as he pulled away from you with a small sigh, "don't be too long or i'll miss you." you grinned, giving your boyfriend's shoulder a small squeeze, watching as he left the bathroom.

clark hummed softly as he made his way down to the apartment's entrance, pulling the door open to a teenage boy with a pizza-themed cap on his head, holding a pizza cap, confusion written all over his face. "uh, that'll be 10.50." the boy cleared his throat.

"here you go." clark handed him a twenty-dollar bill, accepting the food. "thanks... have a nice evening." "you too." clark said, feeling the warmth of the fresh pizza through the pizza box, making his way back to your shared apartment.

"it's still warm!" he called out, hearing you press the buttons of the tv remote, the man peeking his head into the living room where you were sitting on the couch, "thank god, i'm starving."

just as you took a bite out of a pizza slice, your boyfriend turned to you with a slightly inquisitive look, "sweetheart, do you think i look odd? the pizza boy looked at me like i had two heads."

you let out a small snort as you placed the slice you'd bitten into back in the box, taking a small sip of soda you'd poured for yourself to wash it down, "well." you looked at him up and down; his bunny headband and the matching face mask, the hello kitty pajama pants you'd gotten for him for christmas so you could match and an 'i <3 my girlfriend' shirt you'd given him on valentine's day.

"no, honey." you chuckled softly, squeezing his shoulder, "you dress just like any alien would."

#clark kent x reader #superman 2025 #superman x reader #clark kent fluff #david corenswet #clark kent x you #clark kent fic #clark kent imagine #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent x y/n #clark kent au #clark kent #clark kent x female reader #dcu #superman x y/n #superman x you #superman fanfiction #superman

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em1i2a3 · 14 days ago

Text

Hot Thoughts

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob wants to surprise you by refilling your snack drawer with your favourite protein bars, but he ends up finding something that makes him rethink everything.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, A Bit of Angst (like self-doubt, cause the discovery sets off The Void and Sentry, Reader and Bob are in an established relationship.

Smut Warnings: A Sex Toy is mentioned and described, Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk, and Sloppy Kissing/Making Out (drool, spit, stuff like that), Nipple/Breast Play, Mentions of Past Sexual Encounters.

Author’s Note: Loved making this little blurb to go along with my other post today, I enjoyed writing the dialogue between the three amigos, so…Sue me lol. Anyways! Hope you enjoy! :)

Word Count: 3,915

Bob just wanted to surprise you.

He wanted to show he was paying attention that morning when you had leaned on the kitchen counter in his old sweatshirt, with your hair a sleepy mess and your voice muffled by your mug as you said “I’m running low on my secret stash,” while casting him a look beneath your lashes that wasn’t exactly subtle.

Bob knew what that meant. He knew your ‘secret stash’ was hidden in the top drawer of your nightstand under some random receipts and a pair of fuzzy socks…It was your protein bars. The specific kind that was always sold out at every grocery store, the ones you hoarded like they were currency, the ones you treated like sacred offerings when you were busy or stressed or too tired to get up to make yourself something. He had even seen you barter with Bucky once for a fresh box–you gave him your last box of mango-flavoured electrolyte packs and a shoulder massage.

So Bob went out on a mission. He had gone to four grocery stores before he finally found them–tucked away in a corner shelf in the health food aisle like little golden bricks of triumph. He bought five boxes. Nearly wiped the shelf clean–but he didn’t because he felt bad for piling his arms sky high with a bunch of them. He was practically vibrating with glee when he returned to the compound, shaking in the elevator with the bag that was filled to the brim with the boxes.

When he arrived on the 83rd floor, the elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding. He stepped out, with the box-filled bag crinkling in his arms, and was immediately met with the familiar quiet hum of the compound’s upper hall. From your bedroom door that was slightly ajar, he could hear the soft hiss of the shower running from the ensuite bathroom. You were taking a shower, and his timing was impeccable.

Bob’s chest fluttered at the thought of you stepping out, warm and dewy and a little out of breath from the heat, catching sight of your drawer perfectly restocked. You’d be glowing, beaming even. Maybe you’d throw your arms around him in just your towel, and pepper kisses all over his face like you couldn’t help yourself. Maybe you’d even eat one right then and there, happy noises and all, with your feet pattering against the hardwood flooring. The image made him excited to get to the room.

He shuffled past the lounge without fanfare, tossing quick greetings to the team–“Hey, Yelena. Walker. Alexei. What’s up, Buck, hey Ava”–before disappearing into the room you both shared, closing the door quietly behind him. The bag hit the floor beside the bed with a triumphant thump.He was practically humming with excitement as he knelt beside your nightstand, and slid open the top drawer.

And like you said, it was almost empty. There was only one sad, lonely protein bar left in the box, the wrapper a little wrinkled from where it had probably been crushed by the other protein bars. He smiled to himself and pulled out the box–

And then paused.

Because peeking out from beneath the crumpled receipts and that one stray fuzzy sock was something distinctly not a protein bar. His brow furrowed at the sight, and he shifted the sock aside to reveal exactly what he was looking at.

The toy was sleek. Silicone. It was purple in colour, almost the same shade as the love bites you had left on him when you had been writhing beneath him last night after he came back from patrol and needed to distress. There was a faint shimmer that the toy had, like it was brand new or recently cleaned–it was barely noticeable unless you looked closely, and Bob was certainly doing that. The toy curved slightly at the tip, like it knew exactly where it was going and where it needed to be, with subtle ridges along its shaft and a smooth rounded base that was easy to hold. It was elegant, honestly. Discreet. And expensive looking.

Bob froze. Kneeling beside your nightstand with the protein bars now long forgotten on the floor, staring at the toy like it had just whispered his name in a taunting threat. His hand hovered for a moment, then slowly–cautiously–like he was about to disarm a landmine, he reached out and picked it up.

The weight of it threw him off a bit. It was heavier than he expected, almost like it was state of the art technology all encompassed in a sex toy. He turned it in his hand, and he noticed two small gold buttons at the bottom. He stared at them for a moment, and hovered his thumb above the ‘on’, before pressing down on it.

Wzzzzzzzzzzzzz–

It vibrated to life in his palm, thrumming with an intensity that almost startled him. He couldn’t imagine how this truly felt pleasurable, but then again he was feeling this in the palm of his hand, not on…Any sensitive areas.

His mouth dropped open slightly as he watched it twitch and pulse in his grip, the purple silicone trembling against his skin like it had just taken a breath. The curved tip shivered, and the ridges rolled in sequence with the movements. The thing was practically dancing in his hand.

“Jesus Christ,” He muttered, tapping the button above the ‘on’, watching it change its rhythm. Slower pulses, then followed by faster ones. Then a stuttering pattern that made his fingers jolt and his throat dry out. He cycled through a few more settings, growing increasingly more and more baffled. He could practically hear it whispering: You thought you were the only one?

The ridged shaft gave one final cocky shudder before he hit the power button again with a little more force than necessary, before putting it back in the drawer.

Silence.

Except, of course, for the voice in his head.

“How many settings does that thing have?!” Sentry’s voice boomed from the depths of Bob’s subconscious, indignant and unamused, “And why the hell does she even have this? Are we not good enough for her?!” He placed it down like it was radioactive, trying not to look directly at it. Trying not to imagine it. You. That sleek little curve pressing against–

Fuck sake

A slow pulse of heat crawled up the back of his neck as he chewed the inside of his lip, fingers drumming restlessly against the drawer’s edge.

“It seems like that might be the case,” The Void chimed in smoothly, and Bob felt his jaw clench instantly, “But fuck–she’s been real convincing with those orgasms though…All that gasping, and shaking, the way she scratches at our back like she’s gonna rip our muscles off…I was so sure she was–“

“Shut up,” Bob hissed under his breath.

“I can’t believe she was faking it,” The Void continued, faux mournful, as if this were the tragedy of the century, “She even squirted that one time…It was a whole puddle.”

“She wasn’t faking,” Bob whispered back, voice harsh and uncertain.

“You don’t know that.” The Void bit back.

”I do.” Bob replied, running a hand through his hair, frustrated by the conversation happening, “She’s literally soaked the sheets before. Like, multiple times. Now unless she’s peeing the bed, I’m pretty sure she couldn’t fake that.” The silence that followed wasn’t exactly reassuring through. Bob scratched the back of his neck, glancing at the drawer like it had betrayed him. A part of him knew it was irrational–he knew you had every right to own a sex toy, to use it, to keep it tucked away…When you just needed something different…

But Sentry’s voice echoed again, quieter now, “Why didn’t she tell us?” That was the part that gnawed at him. Because you told him everything. About your day, your body, what you liked and wanted and craved. About the exact ways you wanted him to touch you–how slow, how deep, and how hard. You’d begged him with tears in your eyes more than once.

And now he was stuck here, kneeling beside your nightstand, wondering if he had missed something big.

He stared at the toy for another long moment.

Was it better than him?

Did it know your body better than he did?

His heartbeat was loud in his ears as his brain continued to spiral.

And then–he heard the water shut off.

The quiet hiss of the shower faded. A pause. The telltale thump of your towel sliding off the hook. A soft hum from your throat as you dried off, completely unaware of the unraveling man outside your bathroom door.

Bob panicked.

Not enough to flee the room, but enough to scramble to pick up the boxes of protein bars and shove them into the drawer like it was part of the plan all along. He tucked the toy gently back under the receipts, then immediately winced, wondering if that was too obvious. He shifted it again. Tried to fluff the sock. Too much. Shoved the drawer closed.

Fuck.

The door opened behind him.

And there you were–barefoot, in a damp towel and flushed from the heat, little beads of water still dripping from your collarbones. You froze in place at the sight of him crouched beside the bed, cheeks red, drawer shut, and hands twitching uselessly in his lap.

“…Hey,” You said, blinking. “What are you doing?” Bob looked up slowly. His face was unreadable, but his ears were pink. His voice cracked slightly.

”I…Uh…I got your pr-protein bars.” Immediately your lips turned up into a smile, your eyes lighting up like a solar flare.

“No way. No way! Did you actually find them?!” He nodded, lips twitching like he didn’t quite trust himself to smile at your excitement.

”Five boxes,” He muttered, “Nearly wiped the en-entire shelf clean.” You crossed the room, beaming.

“God, you’re an absolute hero! Seriously. I love you so so much.” You leaned down and grabbed his face, still damp from your shower, your towel clinging loosely to your curves. Bob blinked up at you, stunned and a little dazed, as you peppered his face with warm, wet kisses. His cheeks, his forehead, his nose–each kiss landed with a soft little smack that made his ears glow redder and redder. And then, finally, your lips brushed his.

“You’re the best, Bob,” You whispered, grinning against his mouth. Then you plopped down onto the mattress with a happy little bounce, your towel riding dangerously high on your thighs. You turned toward the nightstand and slid the drawer open with a smooth tug.

The sight that greeted you made your face light up all over again.

A whole row of those familiar, impossibly elusive boxes was stacked neatly inside–your sacred stash. You let out a long, dramatic sigh and clutched your chest like it was art.

“My god,” You breathed. “This is beautiful…”

But when you turned back toward Bob, your smile faltered. He wasn’t glowing the way he usually did when you complimented him–when you kissed him, touched him, said his name in that soft voice like he was something precious. Instead, he was shrinking in on himself. Shoulders slightly hunched, fingers twitching nervously against his thigh. His gaze flicked toward the drawer and then away again, and something in your gut twisted.

You squinted at him. “Why do you look so sad?” Bob opened his mouth, then closed it. He glanced at the nightstand again, his brows drawing into the faintest frown.

“What did you find?” You asked gently, already piecing it together from his shame-filled body language and where his gaze lingered. He let out a soft sigh, cheeks pink and voice nearly inaudible.

��I found…Your to-toy.”

You blinked. Then you gave a resigned little exhale, rubbing a hand over your temple. “My sex toy?” He nodded.

You looked at him for a moment, confused. “Why do you seem sad about it?” You reached out and gently hooked two fingers beneath his jaw, tilting his face up toward yours. He resisted at first–just a little, just enough to show that whatever he was holding onto inside was clinging tight–but eventually he let you guide him, his blue eyes blinking slowly until they met yours.

That was when you saw it.

Those little white pinpoints glowing faintly in his pupils. The gold flecks flickering like sunlight through water. The emotion swimming there wasn’t just embarrassment–it was confusion, uncertainty, and something close to pain. You exhaled softly. Brushed your thumb along the soft, fleshy skin under his eye with a gentleness that made him lean in, like he was starving for contact.

“And are you and your other two musketeers,” You asked, voice low, teasing, “Having a conference about it?” Bob’s lashes fluttered.

Then he sighed and closed his eyes, head dipping slightly.

“It’s more like an…Argument,” He muttered, defeated. Your brows lifted, amused and touched all at once. You shifted closer on the mattress, the hem of your towel brushing higher up the tops of your thighs as you leaned forward and tilted your head.

“Anything I can settle?” Your voice was soft, your touch even softer as your thumb traced along his cheek, feeling the slight stubble that hadn’t been there this morning. Bob looked up at you slowly. His expression was unsure, but heartbreakingly open. A man unraveling by inches.

“They’re sa-saying…” He started, then swallowed. “They’re saying we don’t satisfy you well enough.” That made your heart crack. And, okay, you did let out a little laugh–but it wasn’t mean. It was breathy, warm, surprised.

“Oh, sweetheart,” You murmured. You reached down and unraveled the hand that had been holding your towel up, letting the thick fold of cotton droop slightly across your chest. Then you cupped his face between both palms, smoothing your thumbs over his flushed cheeks, grounding him.

“Bob,” You said firmly, “Hun.” He blinked up at you, utterly at your mercy.

“I need to use that when you’re on missions,” You explained, slow and clear, “Because you’ve literally conditioned me to have an orgasm before bed.” His brows twitched.

”I can’t sleep if I don’t have one now…I’m ruined, and that’s on you. That little thing is just…I don’t use it at any other times.” Your smile grew fond, “Especially not when I have you around.” You paused, letting the silence settle into something meaningful.

“Why would I ever reach for a piece of silicone,” You whispered, leaning in until your forehead brushed his, “When I have a literal god who trembles every time I come on his tongue?” Bob let out a sharp, low breath. You felt his hands twitch at his sides. Felt the way his jaw clenched–tight with something desperate and messy and grateful.

“That toy doesn’t talk to me,” You continued, voice soft but devastating, “Doesn’t react when I beg for more. Doesn’t lick me like it’s starving. Doesn’t beg me to ride its face.” Bob whimpered. And when you kissed him–hot and slow and full of intent–he surged forward like he was drowning in you. His mouth met yours with a messiness that had nothing to do with finesse. It was need. Tongue and teeth and breath. A collision of lips and spit and soft, open-mouthed kisses that left both of you gasping.

When he finally broke away, pupils blown, lips wet, voice barely holding steady, he rasped out:

”For my own st-state of mind…Can I go down on you?” He asked, gripping your thighs gently. That pulled a startled giggle out of you, breathless and sweet. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto.

“If that’s what’ll ease your worries…” You purred, voice soft and teasing, “Sure.” Bob’s eyes darkened. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not cocky, but grateful. Hungry.

And then he was kissing you again–harder this time.

Sloppier.

There was nothing polished about it. His tongue slid into your mouth with a groan that vibrated all the way down your spine. He tilted his head and deepened it, spit slicking your lips, your chin, the corner of your mouth. He kissed like he was trying to make up for something–like he was trying to replace the memory of that toy with the taste of you, the sound of your moan, the way you whimpered into his kiss and clutched at his shoulders like you were going to melt.

His hands moved down, strong and firm and possessive, gripping your thighs and hauling you higher up the mattress with barely a grunt of effort. The towel slipped even further, hanging on by a whisper.

And then he looked at you.

Took a breath.

And with shaking fingers, he opened the towel fully.

It fell away like a curtain, revealing the curve of your breasts, the slope of your waist, the plush softness of your stomach and thighs–all of you, laid bare before him like a feast. Bob’s mouth dropped open slightly, eyes roving in reverent awe.

”Christ,” He breathed, voice guttural, “You’re so pe-perfect, absolutely unreal.” He bent forward slowly, brushing his nose along the swell of your left breast. Then he groaned, the sound low and sinful, and dragged his tongue over your nipple–slow and wet, then again, rougher. His hand cupped the other breast, fingers squeezing gently, then firmer, kneading the soft flesh until you arched with a gasp.

And then he devoured them.

His mouth was everywhere–licking, sucking, nibbling. His tongue flicked and dragged, then flattened over your nipple as he sucked it hard into his mouth, groaning like he could taste your arousal through your skin. His teeth scraped lightly, just enough to make you cry out, and he groaned in approval when your hips shifted and your thighs squeezed around him instinctively.

“G-God,” You stammered, head falling back against the pillows, “Bob–baby, that feels so–”

“So much better th-than that toy,” He muttered, almost to himself, between kisses. Then he kissed down your body–sloppy and hot and breathless. Your stomach, your navel, the soft flesh just above your pelvis. His tongue left wet trails, his lips parted and panting. And then he reached your thighs, pushing them open with two wide palms and staring like he’d just found the answer to every doubt he’d ever had.

“Jesus Ch-Christ,” He whispered, voice cracking like he was in pain,“You look so fucking good all the time.”

And then he dove in.

No hesitation.

Just mouth and heat and hunger.

His tongue flattened and dragged through your folds like he was trying to taste everything at once. Then he circled your clit, lips latching around it with a soft, wet pop that made your back arch clean off the bed.

“Oh my god–” You gasped, fingers immediately diving into his hair. He groaned against you and the vibration sent your thighs trembling. Bob’s arms looped under them, dragging you closer, locking you down, as he buried himself deeper. He ate like he couldn’t breathe without it–slurping and moaning, licking and sucking, his face slick with you, spit and arousal coating his mouth and chin.

He came up just enough to suck your clit into his mouth again–harder this time–and when you whimpered, he spit on it. A slow, filthy dribble that landed hot and messy before he dove back in, licking it up like a man possessed.

Your entire body jolted.

“Bob–”

“You taste like heaven,” He growled, words muffled against your core. “Better than anything. Better than everything.”

Then one of his hands shifted–fingers curling between your thighs–and he slid two of them inside you in one slow, thick push. You cried out, legs kicking slightly as the stretch hit you all at once.

“Fucking tight,” He muttered, pumping them deep, “Still so go–goddamn tight even after all the times I’ve been in here–”

You were shaking. Gasping. Your thighs quivered and your hips rocked into his mouth, chasing each drag of his tongue, each filthy kiss against your swollen clit.

“Oh fuck, Bob…Don’t stop…Don’t fucking stop–”

“I’m not,” He growled, “You’re mine.”His fingers fucked into you hard, curling just right, while his tongue flicked your clit in fast, slick motions. He moaned into your core. Kissed it. Spit on it again and smeared it in with his tongue like it was holy.

You were close. So close.

And Bob knew it.

He growled and sucked harder, faster, curling his fingers inside you with every pump. You could hear the obscene wet noises, feel the mess building between your thighs.

“Come for me,” He begged, voice rough, desperate, reverent. “Come on, sw-sweetheart.” You shattered.

With a cry that broke on his name, your body seized, your thighs locked around his head, and you came with a tremble that nearly left you boneless. Bob didn’t stop. He licked you through it, fingers still pumping slow and deep, licking and kissing and moaning like your orgasm had saved his fucking life.

When you finally slumped back, breathing hard, chest rising and falling in aftershock, Bob pulled back slowly.

He leaned up, crawling over you slowly like he didn’t want to leave your body–not even for a second. His hands braced on either side of your trembling frame, and when his face hovered just above yours, you caught a full view of the aftermath.

His lips were glossy. His chin glistened. His nose shimmered with the mix of spit and slick he hadn’t even tried to wipe away. His eyes were half-lidded, molten gold and raw with hunger, with awe.

And when he kissed you–tongue first–it was slow, deep, and wet. He didn’t even bother cleaning up. He wanted you to taste it. Wanted to give it to you. His tongue slid into your mouth, heavy and languid, and you moaned against it, arms wrapping lazily around his neck to pull him closer.

You sucked on his tongue, slow and obscene, lips sliding messily against his like you were both drunk on the flavor of each other. A soft, desperate moan escaped from deep in your throat, and you broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his mouth:

“Does that prove to you how much satisfaction you give me?”

Bob let out a long, shuddering sigh, burying his face in your neck like he couldn’t stand the weight of your answer. His breath was hot against your skin. His voice was low and shaky.

“I may have to make you finish a few more times…”

A beat.

He kissed your neck, licked at your throat, and whispered:

“…For good measure of course.”

1K notes · View notes

marvelstoriesepic · 3 months ago

Text

Steam and Silhouettes

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: While trying to take a shower, Bucky comes barging into your shared bathroom, claiming Alpine misses her new mama.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: mild nudity (non-sexual); mutual pining; suggestive humor; domestic fluff; Alpine being Alpine; Bucky being a ridiculous dork

Author’s Note: This is a part of a series with a loose timeline, but you can also read this as a standalone. Hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“Oh my god, Bucky, get out!”

Your voice resounds off the steamed-up tiles, somewhere between scandalized and entirely unconvincing. A squeak of the shower curtain rings as it trembles slightly, your poor attempt at pretending this isn’t the weirdest and most you moment of your life as Bucky Barnes’ roommate.

“Relax, doll. She missed you.”

You peek through the waterfall of hot water stinging your eyes, blinking furiously, heart lurching somewhere high into your throat.

A shadow casts on the shower curtain. A tall figure with broad shoulders and the boldest audacity, backlit by the bathroom light.

And perched high on his forearm, just barely bobbing into view over the shower curtain, is a tiny white paw. Then another. Then two crystalline blue eyes.

You sputter a wet laugh, nearly choking on a mouthful of water. “Buck! Did you seriously bring Alpine in here?”

The kitten meows. Sweet, high-pitched, held up by Bucky’s arms, peering over your goddamn shower curtain as though she’s Simba in The Lion King.

Your heart is hammering.

Not because of Alpine.

But because Bucky Barnes is standing just on the other side of the plastic barrier, mere inches away, and you’re stark naked, and your feelings are very much not platonic, and your brain is officially trying to outrun you.

Bucky sounds way too casual about the whole thing. “She was cryin’ outside the door. Thought maybe she just needed to see her mama.”

Huffing, you push your wet hair out of your face, the weight of it slick and heavy down your back. “She’s a baby, Bucky. Babies cry. Doesn’t mean you come walking into the bathroom while someone’s taking a shower.”

Bucky holds her up with both arms, the way someone might offer a sacred relic or a bottle of wine. His bare forearms flex slightly, and you hate that, even though he’s holding an adorably sweet and fluffy white kitten, Bucky is still somehow distracting.

“But she was cryin’, doll,” he says, now softer. “Wouldn’t let up. Climbed up my pants. Clawed her way up like I was a tree.”

“Seriously?”

“Swear on Steve’s good name. Wouldn’t stop till I picked her up. That’s how I figured she missed her mama.”

Your heart stutters. That stupid word again. Mama.

“Bucky, get out,” you only repeat exaggerated.

“You left the door unlocked,” he shoots back through the veil of hot air, all indignant as though he’s the one being violated.

You make a strangled noise, rubbing your temples, breathing through your nose, trying to remember that you do like him most days. You chose to live with this idiot. You’ve lived with him for a while now. You’ve survived him accidentally setting a potholder on fire, singing 90s power ballads at 2 am, and alphabetizing your spices just to mess with you.

“That’s not an invitation to come in here like a psycho and lift our kitten over the curtain to watch me shower.”

There’s a rustle on the other side. The shuffle of his feet on the tile. “But she was sad, doll. Missed you. Thought maybe you abandoned her for good.”

“She saw me ten minutes ago,” you state with a sigh in your voice, turning to rinse shampoo out of your hair.

“Well.” You see his shadow shrug behind the curtain, adjusting Alpine’s wiggly butt in his hands. “Ten minutes is like a week to a baby. You ever gone a week without your favorite person? It’s tragic.”

The words trip something in your chest. You hear the slight quirk of his mouth in his voice, as though maybe he knows what he is doing. As though this isn’t entirely about Alpine.

Alpine mews again, that high-pitched kitten sound like a squeak toy dipped in sugar, and Bucky chuckles, soft and low and affectionate in a way that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

Her tiny nose twitches, eyes wide, paws scrabbling at the edge of the curtain as Bucky still keeps holding her aloft like a proud, ridiculous cat dad.

You sigh, one hand on your face, the other holding the curtain in a defensive scrunch. “I’m still naked, Barnes.”

There’s a pause. Like a thoughtful, huh kind of pause. You hear him shuffle on the tile. As though he only just caught up with that part. As though he hadn’t really thought this through beyond the cat misses you and you probably miss the cat and maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see you too.

“I mean, technically she’s naked too,” he deadpans after a beat.

You let your forehead thunk gently against the tile wall, groaning into the rising steam.

“And she’s a girl, y’know. So�� girl to girl. Girl solidarity. Ain’t weird,” he adds helpfully, as though this might somehow serve as a legal defense in court.

“She’s also two pounds and can’t even use a litter box without falling in,” you hiss back.

“Details.”

You sigh, slumping back under the spray and dragging your hands down your face. Soap hangs off your eyelashes. Alpine meows, a chirpy sound, as if she’s telling you to be nice to your ridiculous roommate.

“She says she didn’t get a real goodbye,” he says, voice low and a little sing-songy as though he knows he is pushing your buttons and is committing to the bit anyway. “Her little heart’s broken now. Might never recover.”

You roll your eyes, but can’t help the snort that leaves your lips. God, you’re so in love with him it’s embarrassing. Your heart feels like a paper lantern too close to the flame.

Alpine meows again, tiny paws curling over the curtain as she cranes her neck to spot you better, big blue eyes wide with wonder, as though you are the best thing she’s ever seen.

And Bucky is holding her so gently he might have spent the last ten minutes convincing her that yes, mama still exists and no, she didn’t disappear, and yes, you can go look at her now.

Reaching out, you poke your hand over the curtain, water dripping from your fingers as you scratch softly at Alpine’s chin.

“There you are, baby,” you utter amused but soft. “You’re such a drama queen.”

Bucky chuckles, deep and low, but there is something fragile under it. His hand - still holding the kitten - brushes yours for a second and he stays still.

You can see the shadow of his boots from under the curtain, the soft shuffle of his weight shifting, but not moving toward the door like a normal person would do after realizing they’ve invaded your steamy sanctuary of suds and sanity.

Then, you lean out. Just your head. Damp hair dripping, chin tucked, eyes narrowed as you peek past the edge of the curtain like a very cautious ghost.

And there he is.

Standing. Holding Alpine as though she’s the goddamn crown jewel. But his hands have stilled on her fur, mid-stroke, and his face is softened, startled. As though he just remembered something he wasn’t supposed to forget.

Then his gaze flicks - unintentionally, just a tick - toward the vague silhouette of your body behind the curtain. His breath hitches. Just slightly. And then his ears go red.

His eyes do an awkward flutter toward the ceiling, toward the tiles, toward Alpine, anywhere but toward the slice of your face. He looks like a man trying not to glance at a solar eclipse without sunglasses.

“You good?” you ask, dry as bone, drops of water landing on the edge of the shower.

He clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Just gonna let you finish up. I, uh- think Alpine’s satisfied now,” he says, one hand coming up to scratch behind the kitten's ear. She purrs lazily, utterly unaware that she has single-handedly plunged her two favorite humans into an emotional fever dream.

You bite back a smirk. “Sure she is.”

“I didn’t see anything, obviously,” he goes on, still looking at literally anything other than you. “Not that I was tryin’ to. Not that there was anything to see- I mean- that’s not how I- I meant, that you- Fuck, now I’m makin’ it weird. Which is not what I meant. I mean- it’s not bad, just- Jesus Christ.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. Not because it’s funny - though it is funny - but because there is something in your chest threatening to melt. Something painfully weak. The kind of thing you don’t want to touch too hard in case it turns real and runs away.

“Right. Great,” he mutters. A pause. “I’m gonna take her out,” he adds, finally lowering Alpine down to the little mat beside the door. She immediately tries to climb his pant leg again.

You tilt your head.

“You sure? She might still want to see her mama.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, well, her mama deserves a shower in peace without bein’ ogled. Just thought she’d calm down if she saw ya. You can resume whatever mysterious shower rituals you do in there.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, it’s called cleaning myself, Barnes.”

He huffs a laugh. “Alright, alright. I’m goin’. Don’t yell at me in front of the kid.”

“She’s a cat.”

“She’s sensitive.”

You shouldn’t be this warm. It’s not the water anymore. It’s something else creeping under your skin, behind your ribs. You want to say something. Want to reach out and grab his shirt and pull him in - not into the shower, not like that, not yet. Just into your space. Into the same space you’ve been for a while now. Waiting.

But you’re also very wet. And very naked. And this isn’t exactly the moment you want him to remember for the rest of his life when he thinks of your first real step forward. If he even believes you could take such a step.

So instead, you smile, shake your head. “Get outta here, Barnes. I’ll be out in five.”

He lifts his eyes at you, long enough to catch your expression. And even though you’re barely there - just your head, framed in fog and water and shampoo suds - he smiles. Something tender glimmers in his eyes. Maybe he’s already counting down those five minutes.

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Take your time,” he says, voice gone quiet now.

And it’s soft. Not teasing. As though maybe this wasn’t as embarrassing as he thought it would be. Maybe he’s not entirely sorry.

Your face does something treasonous. Your heart does something worse.

With a clear of his throat, his hand takes hold of the doorknob, opening it a crack. Alpine trots out of the bathroom, tail swishing, entirely pleased with herself. He watches her for a beat. Then stares at a tile. Lingers. Then looks back at you. His eyes snap quickly to your body shielded by the curtain, and fly away instantly, as though he caught himself in the last moment. “Alright, I’ll give you some privacy,” he utters, voice a little raspy. “Gotta go now. Gotta go learn about boundaries or somethin’.”

And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him.

You’re standing there dripping, heart pounding for reasons that have less to do with steam and everything to do with him.

He’s got that effect on you. Even when he’s being a ridiculous dork. Especially when he’s being a ridiculous dork.

The door cracks open again.

“Oh my god, Buck-” you begin to protest, but he interrupts you quickly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just-” Bucky calls out, soft, voice low as though he’s trying not to scare a bird. “Uh, I was thinkin’. You want takeout?”

One hand freezes mid-reach for your body lotion, the other still braced against the curtain. You didn’t expect him to ask that.

“Thought maybe you’d be hungry,” he explains, as though it’s the most reasonable thing in the world to have a food conference while you’re still literally naked and trying to have some privacy. “I’ll order. You take your time in there. By the time you’re all… y’know-” You see his shadow gesture at you behind the curtain, “human again, it’ll be here.”

You laugh. It kind of bursts out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Human again?”

“Well, you’re half-shampoo, half-grump right now,” he says with a smirk you can hear. “Didn’t wanna assume you were ready to talk logistics until you de-soaped.”

You don’t know what to say. So you sigh and wait for him to leave.

But he lingers.

You peek your head around the curtain again, water droplets trailing down your temple like punctuation marks to your raised eyebrows. “Barnes.”

His eyes flick up. Instantly. And then down. Instantly-er.

“Oh,” he blurts, practically recoiling, sheepishly running his hand down his face. “Still- uh- yep. Still naked. Right. Shit.”

“You literally knew that going in the first time. And now you did it again,” you deadpan, grinning at how fast he suddenly backs away again.

“I wasn’t- I mean, I still didn’t see anything, not that I was looking. Or trying to look. I just thought- well, Alpine was done sniffin’ the rug and I figured maybe food- ya know what? Never mind.”

The door squeaks.

“Bucky,” you call just before it closes again.

He pauses. Leans back with only half his face showing - one hand gripping the edge of the frame as though it might keep him tethered.

You soften. You can’t help it. “Takeout sounds good.”

He smiles, small and crooked and pleased, and god help you, it tugs at something in your chest that makes you want to sit down and cry for no reason at all.

“Got it, sweetheart.” His voice is warm again. Familiar. “I’ll get the usual. You just… take your time. Wash the world off.”

You nod. And he’s gone again.

You hear his footsteps pad down the hallway.

With a sigh that’s 60% fondness, 30% embarrassment, and 10% utter, unrelenting this man, you lean back into the steam, your heart performing some frantic dance in your chest.

Outside, Alpine lets out a mewl that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

“You don’t accidentally end up sharing a life.”

- Erin Hahn

2K notes · View notes

whytheylosttheirminds · 1 month ago

Text

snooze - r.c.

note: originally posted on my old blog a few months ago, this is a repost!

summary: your man works hard, and you love him for it, but some mornings you just wish he'd stay in bed a little longer...

cw: smut, fluff, pinv, dirty talk, 18+ minors do not interact

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂

Rafe’s alarm rings through the large bedroom like a blaring siren, jerking you violently from the sweet sleep you were just wrapped in. He doesn’t hear it at first, still sound asleep next to you, snores rumbling through his bare chest.

You blink your eyes open, the room is still dark, though the first golden rays of the sunrise creep in through the small crack in the curtains. You twist your body towards Rafe, snuggling your head into his neck, an attempt to both shield your eyes from the sunlight and get his attention, desperate for him to silence the loud alarm.

After a few seconds, he still hasn’t heard it, so you reach up and gently tap his cheek.

“Baby,” you groan, cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Too loud.”

Rafe takes a deep breath in, eyes still closed as he reaches his bedside table, tapping his phone screen clumsily until the sound subsides.

He settles back in, placing a quick kiss onto the top of your head as he pulls you into his side. You sigh happily, running your nails softly up and down his chest and stomach, drawing little hearts and stars on his skin. He shivers when you graze over the soft skin of his lower stomach, following his happy trail down to his waistband. You fully plan on dipping your hand below it, where he’s already twitching and firming up for you under his sweatpants, but you get distracted by the delicious deep V lines on either side of his waist. You dip your pointer finger into the valley of muscle and trace the shape down, switching to the other side and drawing back up.

He stirs when you angle your finger to scratch lightly with your manicured nail, lingering just above the band of his Calvins that peeks out from his sweats.

“That’s so nice, baby,” he mumbles in his deep, crackling morning voice, “I love these hands.”

Rafe laces his fingers in yours with one hand, his other arm sliding under your neck and wrapping around your shoulders. He pulls you close so he can drop a sloppy kiss on your temple.

You sigh and lift your intertwined hands to place a kiss on each of his knuckles.

“Maybe you should stay home,” you suggest between kisses. “Then you can enjoy these hands all day long.”

He smiles knowingly, still not opening his eyes. You play this game every morning, trying to find ways to convince him to play hooky from work, though they never succeed. He’s always showered and out the door by sunrise, leaving you with a cup of coffee on your nightstand and a quick kiss as you drift back to sleep.

“Sounds perfect, but I have an 8 a.m. with a potential investor,” he explains.

In the quiet, Rafe starts to drift off again. You continue to stroke his chest and think of all the many enticing reasons for him to stay, but before you can list them for him, his alarm blares from his phone again.

You lean over him, reaching to the phone on his nightstand. He takes the opportunity to snake his hand around your waist and slide it under his big t-shirt you're wearing. His hands feel so nice on your lower back, you pause, almost forgetting what you were reaching for in the first place, until the alarm rings out again, making you both wince with its volume. You tap the screen desperately until it’s silenced.

“Just hitting snooze so we can have five more minutes,” you say, settling down over him and resting your cheek on his chest.

“Liar,” he says with a sleepy smirk. “You turned it off.”

You faked an offended gasp, “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of such deception, Rafe Cameron.”

“So when five minutes go by and the alarm doesn’t go off again, what are you gonna say then?”

“I was hoping you’d fall back to sleep by then,” you confess with a giggle, laying a soft kiss on his chest, right over his heart.

“I knew it.”

He sits up in bed, causing you to fall back onto the pillows, immediately missing his warmth. You paw at his arm as he reaches over to check the time on his phone.

“Nooo,” you whine. “Don’t go yet.”

He smiles down at you, leaning over to place loving kisses on the edge of your jaw and up your face, touching his lips to your temple one final time before standing from the bed.

Your vision is still fuzzy from sleep and the darkness of the room, but you follow the general shape of him as he walks to the wall of windows on the other side of the room. He’s shirtless, the lower half of his body covered in soft gray sweats. You squirm a little under the comforter as you take him in. You didn’t know it was possible to be this attracted to someone, but it’s like every day you’re with him, your body craves him more, and it makes it that much more painful when he leaves.

Rafe interrupts your reverie by lifting his arms and throwing the curtains wide open. You flinch at the bright sunlight that pours through the windows like it’s burning you.

“Too bright, Rafe!” You protest.

He just turns with a smug smile, his tall silhouette casting a shadow over the bed, blocking you from the blinding sun.

“I’ll make you some coffee before I go,” he promises as he leaves you alone in the bedroom, pulling a pillow over your face to shield yourself from the daylight.

It’s silly to complain when his hard work is the whole reason you can lay in this comfortable bed so late into the morning. When he’s not with you, he’s at the office, earning you all this comfort, but it still seems unfair when you want him this badly.

You used to be an early riser, but the way he lays you down every night when he gets home, fucking you hard and slow until you fall asleep clinging to him, it’s made you a whole new person. You’d pay him twice his salary if you had it just to get him to stick around a little longer, make you feel that good again.

A devious idea comes to your brain, and you pull the covers from yourself quickly, making fast moves before he gets back.

When Rafe comes back into the room a few minutes later, he nearly spills your hot coffee all over himself at the sight that greets him.

The comforter is bundled at the end of the bed, nothing covering your body as you stretch out on the mattress. You’ve switched out his t-shirt and your baggy sweats for a silky pair of boy-short panties and a lacy bra. You're facing away from him, laying on your side, the curve of your hips and peekaboo view of your ass casting a scandalous shadow on the wall. The fabric of your panties is so flimsy, it climbs up the curve of your ass, revealing you to him as if they’re barely there at all.

“Nice try,” he shakes his head, though the small crack in his voice betrays his defiance. You know you’ve got him hard and frazzled.

“Hmmm?” You don’t turn to look at him, instead bending your knee and sliding one leg up higher to give him an even better angle of your ass.

“It’s not gonna work…” he insists, setting your coffee down, fully intending to turn and make his way to the walk-in closet to get dressed, yet somehow finding himself completely immobile.

“What’s not going to work?” You echo, feigning cluelessness in a way you know is gonna drive him mad.

“I really do have a meeting,” he continues his one-sided argument, trying desperately to convince himself. “I can’t be late, it’s important.”

“Okay! Have a good day, baby,” you yawn, shifting on the sheets as if you’re just getting comfortable, hoping he doesn’t see the smile you’re hiding in your pillow, obsessed with the strain in his voice that reveals his resolve is cracking.

The mattress sinks slowly under his weight, and you can feel the heat of him before he even touches your skin. His hand slides up your leg, from your ankle all the way up to your thigh, where he pauses to squeeze your flesh.

“You’re gonna be late,” you let your mouth twist into a cheeky smile.

He huffs a defeated laugh, letting his forehead fall onto your shoulder in frustration, “you’re killing me.”

“I’m not doing anything!” You giggle, arching your back and giving him a better glimpse at the other side of you, your nipples already pebbling in anticipation, clearly visible through your see through bra.

Rafe responds by saying your name, so low and needy it’s almost inaudible. You twist your torso just enough to meet his eyes, blinking at him sweetly through your eyelashes.

“Yes?”

He doesn’t respond with words, just a piercing gaze. His blue eyes are blown wide with lust as he takes you in, dragging over your body helplessly, fighting an internal battle as he plots his next move. Filthy thoughts are etched on his face, you know him well enough by now to see the gears turn behind his eyes, imagining all the things he could do to you if he stayed.

“Can I at least have a kiss before you go?” You ask, hoping the taste of your lips will tip the scales in your favor.

He can’t deny you a kiss, he never does, so he leans in and meets your lips with a nod, his hand rising to softly cradle your jaw. You run your tongue so gently across his lower lip that he wonders if he imagined it. When you part your lips for him and release a small sigh, the game is over.

With another squeeze of your thigh, he pulls back from you just enough to reach his phone on the nightstand. You watch with a victorious grin as he types out a quick message, surely to his secretary, and tosses the phone somewhere on the bed.

“Bought us an hour,” he tells you.

“Only an hour?” You pout.

“Don’t be greedy,” he teases you, shuffling behind you so he can spoon you, placing a dozen quick kisses up your arm, making you giggle in delight.

Rafe’s hand slides from your thigh to your waist, dipping to splay over your stomach so he can pull you flush against him. You sigh dreamily as he begins to suckle on your neck, leaving little pink marks everywhere his lips touch.

“Wasn’t that kind of an important meeting?” You ask, feeling a little guilty for potentially making him miss out on a good opportunity.

“Nothing’s more important than this,” he assures you.

You let out a little whimper at his sweet words, igniting a fire in him. His hand drifts up your stomach until his palm is settled over your breast, kneading gently.

“Oh,” you gasp. “That feels good.”

“Yeah?” He drawls with a crooked grin, pausing to drag the tip of his tongue over the shell of your ear, making you shiver. “Just needed a little attention today?”

“Mhm,” you nod. “Needed you.”

His hand leaves you for a minute to fiddle with the clasp of your bra. You lift your arms up so he can slide it off and toss it somewhere on the floor of the massive master suite.

The rough skin of his palm comes back to rest over your hard nipple, the sensation is so sweet that your whole body hums with pleasure.

“God you’re so soft,” he breathes over the wet spot he’s just left on your skin, “love these tits so much.”

With that confession, he pinches your nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, the pain lasting only a second before he smoothes it over with the pad of his thumb.

“Rafe!” You squeak out at the sting.

He shushes you gently, lowering his mouth to pull your earlobe between his teeth, the pressure strong, but not strong enough to pull your mind from the way his hand is dropping lower on your torso towards your panties. A pool of silky arousal gathered between your legs, you rub your thighs together in search of friction as his hand continues to move maddeningly slow.

“Don’t worry baby,” he coos, “gonna take good care of you like I always do.”

Your fingernails dig into the sheets in preparation when he finally reaches the band of your pantines, lifting them to slide his hand in.

“You always take such good care of me, Rafe,” you agree.

He places his other arm under your head for support, allowing you to look down at the outline of his big hand wriggling under the damp cloth of your panties. His fingers find your entrance easily, pausing outside to swirl in your wetness.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he praises. “Always so ready for me.”

After a few more swirls, he’s satisfied with the coating, dragging his fingers back up to your clit. He hits it right away, he could find it in a hurricane. He runs his fingers over you at the perfect angle, starting with delicate figure eights.

Your head falls forward in ecstasy, unable to form words. Rafe bends his arm at the elbow, laying his hand flat against your forehead to pull your head back into his chest, your neck arching with the stretch. The pink spots he’s left on your exposed throat have darkened nicely, giving him a chance to appreciate his handiwork. He reattaches his lips, desperate to claim you as many times as he can, hungry for you.

The sweetest, breathiest moans fall from your puffy lips, and he basks in them like the sunlight that’s bleeding through the curtains. He’s nibbling on your shoulder like it’s his breakfast as his fingers pick up speed on your clit.

Between circles and flicks, he stops to tap quickly with the tip of his middle finger, the rhythmic pressure and release has the sensitive bud pulsing. You chase his fingers pathetically with the roll of your hips, needing more.

As you writhe, his cloth covered cock slots between the valley of your ass, each wave of your hips grinding perfectly against his shaft. You shut your eyes tight, picturing his perfect length and the gorgeous noises he makes when he comes. You need to hear those sounds like you need air.

Your hand releases from the sheets, reaching behind you to rub the hard ridge of his dick over his sweatpants. Rafe clenches his jaw, a throaty groan vibrating through his chest and straight into your body.

“This what you wanted, angel?” He asks, his tone dominant and desperate all at the same time. The perfect balance of ownership and a genuine urgency to please you.

“Just wanted you,” you confirm through your pants, grinding yourself into his hand, “all I ever want is you.”

“Oh yeah? Show me.”

No further instruction needed, your hand finally dips below his waistband, immediately finding his pulsing cock.

“Shi-ii-t,” he shudders as you wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly and reveling in how hard you’ve made him.

You notice goosebumps rush up the arm that’s disappearing into your panties, you realize your hands must be cold. You know he’d never complain, but you don’t just want him to feel good, you want him to feel as amazing as he makes you feel.

You draw your hand back from his boxers, and he groans at your absence, nearly protesting until he sees what you’re doing. You dip your hand into your own underwear, gently nudging his out of the way, and collect some of your wetness onto your own fingers. Your hand glistens in the morning sunlight when you pull it out, displaying it for him before returning your grip to his cock.

He’s speechless. Eyes rolling back at how fucking sexy that was, desperate to ground himself before he comes too quickly in your hand. He moves his palm down from your forehead to cup your throat, not too much pressure to hurt, but enough to remind you how strong he is. You whimper, swallowing hard under his broad palm.

“Jesus christ, baby,” he sputters, “you’re my fucking dream girl.”

You fall in sync, Rafe rubbing tight, firm circles over your clit, while you slide your hand up and down his shaft, pausing at the tip with each stroke to swirl your thumb in the precum he’s leaking. His knuckles flex in response to each flick of your thumb, pads of his fingers holding and releasing your neck in steady pulses.

You squeeze his cock as he squeezes your throat, so perfectly aligned in your drunken pleasure that you both chuckle at how unbelievable it feels. But if you’re laughing, then surely he’s not doing a good enough job.

He draws your clit between his fingers, rolling over and over, not pinching too hard, but just hard enough to set every nerve ending in your body on fire. You draw your knees up, your hand slowing involuntarily on his cock as you feel the familiar coil tighten in your tummy, seconds from snapping.

“I can’t believe you’re real, you’re so perfect,” Rafe whispers into your shoulder, kissing you over and over.

“Gonna make me come talking like that, baby,” you warn him.

“You want that? You want me to make you come in my hand?”

“Not yet,” you choke out, so close that you’re already dreading coming down from your high. It’s too soon, it’s not enough. No amount of him will ever be enough, but you at least need him closer. “Want you inside, need you in me.”

“Anything. Anything you want,” he swears as he pulls his hand from your core to rip your panties down your legs. You pull them off over your feet and toss them away as he removes his pants and boxers behind you.

The fabric finally out of the way, his dick spears into your back, somehow always so much bigger and more powerful than you remember. You pray he doesn’t make you wait any longer, wriggling back onto your side so your soaked pussy is perfectly exposed to him.

In the soft morning light, he finally gets a good view of your slick folds, nearly busting all over your back at the sight. He’s filled this new condo with the most expensive art he could find, but nothing comes close to the masterpiece in front of him. To him, you’re fucking priceless.

He wastes no more time, tucking a hand under your knee to angle your leg up. You take his cue, understanding each other without words as always, and brace your foot flat against his calf, propping yourself open for him.

A combination of the angle and his picture perfect memory of your walls has his tip hitting your g-spot on the very first thrust. He stretches you so sweetly, the tight fit making your brain go foggy and your mouth fall open, gasping helplessly.

“Like this?” He asks, not taunting but not really asking either, already knowing the answer to “this how you want it?”

“Not quite,” you whisper.

He freezes with confusion before you reach behind you to find the hand he has braced on your hip, pulling it up and placing it back around your neck.

“There,” you say, “now it’s perfect.”

“Holy shit,” Rafe stammers, hips jerking forward, slamming into you a little too hard, lost in his infatuation with you.

At first he worries it’s too hard, but a dreamy moan rises from your throat and you encourage, “yes, yes, like that, please.”

Mouth agape in disbelief at his pure fucking luck in finding you, he obeys your plea, pulling back slow before thrusting in hard again. The hand that’s not on your throat pushes into the mattress beneath your head, lifting himself up for leverage. He continues to fuck into you hard, pausing after each stroke to hit as deep as he can possibly get. You’re a mess, crying out with each slap of his hips against your ass, blabbering incoherently as you clench around him.

“Ohhh my god you’re so tight,” he growls through gritted teeth. “‘I’m gonna come if you keep squeezing me like that. You gonna let me come inside?”

Your eyes fly open as an invisible light bulb goes off above your head, you twist to meet his eyes, his lids low and irises completely blown out with lust.

“If I do, will you stay home?” you proposition him.

He scoffs, shaking his head in pure amusement and adoration, tongue digging into the side of his cheek in the cocky way you love. From this angle, the sharp features of his perfect face hover just inches from yours. The sheer attraction you feel makes your walls flutter around his cock, a tease of his reward if he promises to stay.

Rafe screws his eyes shut, his head falling back as you pulse around him repeatedly.

“Fuck! Yes, I promise, I promise,” he cries out as he continues thrusting into you sloppily, “I’ll do anything. I’ll sell my house, I’ll change my fucking name. Just ask me and I’ll do it.”

His theatrics delight you, bubbly giggles rising from your stomach as he loses himself in you. You can’t remember ever loving anyone as much as you love him at this moment.

“Kiss me,” you whisper, completely enamored with the man inside you.

Without a thought, he slips the hand on your throat to the back of your neck, kneading your skin as he pulls your mouth to his. It’s not gentle, like his typical good morning kisses, it’s messy and wet and hard and completely mind numbing. You bite on his bottom lip, almost accidentally, losing your mind at the taste of him.

“B-baby,” he stutters, his hips doing the same, “can’t - fuck - can’t wait any longer. Tell me where you want it.”

“Mmmph, inside, please! Please fill me up, Rafe.”

It’s all he needs to hear, he buries himself deeper than he’s ever been.

“Come with me?” he pleads.

You’re so close, you can’t even find words, nodding rapidly. He hits your g-spot one final time and you slip off the edge of the earth into uncut ecstasy.

Your eyes roll back and your toes dig into his leg, bruising his calf. His tip hits your cervix hard, hot cum pooling deep in your core, spilling out of him for longer than you thought possible. His breath is ragged and his chest heaving as his body jerks around you.

Both trembling, his arm gives out and he slumps down, curled around you. Sweaty and satisfied, you catch your breath together, Rafe still buried deep.

He plants wet kisses on the nape of your neck, brushing your hair out of the way and blowing gently to cool you down. You see only bright white behind your closed eyes, floating in a perfect pleasure you didn’t know was possible until you met this man.

After a few moments, or possibly hours, he starts to pull out. Your hips chase his defiantly, refusing to lose his warmth again.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head, reaching back to grab his hip and hold him in place. “You promised.”

“I also promised to change my name, you gonna make me do that, too?” He laughs.

“Maybe.”

“Oh really? What are you gonna call me?”

“I dunno,” you shrug. “How about daddy?”

Your teasing has the intended effect, Rafe twitching inside you, already hardening again. He knows you’re just playing with him, but his mind spirals out of control at the pet name. He’s so in love he thinks it might kill him.

Settling back into you, he reaches around the bed until his hand finds his discarded cell phone.

Your lips twist into a smirk as you hear him dial, still buried in your heat.

The dial tone rings a few times and he says, “yeah, gonna need you to clear my whole day. Something came up.”

He thanks the voice on the other line, hanging up and tossing his phone somewhere in the mountain of blankets on the floor.

“A whole day?” You ask, nestling back into his chest. “Aren’t you gonna lose the money from those investors?”

“Probably,” he shrugs, laying more slow kisses on your shoulder. “Worth every fucking cent.”

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#queue #rafe cameron #obx #obx fic #rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron smut #obx smut #outer banks smut #rafe obx #rafe cameron fanfic #outer banks fanfiction #obx fanfic #outer banks fanfic

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wingedhallows · 4 months ago

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— RUSTLING MAPLE LEAVES —

— ✩₊˚.⋆☾ PAIRING southern!vi x citygirl!reader / 2.5 k words — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ SYNOPSIS When you inherit your grandmother’s farm in the heart of Georgia, the last thing you expect is Violet Lane—your rugged, maddeningly charming neighbor with a slow drawl and a smirk that could bring anyone to their knees. What starts as a simple favor—a little help with the land—quickly turns into something far more dangerous. Because Vi isn’t just good with her hands; she knows exactly how to unravel you, one lingering touch at a time. And resisting her? Well, that might just be impossible. — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ WARNING smut (minors DNI) — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ AUTHORS NOTE hey babes, i'm super late with this but it's my first time attempting to write actual smut. I thought you might enjoy this as a thanks for 400 & 500 followers. thanks babes, love u

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Moving into your grandma’s old flat in Georgia wasn’t exactly on your bucket list this year. But when she decided she was done with the ranch—tired of the early mornings and aching bones—she signed it over to you and packed her bags for a nursing home.

And now, here you stand.

Hands on your hips, staring up at the massive oak tree out front. It’s old, gnarled, and overgrown—a mess of tangled branches just waiting to drop and split someone’s skull open.

"Surely needs trimmin’, ma’am."

The voice is smooth, warm, dipped in something slow and syrupy. You whirl around—and nearly forget how to breathe.

A woman stands there, tipping her hat with a lazy smirk. Pink hair peeks out from beneath the brim, catching the golden light just right. One hand rests on the belt of her worn jeans, and the way she carries herself—easy, confident, like she’s got all the time in the world—makes your stomach flip.

Jesus.

Since when did you have a thing for Southern women?

"Violet Lane. Pleasure. Call me Vi."

She pauses, giving the tree a once-over, and for a moment, you swear you catch a sharp cut along the edge of her jaw—like she was carved from something wild and unyielding.

"Shimmer Farm’s mine." She nods down the road, and just like that, it clicks.

Your new neighbor. And, quite possibly, your newest problem.

You finally manage to clear your throat, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the sun. It’s too damn bright, or maybe it’s just her.

"Bonnie’s my granny—left all this to me." You gesture vaguely at the ranch around you, hoping the motion hides the slight tremor in your fingers.

Violet—or Vi, as you’re already calling her in your head—gives a short nod before leaning against the white fence. The wood creaks beneath her weight, but all you can focus on is the way her flannel stretches over her arms—sleeves rolled up just enough to show off tanned, sinewy forearms and biceps that look like they could throw you clean over her shoulder.

Jesus. Get a fucking grip.

"She mentioned it—nice lady." Her voice is slow, deliberate, dipped in molasses, and you find yourself watching her like she’s something out of a dream.

Of course, she’d know your granny. They were neighbors.

"Tell you what, city girl—I’ll trim it for ya'."

She pushes off the fence with a lazy sort of grace, nodding toward the tree.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “What? No, no—you don’t have to.”

You shake your head quickly, hoping she’ll back off, because if she gets any closer, you might just lose the battle against your absolutely feral urges.

But Vi just smirks, the kind of smirk that’s all trouble, all slow-drawled confidence that makes your stomach flip.

"Nonsense, sugar. ‘S what we do ‘round here."

And then—she winks.

You stand there, completely useless, as she turns and strides back down the driveway, hands tucked in the pockets of her beat-up jeans.

All you can do is stare after her, mouth slightly open, and hope to God nobody catches you drooling like a love-struck teenager.

Vi returns not long after, carrying a ladder, a hedge trimmer, and—oh, hell—without the flannel.

The wife beater she’s wearing should be illegal. It clings to her like a second skin, outlining lean muscle and sun-kissed shoulders, and as if that wasn’t enough to completely fry your brain, your gaze catches on the ink stretching across her upper back. Bold, intricate—something that probably runs the length of her spine.

You stand there on the porch, awkward as hell, gripping the railing like it might keep you from falling over. God, help me.

Vi doesn’t say a word as she props the ladder against the thick trunk of the tree, adjusts her hat, and climbs up like she’s done this a thousand times before.

And maybe it’s your imagination—or maybe she flexes, just a little, when she lifts the trimmer.

She knows you’re watching. And she sure as hell doesn’t mind.

The hedge trimmer hums to life, and you realize you should probably say something—anything—to make this feel a little less like you’re shamelessly ogling her.

"So… what kind of farm is ‘Shimmer’?" Your voice is quieter than you intended, but steady.

Vi doesn’t look away from her work, but she answers anyway, cool and easy.

"Horse farm. Got some sheep, too. Ma’ Pop, and my sister run it with me."

You nod, soaking that in. So, she works on a horse farm, probably rides, probably knows how to rope cattle, probably looks stupidly good doing it.

One question lingers in the back of your mind, burning at the tip of your tongue before you can stop it.

"Just you three? No boyfriend?"

You swear you hear her chuckle—low, rough, the kind of sound that zips straight through your bloodstream and leaves a warm ache in its wake.

Then she turns her head, baby blues locking onto yours, lazy smirk playing at her lips.

"Nah. I don’t swing that way."

Her voice is amused, like she already knows the effect it’s having on you.

And just like that, your brain short circuits.

She’s into women.

Oh.

A few hours later, the tree is neatly trimmed, the stray branches hauled off to God knows where—somewhere in the back of Vi’s truck, probably, but you’d been a little too distracted watching her maneuver the damn thing like she was born with a steering wheel in her hand.

She’d backed into your driveway with one arm slung over the passenger seat, her other hand steady on the wheel, and you swear your heart flipped clean over in your chest.

Now, you lean over the railing of the porch, holding out a cold bottle of beer. A peace offering. Or maybe just an excuse to keep her around a little longer.

Vi takes it with a soft huff, swiping the back of her hand across her damp forehead before twisting off the cap. "Thanks, sugar."

Her voice is a little rough, a little breathless, and it sends a spark straight through your bloodstream.

You watch as she tilts the bottle back, throat bobbing as she takes a sip—your eyes helplessly tracking the way a single droplet of sweat slides from her temple down the curve of her jaw.

And suddenly, you forget how to breathe.

"Are you hungry?" The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, blurting out in a rush of reckless impulse.

Vi lowers the bottle, her smirk slow and knowing as she tips her head. "Don’t wanna trouble ya', city girl."

Her voice is low, husky, damn near sinful, and you—God help you—have to press your thighs together, because how the hell is this woman the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen?

"It’s the least I can do, please." You nod toward the house, pushing the door open in silent invitation.

Vi takes her time stepping forward, letting her gaze drag over you in a way that feels deliberate.

And she’s doing her best not to stare at your ass too long—because, fuck.

Inside the house, you make your way to the kitchen, racking your brain for something—anything—you can throw together. Not like you’ve got much to work with. You’ve only been here a week, and your fridge is a sad excuse for a meal.

Behind you, Vi leans against the counter, the beer bottle dangling lazily from her fingers. She’s watching you—no, devouring you with her gaze—slow and deliberate, like she’s got all the time in the world.

You pretend not to notice. Or maybe you just don’t know how to function under the weight of her attention.

She shifts, brushing a few strands of hair from her face, and you let out an awkward chuckle, tugging open the fridge with a grimace.

"I, uh—I don’t really have much. I just moved in, and… grocery shopping…” Your words fumble over each other, and the sheer intensity of her gaze makes you regret speaking at all.

Vi waves you off with a slow flick of her wrist, stepping closer.

And that’s when you catch it—the faintest hint of her cologne beneath the scent of sweat and sun-warmed skin, the lingering trace of sawdust from working on that damned maple tree.

You swear your knees go weak.

"S’alright, hun," she murmurs, voice richer, huskier than before.

Your back presses against the counter, your pulse skittering as she closes the space between you.

The air shifts—thicker now, charged with something electric, something dangerous.

And suddenly, food is the last thing on your mind.

Vi moves in, slow and deliberate, until her arms cage you in against the counter, the scent of her—leather, sweat, a hint of cedar and smoke—wrapping around you like a trap you don’t want to escape.

Her gaze roves over you, heavy and smoldering, like she’s sizing up a meal she’s about to devour.

“Ain’t that hungry—least not for food.”

Her voice dips lower, like a secret meant just for you, like something sinful curling between your legs. Your breath shudders, your fingers gripping the countertop behind you as if that’ll keep you grounded.

She leans in, breath hot against the shell of your ear, and your knees damn near buckle.

"Wanna repay me another way?"

It’s not even a question—it’s a promise wrapped in velvet.

Your lips part, but words fail you. All you manage is a nod, shaky, desperate.

Vi tilts her head, a slow, knowing smirk playing at her lips. Her hands find your waist, calloused fingers curling into the soft skin beneath your sundress, sending a rush of fire through your veins.

And then—before you can even think to touch her—she grips beneath your thighs and hoists you onto the counter like you weigh nothing.

Your legs part, a breathless gasp slipping from your lips as she presses in close—solid, hot, the heat of her searing through thin fabric.

You lean back against the cabinet, exhaling a shaky sigh, your whole body thrumming with want, with anticipation.

And Vi—she just watches you, like she’s got all the time in the world.

Vi’s lips find your neck, warm and insistent, each kiss slow and deliberate, a teasing drag of softness against your skin. The heat of her breath lingers, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

You tip your head back instinctively, granting her better access, and she hums in approval, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your throat.

Her hands roam—rough fingertips skimming the curve of your waist, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your sundress with a slow, knowing touch. Your breath hitches, fingers clutching at her shoulders, a feeble attempt to ground yourself against the way she unravels you.

Then—her palms slide lower, brushing over the sensitive skin of your thighs, pushing your dress up inch by torturous inch.

Her fingertips graze over the damp fabric of your clothed cunt, and a shaky gasp tumbles from your lips, your thighs twitching at the featherlight contact.

Vi chuckles, low and deep, the sound rolling through you like a slow Southern drawl, thick and sinful.

“Oh, sugar,” she murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re drippin’ for me, ain’t ya?”

She grins against your skin, her voice sultry and smug, and all you can do is nod, breathless, aching, already at her mercy.

Vi presses one last, lingering kiss behind your ear before she sinks to her knees, slow and deliberate. The sight alone—her looking up at you, eyes dark and hungry, that damn smirk playing on her lips—has your grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

Her hands skate over your thighs, warm and teasing, pushing your dress higher, higher, until the cool air ghosts over your skin.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, her fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, a mischievous glint flickering in those baby blues as she drags them down.

A soft gasp slips past your lips when her knuckles brush against your heated skin, and you barely catch the way she tucks your soiled panties into the back pocket of her jeans like a prize.

She doesn’t even try to hide her amusement, lips quirking as her thumb presses against your aching bundle of nerves—just enough pressure to make you tremble.

“Mmm, she’s screamin’ for me, sugar,” Vi drawls, her voice all honey and gravel, thick enough to drown in.

Your mouth parts, a protest, a plea—but before you can even think to speak, she leans in and drags her tongue in a slow, sinful stripe up your slit.

A breathless hiss escapes you, thighs twitching, and when she pulls back, her tongue flicks over her bottom lip, savoring.

“Delicious,” Vi hums, that cocky smirk only deepening.

A breathless moan tumbles from your lips as Vi leans in again, her tongue plunging between your folds—hungry, unapologetic, like she’s been starving for you all her life. The sensation is blinding, white-hot, and when your fingers thread into her hair, tugging at the soft strands, she hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

Her grip tightens around your thighs, keeping you right where she wants you—helpless, unraveling beneath her touch. Each flick of her tongue, every sinful suck against your aching clit, has you teetering on the edge, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Vi—” Your voice is shaky, breath hitching as the coil in your belly winds tighter, tighter. “I-I’m gonna—”

She pulls back just enough, her lips glistening, pupils blown wide as she watches you fall apart. That smirk is there again, the one that makes your stomach dip.

“I know, sweet girl,” she murmurs, her voice thick and dripping with something wicked. Then, as if to seal your fate, she licks one slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy - from entrance to clit, savoring the taste, before whispering—

“Cum for me.”

And you do—helpless against the force of your own undoing. The coil inside you snaps with breathtaking intensity, pleasure crashing over you in waves so strong it leaves you gasping.

Vi doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath—her strong hands keep you steady, gripping your hips with enough force to hold you together as you shatter.

The kitchen is filled with the sounds of your pleasure—high, breathy moans mixing with the wet, obscene sounds of Vi’s tongue working you through it. You barely register the way she groans against you, drinking in every last bit of your release like it’s something sacred.

And when the aftershocks leave you trembling, thighs still twitching in her grasp, Vi finally pulls back—chin glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and smirks up at you, voice thick as molasses when she drawls—

“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.”

#vi arcane #vi x reader #vi arcane x reader #vi fanfic #vi smut #vi x you #vi league of legends #arcane #vi imagine #vi au #vi arcane imagine #vi arcane smut #violet arcane #violet arcane smut #violet arcane imagine #violet arcane au #violet arcane x reader

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getouyuri · 4 months ago

Text

r/Marriage: am i (24m) overly obsessed with my wife (24f)?

౨ৎ pairing — oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader

summary — all work and no play makes the fearsome oyabun of the gojo-gumi a tremendously dull boy. since you're a saint, you come into his office with no panties and a mission; to let your puppy play.

౨ৎ content & warnings — MDNI 18+, fem!reader, modern au, yakuza au, humor, smut, fluff, pet names, gojo and reader are married, whipped gojo, gojo is actually insane, dark themes, mentions of murder & violence, p in v, submissive top gojo, sub!gojo, dom!reader, femdom, mommy kink, semi-public sex (office), pussydrunk gojo, mild pet play / puppy play, oral (f! receiving), cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, spanking (both receiving), reader uses gojo’s tie like a leash, MEN WHO WHIMPER >>>

author's note — i love yakuza aus and i love sub top wife guy gojo what can i sayyyy. this is my first fic on this account and it's just self indulgent as hell tbh. this is Not necessary to read, but if you want a little more background on this au, you can find info here. more notes at the end! hope u all enjoy 🫶🏽. full masterlist here.

writing © getouyuri. fanart © maronjapan9art. dividers © thecutestgrotto. wc: 13k

It’s not even 12pm on a Friday, 95 degrees, when the white flag swinging from his person is finally brought to his attention.

“Boss,” Choso says, completely straight-faced as he cleans a gun and stares imploringly at Satoru. Waxing and waning. “There's… something hanging out of your pocket.”

“Oh?” Satoru looks down, snags his fingers into the panties that are peeking out from his slacks, and rubs his thumb over the delicate embroidery in the hem. Interesting. “Oh, sweet.”

A completely normal, well-adjusted member of society would turn into a bumbling, blushing maiden and stuff these goodies away, mortified. Too bad he’s a shameless certified freak, seven days a week.

Like he’s playing cat’s cradle, he pulls at the inner hem and spreads the lingerie open to get a good bird’s eye view down into the panties. Satoru tests the stretch of the material. Turns it this way and that. Examines the gusset for any exciting stains and clicks his tongue when he finds none.

The air of the group at his beck and call sours into something painfully awkward, almost disbelieving. When he clears his throat, all eyes look away from him. Satoru takes the opportunity to crumple the fabric and press his nose into it in order to breathe your scent in.

Delectable. 10/10.

Outside the nearest window is the familiar buzz of typical Tokyo afternoon activity and traffic. Sitting in a loose ‘v’ around him in the ten-seater van they’re packed into are the men he’s tagging along with to swing by the red light district in pursuit of Ryomen’s trail. It’s rare that Satoru himself gets involved in tasks like this that are far below his pay grade, but he’ll take any opportunity he can get to get close to that fuckface and give him hell. He can practically smell his rival’s scent on the breeze.

“Huh,” he finally remarks. Choso is the only one that dares to look at him. “My wife must’ve planted these on me earlier.”

That morning, Satoru regretfully had to pull himself from his comfortable bed and his wife’s soothing warmth, though he promised you (with cuddles and kisses to further convince you and wipe the frown off of your face) that he’d wrap things up quick and meet you at the Gojo-gumi’s main headquarters for lunch. Unfortunately, hours later and worn ragged, he knows now that there was no way he would’ve been able to head over there any earlier than now. He texted you to let you know the change of plans.

Pure fucking chaos was unleashed on Tokyo this morning, all of it carefully orchestrated by Ryomen. One of the Gojo-gumi’s bigger warehouses that they use as storage for black market weapons and drugs was ransacked and then bombed by Tora-gumi shitheads. Many of Satoru’s men that stepped in to try and defend the warehouse’s stock were killed.

At the exact same time there was a shootout in one of the strip clubs— fittingly named Hell’s Paradise— that Satoru owns as one of his many, many business fronts. He and his men arrive on the scene soon after the fact and find the bodies of some of the women that worked there, all of which were personally beneath his unwavering protection that he failed to give them today, alongside some civilians that got caught in the crossfire.

Shoko herself isn’t here, but the traces of smoke linger around her girlfriend— and Satoru’s friend— like a protective ward when he goes to speak with her. Clearly, Shoko was either in the building or cat napping with her not too long ago.

Satoru isn’t labeled as the most terrifying oyabun in Japan for no reason; he handles all of it coldly and clinically to make sure many, many people pay the price for daring to threaten the syndicate, his family, that he’s worked so hard to maintain and provide for. He personally beats the fuck out of and kills the Tora-gumi’s members that were involved in both incidents, and what Satoru doesn’t do with his own bare hands, he sends Choso out like an angel of death to take care of.

While Choso ‘cleans up’, he calls Shoko and sends her out on the prowl to feel out if there’ll be any more planned attacks on the Gojo-gumi.

Fucking Ryomen.

Stepping out into the alleyway behind Hell’s Paradise, he fishes his good luck charm out for the fifth time today and takes another long whiff.

But hey, at least he has a piece of his wife with him wherever he goes, right?

Satoru gets a ride back to the Gojo-gumi headquarters. There’s a bathroom attached to the room with a shower that he had installed years back, so he strips off his bloodied clothes, showers and changes into a fresh suit, meanders back into his office, and tosses himself into his chair.

“God, what a pain,” he whines to himself.

If Satoru could pawn this monstrosity of a paperwork pile sitting in front of him off to one of his secretaries (like you, for example), he so would. Alas, things of this caliber are delegated to the boss man, and the boss man only.

His blue eyes linger on the skyline outside of the window. The Gojo-gumi headquarters is located in the heart of Tokyo and it’s not exactly a secret; hell, even the police know where this place is and what goes on behind its closed doors. Unlike his various business fronts, this establishment is strictly a hub that his syndicate directly operates out of. Organizing all their criminal operations, managing businesses, holding meetings, it all goes down here.

Years ago, it was rare that Satoru could be found sitting here. He used to just swing by the main room, get shit done, not spare his office a glance, and leave. Now, though, he has extra incentive to frequent his office. You’re here every day of the week.

The room feels filled to the brim with your presence despite you being conspicuously absent. The dark wooden surface of his desk is topped with a framed picture of you and him at their wedding, and next to it are various trinkets that you’ve bought with him in mind. His sweetheart.

Satoru lounges back in his plush leather chair (because he likes that it makes him look like royalty, thank you very much), man-spreading with a faint pout. The beginnings of a migraine buzzes right behind his eyes the longer he stares at the work calling his name.

There’s that deal he needs to finalize with Suguru that’ll leave them with a 20% increase in profits by the end of Q1. The Gojo-gumi's gonna be swimming in cash, and the Sutoraifu-gumi will have a steady supply of the goods their members need. Lord knows Suguru and his men need it after the whole Kenjaku debacle that went down a while back. Satoru’ll get to those papers soon and send them off with Suguru’s biker girl whenever she swings by again to hang out with you.

Then he has to look at the letter from the chief of police, which, yawn, that’s the least of his concerns. The detective— Kusa-something, whatever, he always forgets his name— must’ve tattled on him again for his, ah, unsavory way of handling business. That damn rookie Kusachi has a nasty habit of getting in his way and trying to take him on. Satoru could just try to pay the chief off again… and maybe he could visit Kusada’s home, set him straight. And by set him straight, he means chatting to Kusabuse’s family and telling him that their man’s extracurricular activities are gonna get him killed. His family can handle it from there.

And then—

A soft knock at his door pulls him out of his reverie. “I’m busyyy, Kento, Ijichi!” he calls just in case they’re here to hound him, fingers adorned in rings absently adjusting his tie.

It opens to reveal Kento’s unimpressed stare. He glances over Satoru’s unorganized desk, important documents scattered all over and clearly not finished. ‘Organized chaos’ he calls it. You tell him that it’s just shit on a platter.

“… cat’s outta the bag, I guess,” Satoru says glumly, his pout unbefitting of an oyabun further deepening.

Apparently, by the little entourage that Kento has with him, his second-in-command isn’t here to scold him, though. Because you, his gorgeous wife, enters his office next with Ijichi shuffling in behind you, who closes the door behind the group of three.

Satoru perks up like a meerkat and leans forward, fingers dropping away from his tie to instead interlace as he regards everyone, you in particular harboring most of his attention, with a cheery grin that’s at odds with his reputation. Though he’s the epitome of lax playfulness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his gaze as he looks them all over. You have a folder tucked beneath one arm and you look bored.

"Well, well, well, look who it is," Satoru drawls, his tone as smooth as silk. "My three favorite people, alllll in one room. It’s a little too early to be throwing me a surprise birthday party, isn’t it? My birthday isn’t for another few months,” he jests.

Ijichi not so subtly checks the date on his phone even though he knows damn well it’s April, not December. On the other hand, Kento’s eyes flatten slightly. One of his hands goes to his hip while the other massages at the bridge of his nose as if he’s already getting a headache; as he usually does in the oyabun’s presence. “Now isn’t the time for jokes, Satoru,” Kento inserts, dour as ever.

Your poker face twitches.

A blown raspberry echoes in his office. “You always say that, Kento. Would it kill you to pull that stick out of your ass and smell the roses? Experience joy and whimsy?” Satoru dramatically intones. His hand splays across his chest. “You wound me.”

Kento doesn’t even bother to entertain him. Back straight and thumb practically digging into his skin, he rattles off his report; the Gojo-gumi were able to intercept Ryomen’s ploy to undercut the Gojo-gumi’s control over the heroin trade. When he finishes, he promptly turns and makes like Scooby Doo, not wanting to be there a second longer. Ijichi hurriedly scurries at his heels.

The door clicks shut behind them and he puffs out a breath of relief at his wakagashira’s and saiko-kommon’s departure, sitting back in his chair with a gentle creak of the leather beneath him. Satoru kicks his leg up over the other, the side of his calf resting on his knee, and looks you up and down. “And then there were two. Fancy seeing you here, wifey,” he drawls.

“You say that as if we don’t work in the same building,” you snort. Then you soften, closely examining him. “You okay? Your texts worried me earlier, so I texted Choso and his partner to get more details. I heard things got pretty hectic earlier.”

He smiles at you, feeling all warm and fuzzy. Satoru doesn’t get how couples just faze out of the honeymoon stage. Years later and you still have him wanting to kick his feet whenever he’s in your presence. “Things are peachy, pinky swear. I’ve got it covered, sugar. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he assures you. He crosses his fingers over his heart.

You eye him for a moment longer, but whatever you spy on his face makes you relax. Thwacking the folder against the wooden surface before scattering it among the pile, you then round Satoru’s desk and plant yourself in front of him. He inhales unsubtly, catching a whiff of your perfume that makes him go a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, and your lips twitch as you take your throne on the lip of his desk.

Everyone here at headquarters is required to follow a certain dress code. Satoru outshines them all, of course, fitted in finely tailored slacks and dress shirts with either a crisp light blue waistcoat thrown atop it or an ironed suit jacket. And as one of the many secretaries flitting around the building keeping the well-oiled Gojo-gumi machine chugging, it’s important for you to look just as professional. Especially since you’re his wife.

Which is why you look like an infuriatingly sexy librarian, decked out in a tight black pencil skirt that hugs your hips, a blouse with the top two buttons undone and the collar pressed open to flaunt the designer necklace he bought you swinging from your neck, sheer black nylon thigh-highs that he’d kill to feel around his head, and stilettos, cute little charms on the buckles giving your outfit a whisper bit of cheer.

(The thought of you making yourself look extra pretty today just for him has Satoru internally busting on the spot, his blood simmering beneath the fine layer of his skin.)

‘The oyabun’s wife’, his men always dreamily sigh when you walk past them— only to whip around and stare at the wall when he slinks by not even a step behind you, his blue eyes cold and caustic when he glares at them in warning. Gorgeous, breath-taking, a prized jewel— and you’re all his.

“Normally I’d only be here to scold you and make you do your work, hubby,” you hum.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in my near future,” Satoru muses aloud, raising his eyebrows at you in question.

“No. Just a ‘however’.” Instead of being two dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyy’, they’re two smartasses fashioned in the same factory, complete with warnings labels.

“Yeesh. Can I ever be right with you?” He plasters his hand over his heart yet again and gives you a simpering moue.

You roll your eyes, a wordless ‘duh’. Satoru's lips slant upwards into a Cheshire cat smile as you reach forward and loop his tie around your fingers before giving it a tug, coaxing his chair to roll forward on the sleek hardwood floor. He uncrosses his legs and allows himself to be pulled up and out of it, heeled like a dog, stepping forward to stand between your legs after lightly kicking his chair away with a soft clatter.

Looking down at you through long white lashes that flutter like the first snowfall of winter, his gaze is a mix of playfulness and appreciation in its rawest form. Satoru has to admit, this view is far more pleasant than any document that he was pretending to give his attention to before you strode in.

Your perch on his desk gives you an air of sophisticated dominance that makes his cock give a very interested twitch in his trousers that he can’t help. Sue him for being horrendously attracted to his wife.

Though he towers over you by a mere head due to the slight height advantage that his desk gives you, there’s no doubt that he yields completely and utterly to you. His brain conjures up an image of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. Glorious and championing above the rest of them; victorious.

‘Woof’, he thinks unintelligently.

“However,” you finally continue, beginning to smile. You keep a hold on his tie and tap his nose with the pointer of your free hand, which he wrinkles at you. “I’ve decided that I’ll spare you the lecture for today.”

Satoru's hands come up to rest on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the sleek nylon covering them. Your inviting warmth bleeds through the thin fabric. He so badly wants to get on the floor, brush them down, and sink his teeth into your plush skin until your skin pinkens. He settles for giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I thank you, oh great and benevolent goddess of the yakuza underworld,” he proclaims, delighting in the fondly exasperated groan that rumbles low in your throat. “I gotta say, I'm grateful for the reprieve, sweets. Though I suspect your mercy is short-lived," he adds with a chuckle. “So give it up already. Spill.”

Fucking hell. There goes a tiny fraction of the element of surprise that you thought you were holding over him like an anvil in a cartoon.

You silently curse his eerie perceptiveness. And his newfound x-ray vision, apparently, since he leans back a fraction to take you in again, his focus lingering on your skirt. But hey, the ball’s still very much in your court, and you’re playing to win.

Not letting it faze you, you heft your legs up, his hands shifting with you, and drape them around Satoru’s waist. His desk creaks beneath you at the distribution of weight. “Yeah, yeah. What I mean to say is that your husbandly duties are calling to you, not your obligations as oyabun.”

Satoru’s blue eyes search yours and he tilts his head, adorably puppy-like in a manner that suggests he’s more innocent than his ruthless reputation paints him to be. Though he’s the epitome of laxness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his expectancy that’d make lesser men quiver and confess to their every sin.

You stare right back at him. “I don’t have any panties on,” you explain simply.

If Satoru was aroused before, he’s now hornier than a pent-up nun. He hardens so fast that it makes him dizzy. “So you’re on that type of timing, got it,” he notes through his suddenly dry mouth as if his brain chemistry isn’t actively warping with this new information.

He wets his lips. His attention darts to the door. “Ijichi locked it,” you confirm before he can ask his question.

Good. Now he can focus on what matters: no panties. No panties. No panties. Fuck.

"Well, as your husband, it's my duty to attend to your every need and desire. And right now, it seems one of those needs is to have me buried deep inside your pretty kitty,” he coos, voice dripping something sinful. “But wowww, I never thought I’d see my stern ‘business over pleasure’ sweet pie pulling this kind of stunt. Seducing me so shamelessly in my own office... for shame! What would people say if they knew you were on a mission to tempt your poor, innocent husband into sin?”

You sigh, long-suffering.

Suddenly curious to see if you’re hiding another surprise elsewhere, one hand leaves your knee and drifts up to the undone buttons of your blouse, popping another one open to expose more of your soft skin. Satoru bites his lip as his eyes snag on the lace of your bra. A shame that you’re not bra-less, but he’s fine with seeing you wear half of the set he commissioned for you from a designer in France that you like. He’s more than okay with this, actually.

You make no move to scold him or cover yourself up— you just amusedly stay fixed on him, your eyes gaining that telltale gleam when you’ve got him all tied up in knots. He’s walked into a honeytrap, hasn’t he?

Despite the clear desire emanating from him, there's a tenderness to his touch, a reverence for your body as the hand on your knee skirts up. He slides it higher up your thigh until the hem of your thigh-high gives way to skin, disappearing beneath your tight skirt to ascertain your bold claim. When Satoru’s knuckles graze your bare folds, which are slowly slickening, he whines as if he’s the one being touched. “Fuck, princess... you're actually not wearing anything at all, huh?” He groans softly, half surprised and half not that you were telling the truth.

“Duh,” you exhale. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you, though. Did you not see the—“

“The little treat that the panty fairy snuck into my pocket?” Now understanding, Satoru’s grin grows. Reverent… and, well, very perverted. “Sure did. I sniffed them, too.”

Your face contorts as if you don’t know what part to address first before you give up.

“But sometimes thiiis guy.” His eyes pointedly roll upwards in the direction of his forehead, then down at the obvious bulge in his pants. “Likes to take the backseat and let this big guy do all of the thinking. Can you blame me for being a little off my game today?”

“I can, actually. Do better. Even Yuuji gets more work done than you do, distractions and all,” you reply plainly.

Which says a lot. Yuuji’s one of the other secretaries here, though giving him that title feels… a little generous. You and Satoru see him regularly since Choso feels more comfortable going out and doing his job when Yuuji’s safe at headquarters. The teenager comes scampering into the building every day after school and Satoru pays him to do the class work that his teachers send him off with, play on his Nintendo Switch, and sometimes organize the racks of boxed files or make phone calls.

“Heyyy!”

Your cool breaks and you laugh. “You’re just easy to get to. That’s okay, though. It makes things more fun for me,” you tease in a slight singsongy lilt. You turn your head to worry his earlobe between your teeth, nipping then sucking for good measure before releasing it with an audible pop.

Breathing starting to pick up, he drops his face into the crook of your neck and drowns himself in the cocktail of the spritz of that floral perfume you favor and your natural scent. All the while, he blindly traces your slit. Up and down, entrance, clit, entrance, clit.

You cup your husband’s nape as Satoru nuzzles into your neck more urgently, feeling him shiver against you as your palm rasps over the short prickly hairs of his undercut, petting him. Your legs part a bit, skirt inching up as you rut your cunt against Satoru’s exploratory fingers and smear your wetness on him. Still, he doesn’t push in yet.

You’d think he’s teasing you if not for the obvious signs that he’s stalling. Either waiting for your permission or waiting for the best time to ask for it.

How well-trained.

"You make it sound like a bad thing, sugar. Like being under your thumb is a weakness and not a treat," Satoru says abruptly. "I prefer to think of it as... being very, very stupidly in love with my wife. I’m so far gone for you that I’d do anything that you asked of me.”

It’s so easy for him to say such devastating things from the heart without batting an eye; he’s as earnest as a child. It fells you day by day.

His voice is soft despite his low, raspy cadence, brilliant blue eyes bright with his eagerness to serve. At times, it’s almost hard to reconcile this man, the one who’s eating out of the palm of your hand, his nonexistent tail wagging the entire time, with one of the most feared oyabuns in Japan who could probably level half of Tokyo in an hour.

But you’re not forgetting his acts of what he calls ‘devotion’ any time soon. It’s rare that you walk in on him showing the full spread of his true colors, but there’s multiple incidents that stick out like a sore thumb. The one that clings to you like a particularly persistent burr occurred months before you even started dating.

It had been a fairly normal day, all things considered. Most of the men of the Gojo-gumi were preparing to intercept one of Ryomen’s ploys, banding together like sharks after blood in the main common room at headquarters. You remember frowning as you peered at each passing individual that was armed to the nines, searching for their leader so that you could deliver important documents before he could go gallivanting off to get his hands dirty, but Satoru was nowhere to be found.

You went to drop off the manila folder to his office but paused when you heard voices through the cracked door of his office. Sighing, you squatted to slip it under his door and leave, but Satoru’s voice in particular made your blood run cold and your joints lock up before you could lower yourself. “I should cut your balls off and feed them to you, you piece of shit,” he muttered with a scoff.

Apparently, one of his men, Hiro, had been coveting after you. His little work crush was fairly innocent to everyone who caught wind of it, but Satoru? He was the only one who dug into it and discovered Hiro’s… unsavory way of going about privately expressing his affections for you.

Unable to resist, you peeked through the crack right as Satoru unceremoniously tossed Hiro to the floor in front of Nanami and Choso, both of them passively watching. The easy, relaxed posture of Satoru’s lean frame hardened, his broad shoulders squaring as he stared down at the man’s mask of fear. His light blue eyes, typically vibrant and full of mirth, held a cold, calculating glint, like fake flakes fluttering around a snow globe.

You couldn’t watch much of what followed. You turned away when Satoru drew a wickedly sharp dagger from the strap around his thigh and stabbed it straight through the thickness of Hiro’s leg without so much as a warning. His underling’s screams echoed through the room as Satoru slowly, methodically twisted the blade, tearing through flesh and sinew. Blood pooled around the wound and spilled down the sides of his leg, staining the polished floor a deep, sticky red. Numbed to the violence, Nanami bent down at Satoru’s gesture and snatched Hiro’s phone from his pocket as he sobbed and sobbed, decisively crushing it and any evidence it contained beneath his shoe.

“Miss secretaaary, that you?” Satoru’s voice startled you for a second time that day. You forced your attention back to the cracked door, gaze locking onto Satoru’s pleasant, cheery smile that he gave you as if he wasn’t brutally torturing a man that he was planning to soon kill in cold blood. “Oh, good, it is. You can leave those documents on my desk.”

And that was that.

Satoru’s not exactly a good man. He’s done terrible things, will do worse still. This is a man that’s killed for you countless times and would do it again in a heartbeat. But if you asked him to give it up, he’d walk away from the Gojo-gumi and Japan as a whole without a word and give up the title of oyabun to Yuuta. He’d start fresh, wash himself of his sins, and build himself anew just for you. Not that you’d ever ask him to do that, but just knowing that you could and that he’d follow through… you’ve never felt so powerful, so needed in your entire life.

Satoru truly loves you.

“You know, I’ve heard that it’s good to air your privates out from time to time. For circulation and all that jazz.” The Satoru of the present interrupts. The tip of his finger curls, swiping up some of your wetness that spills from your entrance. “Clearly, though, you just wanna fuck nasty.”

You snort out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I need you or whatever,” you dismiss him. As if you don’t need this man to nut in you, like, yesterday.

You grab his wrist, guiding him to fully probe at you instead of skirting around the core of you like he has been for the last few minutes. Quick to take you up on the offer, he parts your folds.

Satoru’s pointer finger sinks into you knuckle-deep, hot and fast, and you moan. It takes him a moment to realize why the slide is so easy, and when he does, he whips his head up, suddenly wild and straining at his leash.

“Sweets,” he groans with barely concealed awe. “When did you do this, huh?” He crooks, searching, and you arch when the roughened pad of his trigger finger pets at your walls, so close to where you want him. Tightening around him does nothing to disguise how comfortably loose you are from prepping yourself earlier. Then, a little giggly, a little manic, “Did all those spreadsheets on your desk get you hot and bothered?”

“Mhm, you know I just lo-love payroll,” you hiss when he works another stupidly long finger into you, then a third, his wedding band gleaming on it, and finally massages your g-spot. Your nails flex against his nape. “Had a quick finger blast 1000 session in the staff bathroom.”

“Hot,” he says with feeling. While prying for the sordid details is tempting, there’s more important matters at hand. Like rearranging your guts on his desk to satiate yours and his neediness while you chant ‘good boy good boy good puppy’ before someone inevitably comes knocking to bother him.

Humming a jaunty tune, Satoru pumps his fingers in and out of your cunt, feeling you grow wetter and hotter with each slow lazy thrust. He takes his time, relishing the way your velvety walls flutter around the intrusion of his digits every time he perfectly hits his mark.

Artistically draped atop his desk, you’re beautifully flushed and your eyes are glazed over, lashes fluttering when they threaten to roll back. He can see the fondness etched into your expression, the love, even as you examine him with that imperious tilt to your chin. Your face says what you don’t speak aloud: 'I know I have you wrapped around my little finger, and I'm not afraid to use that to my advantage.’

He’s no art fiend, but he’d go scuba diving in an instant to find the missing head of the Winged Victory of Samothrace and gorilla glue the two parts back together to prove that you’re art in the flesh, a statue of a goddess made with blood, sweat, tears, and passion come to life.

There’s very little space between you. Your breaths intermingle. Pointedly, he glances down at your lips, and you do the same to him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, but you’re already hauling him in with the hand on the back of his neck.

You slot their mouths together with a low, happy noise akin to a purr. He kisses back eagerly, desperately, positively starved for your affection that he’s been yearning for all day. Satoru’s lips part with a shuddery sigh and he pushes his tongue past your pillowy lips to stroke along yours, tasting the sweetness of your mouth; a dash of mocha overridden by those matcha chocolates that he got you hooked on.

You squeeze tighter around his waist, milking a wounded noise from him. Gentle yet firm, you trap his tongue between your teeth, scraping over it and coaxing out the reaction you want. He predictably wedges himself closer and you drag your nylon-clad thigh over the bulge at the crotch of his pants, up and down.

The desk creaks beneath you again as Satoru leans into it and shamelessly dry humps your leg with obvious flexes of his hips. You’re no better, though, rutting into the cup of his palm and squirming in delight every time those delicious callouses of his chafe against your aching clit.

“Feeling good?” He mumbles into you. You nod, tilting your head and realigning your lips, making their kiss that much more heated. His ministrations briefly make your mouth uselessly part against his, too wrapped up in pleasure to function.

Satoru’s the first to break away. He hikes your skirt up, revealing more of your plushy legs clad in those sinful thigh-highs until he finallyyyy lays eyes on the prize. He cups your mound then pulls his palm away, just to watch how thin translucent strings chase after him before snapping and splattering on your inner thighs.

He lifts his hand and looks you dead in the eye, warming some of your gathered wetness between his forefinger and middle before sucking them clean. Ravenous. You know what he wants.

“Can I, y’know, take a proper look at your pussy up close?” Satoru asks, sly but not sly. “I wouldn’t be a good hubby if I didn’t make sure that my girl properly got herself nice and ready for m—“

“Satoru? Get on your knees.”

You have to give it to him, the man moves fast as fuck when given an order. Satoru swiftly drops down, making you worry for his knees that hit the rug hard enough that the wood below it audibly thunks.

And he stares. In an unabashedly perverted manner, at that.

“Let’s see this pretty pussy,” is all he mumbles, chewing his lips and fastening his thumbs into the skin around your folds, tugging you open with a filthy squelch of wet skin peeling away from wet skin. Spreading you wide enough that you prickle with pins and needles— or maybe that’s just because of his unnerving stare.

Your glistening cunt is swollen and enticingly slick with need. The sight of your pussy lips unfurling before him and your clit peeking out from beneath its hood has his mouth watering. Satoru’s cock jumps in his pants like he’s just had a live wire threaded into the slit of his cockhead, desperate to bury inside of you, balls deep.

He looks up at you then. His cerulean eyes gleam with a borderline manic light, wolfish in his intensity. “What next? Want me to heel? Chase my tail? Roll over?” He drawls, cocking his head. He’s more than ready to debase himself in any way you want just to get his back scratched.

You shrug, “I want whatever you want.”

Greed is a sin or whatever, he thinks dimly. But he can't bring himself to care. His fingers dance up and hook under the crook of your right knee, placing it on his shoulder. “Then lemme eat my meal.”

You hate that that makes you shudder. It also makes you wanna shut him up.

“Who are you asking?” You check, cupping your ear. “Try again; you know better, baby.”

The lilt you take on to simultaneously coax and rebuke him only serves to turn him on more, making his poor neglected cock press insistently against his zipper. Satoru knows that look in your eyes. It's the same one you give him when he's been particularly foolish— the ‘bouquet(s) incident’ instantly comes to mind— or when you want something from him. In this case, it's clear that his wife wants him to be good.

His cheeks flush a soft pink, his blue eyes growing hazier with lust, not embarrassment. You’d think that he’d rally against the condescension that coats your words like condensation pearling on a windowpane, but not an inch of his pride bristles beneath your firm hand. Not when he’d strip himself down to the marrow and hand all of himself to you on a silver platter. His pleasure, his pain, his heart and soul… it’s all yours for the taking.

“Mommy,” he moans as if the word itself does more for him than it does for you. And it probably does. “My sexy, gorgeous, take-no-shit-from-anyone, especially her husband, mommy. Can I taste you, please?”

You smile, pleased. Then, finally, because he’s been waiting so patiently, “Go ahead.”

Shit, you don’t gotta tell him twice.

Like a scenthound tracking a trail, Satoru instantly shoves his way between your legs and buries his face in your crotch, gulping down lungfuls of your scent with the desperation of an addict and making you huff out a shaky laugh. The heat radiating from you is staggering.

"You smell like heaven, holy fuck. Good enough to eat. Lucky for you, I’m starving,” he borderline complains. It’s a complete juxtaposition to how he purrs those muffled words into your skin. You shudder at the vibrations.

“That was corny as—“

Satoru was as menacing when it came to pleasuring you as he was as oyabun. There’s no shooting straight and simple with him; he’s reckless, skateboarding on the knife’s edge for the hell of it. He goes from carelessly smothering himself into you, eyes teetering back in their sockets as if drunk with each pass of your slick across his chin, lips, cheeks, to turning his head and dragging messy kisses into the crease between your hip and leg. His saliva and your wetness ooze down your inner thigh, akin to a ripe May mango being carved open and spilt on hot concrete.

But if he’s dangerous, then you’re terrifying.

Pain shears razor-sharp through his scalp. You snag your fingers into his hair, guiding and tethering at the same time, forcing him to stare into the mess they’ve both made of you. He whines, chomping at the bit for it.

“That’s not what I gave you permission to do. Down, boy.” You click your tongue. His teeth click together with how fast he shuts his trap. “I’m beginning to think that you can’t take orders after all. What a shame,” you sigh, the timbre of your voice gentle but your words condescending.

Though he gives you a guilty pout, his cock instantly spurts precum due to the way you’re speaking to him, further soiling his boxers. A teensy part of him wants to act out, harmlessly push against you until you round on him with the intensity of a thousand suns so that you’ll break him over your knee. Playing the part of the petulant brat is fun sometimes. However, his knee-jerk reaction to prove you wrong and take you up on your silent challenge that you’ve presented him with wins out.

Satoru can be a good boy without a doubt.

Sure, he was never the type to care about what other people thought of him, just as long as everyone knows that he’s the reigning king of the yakuza scene. That he’s the richest, the handsomest, everything in that vein.

But the idea of showing you how he could lend his ear to you and listen well, how he was only good for you, that he was only yours to kiss and love and fuck, was enough to drive him borderline crazy.

With his extremely selective hearing and all that corded muscle packed beneath his baby soft skin, you both know damn well that he could steer this situation however he pleased if he wanted to. Yet he goes pliant in your grip, watching, waiting, licking hungrily at his pronounced canines. A predator turned tame as he awaits your order.

It makes you feel drunkenly valorous.

You tilt his head up, angling him so, as if reminding yourself that you’re holding genuine gold and not any of that counterfeit bullshit. His blue eyes are half-mast and dreamy when you peer into them, pupils blown wide. He’s sitting back on his heels with a casual ease, too far away to kiss but not far enough that you can’t smell the intoxicating scent of him, a heady mix of vanilla and cinnamon and sandalwood.

This beautiful, arrogant, infuriating nutcase of a man. Seeing him like this makes your heart do flips. You live for moments like these, when he can let go and just be yours completely. The most feared man in Japan, brought to his knees by the woman he loves.

You tap your chin. “Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s improper to play with your food?”

His retort comes quick. “I think they cared more about making sure I could properly unload, load, and shoot a gun in less than ten seconds. And juggle multiple businesses at once. All of which I excel at, by the way.”

“Smart ass,” you scoff, but the words lack their usual bite. You sound affectionate.

“Mm, but you love my mouth.” Satoru, lecherous, wiggles his eyebrows. You can’t deny that.

“What was it that Suguru told me ages ago?” Satoru wonders aloud, glancing up at the ceiling as if it’ll come to him in a show of divine light. You’re incredibly unimpressed and almost want to shove him face first into you and do all the work yourself, but you wait. “‘Thanks should be given thricefold?’ That’s all I’m doing.”

He replants his face into your inner thigh, wetting the lacy top of your thigh-high with one indulgent lick, then latches onto your plump thigh and sucks and bites with a vengeance. The peachy pink of his shapely lips bleeds forth and mixes with your skin, producing the same color beneath his teeth. Once the hickey is dark enough for his standards and you’re writhing a little, he mumbles a faint ‘thank you’ and switches to your other leg, mauling your skin with obnoxiously loud slurps, leaving a second mark and professing his thanks again.

Then his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt and you’re a goner.

This is the same man that got you a little wet on their first date, you remind yourself. You remember sitting across from him, taking subtle deep breaths as if the very air in your lungs would break every piece of fine china in the five star Michelin restaurant that Satoru dragged you to, and stiffly cutting your wagyu steak.

Satoru knocked back the rest of his non-alcoholic drink like it was a shot, ice clinking against his lips, then sucked the single cherry between them. Grinning a little at you, he chewed into the cherry with crisp snaps of his teeth until only the stem remained. And the show-off kept his mouth open so that you could watch him tie the teeny tiny stem into a neat knot using only his tongue and the support of his teeth.

It’s safe to say that he’s really, really talented with his tongue.

He drags deep, open-mouthed kisses up and down your slit, sloppily making out with your cunt. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and firmly licks into you, and when he moans like a whore into your quivering pussy at the first taste of real, genuine ambrosia, the vibrations take root in your nerves and shake them fiercely. You keen as if you’ve been socked in the stomach, hands digging harder into his fluffy white hair and making him moan again.

“Oh, shit, yesyesyes, good boy,” you pant at the very sudden and very enjoyable onslaught.

From what you’ve learned, the best way to train a puppy is through positive reinforcement, patience, and rewarding good behavior. It works wonders.

Satoru's hand crawls to the underside of your left thigh and he tosses that one over his broad shoulders too, settling in to eat you out with single-minded focus. He feasts on you like a man starved, gathering the wetness that drips from your core, dipping inside your entrance that doesn’t resist him even a little bit to taste you more fully and nuzzling his nose against your clit, spurred on by the praises you keep singing. Three laps and he’s a swimmer. The cocktail of his saliva and your slick coats his chin and pools on the wood beneath your ass.

You dig the points of your stilettos just above his shoulder blades. Using your newfound stirrups and gripping the reins of his hair, you vigorously grind yourself against his face to try and unravel the knot in your stomach. Satoru loves when you get bossy like this, wrangling him so that you can take what you want. It’s so fucking hot.

“That’s what good pussy sounds like,” he groans, muffled by your skin, even though he can barely hear the lewd squelches of your responsive body himself, the wet clicks of his suckling. Your trembling thighs are firmly locked around his head— it wouldn’t be so bad to suffocate here. You squeeze harder, squishing his ears further against his head, as if telling him to shut up and stop quoting Vines of all things while buried in his favorite deep-dish.

He doesn’t stop running his mouth, though. “Tastes so good, f-fuck, bet you feel good too with how soaked you are. Keep moving your hips just like that, mommy, use me— just like that, yeaaah,” is breathed nose-deep into your folds that soaks every word up like a sponge. “Drag that pretty cunt all over me.”

His lips are lovely and warm, diligent in his ministrations. Choppy exhales ghost across your skin and make you flinch. He pulls back a little to lave over your clit, tasting the sweet, salty wetness that coats it, and he sinks into the bliss and into you. He gorges himself on the sweetness of your juices, swallowing it down and letting it trickle down his throat.

Satoru looks up at you, eyes frantic with adoration like he’s pleased to be doing this, just eating you out without any sort of gain for himself. There’s been countless times where Satoru’s pinned you down and munched for hours, languorous in his effort to coax noises and reactions from you. He’s done it in a changing room, during their movie marathons, on his private jet to one of their vacation homes, fresh from beating people black and blue, when you were sleeping in their cozy king-sized bed back at the Gojo estate… the list goes on. Earning gratification via your pleasure is enough for him.

Each stroke through your weeping slit elicits an approving moan or whimper from the beauty perched atop his desk, growing higher in pitch the closer you get to the edge. Your husband sounds just as wrecked, mewling babbled nonsense into you, ferally plunging his tongue in and out of your silken depths that he’d kill to stay swaddled in forever.

You screw yourself down onto him with equal fervor, your body heaving with the force of your pleasure, twisting and writhing and making the desk creak. Perhaps you’re being a bit too punishing with your pace and not letting him up for air, but Satoru takes it all with grace, not a single whimper of protest slipping past your hips that slap against his face.

"Cum for me, angel," he pathetically begs, his thumb seeking out your clit to trace circles against it. His tongue continues its relentless assault, determined to push you over the edge and into blissful oblivion. "Let me feel you. Want my baby to make a mess of me, c’mon.”

When it becomes too much, the fervent sparks licking down the sparkler too fast, you lightly bat his head away. Satoru goes quickly and obediently. Your hips itch to chase him. “Open, puppy,” you bite out.

His mouth falls open, whiny pants drooling down his pretty pink tongue. That’s all it takes to do you in. With his thumb rolling over your swollen rosebud and his eagerness on full display, you let the intensity of your orgasm sweep you away and you keen as you squirt all over his face.

Viscous fluid splashes on his tongue and he moans, looking utterly out of it as he watches you find your release. Slick coats his cheeks, chin, and lips in a glistening sheen and he licks up what he can. Satoru scrambles forward for more of it even as you try to physically hold him at bay with the weak hand fixed in his wavy strands.

“Please!” He basically cries. You’re a sucker for good manners. You’d try harder to keep him away if you actually didn’t want him all over you, so he takes your unspoken permission that comes in the form of a furrowed brow, as if you’re scolding yourself for giving in, and he runs with it.

He practically collapses into you. He seals his mouth back over your gushing pussy, fingers abandoning your clit in favor of clawing at the nylon smoothed over your thighs. Groaning, your shaking legs relax around his head and slip off his shoulders, splayed open for him to lick his plate clean. Satoru does just that, a little clumsy in his haste but no less passionate.

He keeps going until your erratic twitches turn into steady shudders, your nonstop moans quieting down, until his jaw aches from how hungrily he threw himself into the task. He doesn’t even realize that he’s palming himself through his slacks until his hips sway forward and he pulsates in his grip.

Satoru reluctantly draws back as if it physically pains him to not be buried beneath your skin when your high heel lightly kicks at his flank, too overstimulated to allow him to keep going. His gaze drags over you, recommitting every fine detail to memory; trembling lips punctured by teeth marks, your expression dreamy, body curled halfway over him and ripe for the taking. He wants to remember you like this, wants to burn this image into his brain so that he can call it up when the long nights stretch before him and the weight of his duties threaten to crush him.

“You’re so pretty, mommy. My pretty baby,” he whispers.

He meets your eyes that burn into him. He can only imagine what he looks like. Pink from the tips of his ears down to his neck, face messily painted over with your slick, white hair fluffed up and a little frizzy from the sweat at his hairline. A pussydrunk mess.

You almost want to press your high heel to his chest, kick him to the floor, and then ride him until he cries. The lazier half of you wants to sit back and take the reins from below.

“Let’s get those pants of yours off, baby,” you gently coo.

Satoru exhales sharply and fumbles with his belt. The leather strap slips through the buckle with a sharp clink and he tosses it to the floor. His boxers drag along his erection almost painfully as he shoves them and his slacks down to bunch around his shapely thighs.

Flushed and dripping, his cock draws up now that it’s free of the confines and slaps against his abdomen, staining his pristine white button up with the copious amounts of precum that slicks it. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve been convinced that he already blew his load in his pants. You sit up straighter to get a better look, looking as drunk as he feels.

“Please let me fuck you, mommy... I need it so bad. Need to make you feel good,” he pleads, blue eyes nearly rolling up to the light fixtures on the office ceiling as he finally fists his weepy cock. It feels so good that it hurts.

He was never apologetic about his spoiled golden child tendencies when it comes to you, even borderline proud of acting so shameless about it at times.

Still, Satoru needs a certain level of coaxing in order to be truly vulnerable. His obedience has always been fickle— difficult to coax out of him when his head is on straight, his thoughts moving too fast for him to melt like putty beneath you that easy. Pride is a wretched, untamable thing. An unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Yet he’s on his knees begging to get inside of you.

“Get up,” you breathe.

“Huh?” He mumbles stupidly, still fixed on you.

Your laugh is devastatingly fond. “Are we fucking or what?” You shove your pencil skirt up to your midsection.

Satoru gets a little distracted by the sight of your mussed up thigh highs, the tops of them soaked through, the splotchy hickeys dotting both of your legs, and your messy folds. His thumb stutters over his swollen cockhead.

“You don’t wanna leave mommy waiting, do you? Come get your dick wet.”

The second you finish speaking, he’s on you, flying up onto his feet and ignoring the smarting pain in his knees. He reaches past you and wildly sweeps at his desk, sending papers and pens to the floor. In the next instant, his hands are on the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs up and out to get a good look at your bare ass and glistening cunt.

While admiring the view, he risks his precious left hand by letting it come down to deliver a sharp smack to your ass. When you don’t bite his head off, he does it again, because damn, that’s a lot of movement back there. Your asscheek flares red like a warning. He’s of the opinion that you should get ‘Ms. Nasty’ tatted there, but you always shoot down the idea.

Fingers wrench at your hips to haul you forward, making you choke on air. Sweaty palms scramble for purchase on the smooth oak, stretching back behind you and hooking onto the edge of the desk at the last minute before he can send both of you falling to the floor in a heap.

“Gentle,” you scold. The flare of his nostrils gives away his uncharacteristic disappointment with himself, which you think is a little unfair to himself. He really has been so well behaved; one mishap is nothing. Humming soothingly, you pet at his cheek and his tension releases like a deflated balloon.

You shimmy a little, rubbing your velvety warmth all over his cock that he notches at your entrance. "Good boy," you purr, hooking your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles at the small of his back, tying you both together with a cute little bow. "Such an obedient little puppy, following mommy's every command.”

Satoru groans, guttural and wet, and surges forward to connect your lips. The tangy taste of your own slick greets you, but you don’t mind, drinking down every pornographic whimper that drips from his mouth.

“Put it in,” you mumble between drawn out kisses. You rub your thumb just behind one of his ears and a pleased hum rumbles through his chest, which rises and falls rapidly as anticipation coils tightly in his gut. You shove his suit jacket off of his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, then loosen Satoru’s tie enough that you can get your fingers on the first button at his collar and work your way down. You leave his shirt hanging from his shoulders but you roll his sleeves up.

Arms that have snapped countless necks flex as Satoru plants his hands on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. You drag your hands up and down them, squeezing at the muscle of his biceps beneath his skin, shamelessly feeling up your husband. His cocky smirk is like a brand against your lips.

One, two, three more kisses are exchanged before he pulls back with a wet pop and you can finally peel your eyes open.

Lean muscle and pale scarred skin greets you, peeking from behind the curtain of his undone shirt. Not that you can see it from here, but you can practically picture the massive tattoo of a six-eyed, six-winged angel that he has etched into his back. There’s that jagged scar of his that always makes you wince in sympathy, the line of it running from one shoulder to his opposite hip that an assassin gave him when he was in high school. A smattering of fine white hairs races down his navel to the denser patch of hair curling around his cock. God, you wanna rub yourself all over him like a cat in heat— especially on those washboard abs of his.

With a deep breath, he begins pushing in, working just the tip in past the ring of your cunt. Instantly, Satoru stutters over a moan as if near tears.

Your velvety hole drenches Satoru’s cock with your syrupy slick and clamps down mercilessly as if trying to trap him inside. He shudders, a full-body tremor that starts at the top of his head and travels down the length of his body. Satoru has to grit his teeth to keep from emptying his balls right then and there like a teenager getting his first taste of pussy.

He’s genuinely delirious. His head is dizzy, stupid, because his wife is obscenely fucking tight despite everything and so damn warm. “My toes are throwing up gang signs,” Satoru coughs out as they curl in his Italian leather shoes and you bust out laughing. As responsive as ever, your cunt tries to wring his dick like a towel and he chokes.

You’re actually gonna be the death of him. Here he lies, Gojo Satoru, the deadly oyabun of the Gojo-gumi and the pride of the Gojo clan, dead via sex. May he forever rest in peace.

You’re not faring much better, though. Your previous orgasm left you raw and sensitive, so you’re fighting against the urge to run from his cock and the pleasure that crashes over you each time he throbs inside of you. “And I’m sending off Morse code signals,” you breathlessly joke. It’s a miracle that you’re able to manage a coherent sentence.

“Uh huh, I can tell.” Satoru licks his lips, staring down at where he guides another inch into you, then another, making you slap the desk to try and cope with the way he’s spreading you open. You feel full to the brim and he’s not even halfway there. “Your tight little cunt’s telling me that she can’t handle my cock.”

He needs his mouth washed out with soap. You have to hold back another peal of laughter.

Satoru brokenly whimpers, a sound that’s equal parts pleasure and pain, when you yank at his designer silk tie like a leash without warning. The expensive fabric pulls taut against his throat. Your next tug sends him stumbling forward, hips slapping against the plumpness of your ass with a heavy smack that echoes through his spacious office, forcing him to sink into your welcoming heat up to the hilt. The desk creaks, the wood protesting the rough treatment. Both of you moan when his cockhead smushes against your g-spot and your brain momentarily goes blank.

“You sure it’s not the other way around?” You try for a smirk and it wobbles around the edges.

“Hmph.” Satoru manages to pout at you, pursing his lips. He even rolls his eyes. This diva.

Attempting to dig up the dregs of your sanity and cling to it is hard. You’re one wrong step away from losing your cool, the sheer pressure and pleasure of being practically split in two overwhelming you. It's too much, too intense, and yet you can't stop from leaning into it nor stop the excessive amounts of slick pooling around him and dribbling onto the desk in a steady rhythm, spelling out your arousal. All you know is that you want more— more of Satoru and this perfect, mind-numbing ecstasy.

The man of the hour goes willingly as you wrap more of his tie around your fingers and reel him impossibly closer. He drops his weak head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck as he grinds his hips in tight circles that stir up your insides, practically humping your ass like a rutting canine. He only stops when you let loose an unsteady peep.

His breath shakes out of him in short, sharp gusts, lost in the sensation of being buried inside of you. "You feel so fucking good, sugar," Satoru slurs his words a little, nipping at the tendons in your neck that flex when you swallow before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. He inhales the lip-smacking scent of your natural scent and your perfume. "So wet and perfect. Can't get enough of this sweet cunt."

He kisses his way down your neck and to your collarbone as you both adjust to being so intimately joined, reveling in how you loll your head back to give him more skin to work with. He spies down your shirt that gapes open a little, showing where your necklace is trapped between your heaving breasts, and gets an idea.

The muscles in his arms bunch up right before Satoru rips at the front of your blouse, figuring he’ll buy you a prettier and more expensive one later. He doesn't care. All he cares about is getting his hands on your tits, plain and simple.

You can only watch in mild horror as buttons pop off and fly everywhere (one nearly takes out his eye), ping ping pinging off the walls and the floor, a shower of scattered stars. One goes skittering beneath his office door. Another bounces so hard off of a tiny lamp across the room that it goes careening off of the side table and the lightbulb smashes into bits on the floor.

Since everything’s already going to shit, he doesn’t bother with finesse when it comes to the front of your now decimated, but blessedly open, shirt. He simply yanks the fabric down your arms until it pools around your elbows.

“What the hell, Satoru!” You scold him. The subtle hitch of your hips and your dilated pupils betray you. “I swear to god, if you don’t learn the art of subtlety and figure out how to stay quiet, I’ll—“

“Relax, my men’ll probably think it was hail or something,” he says flippantly.

Your glare is withering. Shit, he needs to score brownie points all over again.

He nips at the soft upper curves of your breasts, burying his face between them as far as he can with the restriction of your bra holding him back, and innocently blinks up at you, trying to look as sweet as pie. “Wait, I’m sorry for interrupting you. Go on, wrap it up. Tell me how you’d shut me up, yeah? Would it hurt? I wanna know all the dirty deets,” Satoru simpers.

“Hit dogs holler.”

Ooooooh.

“Fuck, fuck, stop right there, I nearly came,” Satoru moans dramatically.

Your low, aggrieved noise turns into a wobbly inhale when he leans down to mouth at the swell of your cleavage, tongue tracing the edge of a cup before he pulls that down too.

Out pops your titty. His dick nearly busts inside of you as if saying hi. He quickly yanks down the other cup to let both of your breasts fully spill free, both of them begging to be worshipped. “There’s my girls,” he croons.

Your nipples quickly harden now that they’re exposed to the cool air chugging through the vents. There’s very few things better than anointing every inch of your pretty tits with kisses and licks and nips, which he does happily. He squishes them together to enthusiastically motorboat them (he misses the way your eye twitches), slaps your left tit to watch it jiggle and spits on the right one, watching the strand of saliva slip down the curve of your body. Satoru chases it down and sucks your nipple into his mouth. Being winded by all this stimulation does nothing to stop you from eagerly arching into him.

“Having fun?” You ask dryly. Teeth roll your nipple around, gently biting into it and eliciting a weak spasm from you. Your vision threatens to cross when that makes your body swallow his cock in further.

He pulls back, breaking the seal of his lips on your breast with a lewd pop. Just to ensure he’s covered all his bases, he openly sniffs your chest. You grimace at him. “Mmmmm. Yup. Can I move now, mommy?”

You nod.

“Good.”

You’re promptly fully laid down atop the desk. Before you can even blink, he’s screwing his shoes into the foothold of the carpet beneath him, gripping at your hips, and he plasters half of the weight of his upper half on you without crushing you.

Hips draw back with the tautness of a bowstring, a deadly instrument of war. The tension is suspended when he slides the thickness of him almost fully out, your folds just barely clinging to the underside of his throbbing cockhead.

He releases it. Driving forward, he hits his mark with military precision and you swear you can feel him up in your throat.

“Satoru,” you gasp, your voice nearly drowned out by the sticky squelch of his body reconnecting with yours. You’re leaking so much that your ass and thighs and his pelvis are finely glazed with slick, a concoction as thickly sweet as the one pasted over pastries.

“Shit.” The curse punches its way up his throat and out of the drooling seam of his mouth. Starting up a filthy grind drags more from his worn lungs. He rocks with the sensual finesse and purpose of someone seasoned in the realm of the red light district, dragging along each crevice of your heavenly warmth.

(Your stern, nonchalant facade nearly crumbled when you asked him if he’d ever been to the red light district back when you first started dating years ago, long before wedding bells rang. At the time, you kind of wanted to throw up even though it would’ve made sense and you would’ve understood. Why get jealous of what came before you? However, Satoru looked at you like you hit your head. “For Gojo-gumi business? Yeah, of course I have. I literally own a few clubs in those parts.”)

Every silky inch of you threatens to be his ruin. You’re pillow soft. Satoru has to screw his eyes shut in a futile attempt to handle it. “God, fuuuuck, baby. M’so drunk on this pretty body of yours, so addicted to you that it’s driving me crazy,” he warbles.

His fingertips dig into the soft pouch of your hips, keeping you in place so that you can release your death grip on the edge of his desk. “There you go, that’s— that’s perfect, right there. That’s a good boy. Mommy’s perfect boy,” you babble right back.

The way you praise him all sweet with your voice tuned to a higher pitch, your blessed hands finally petting over every inch of him that you can touch, slipping under his shirt to dance along the knobs of his spine, nails biting into the inked angel on his back, drawing your fingers back out to brush them along his face— it’s like a switch flips in his brain, reducing him to a needy mess incapable of doing nothing but pleasing you. You have him under lock and key.

The poor desk beneath you feebly creaks and wobbles, openly protesting their coupling. Drawers rattle in their slots from the force of Satoru's increasingly powerful thrusts, banging open in a chaotic cacophony and spilling papers and office supplies onto the floor. With a whine, Satoru changes the pace so that he’s battering his way in and out of your cunt to the rhythm of your pulsations around his cock, like a bass being plucked. Your joint moans grow borderline frantic.

“Open your eyes.” Satoru peels his eyelids apart to look at you as requested. He blinks back the spots lining his vision.

Your beauty is the kind that he’s sure artists would kill to put on paper. Sweat glistens enticingly on your trembling body, making it seem like you’ve been buffed in stardust, your abs fluttering every time his cockhead kisses that spongy spot deep inside you that drives you insane. The commanding pools of your eyes reel him in and it makes him melt.

“My gorgeous fucking wife,” he rasps. “Mine.”

The flat of Satoru’s palm smooths down to your stomach. He presses down right where there’s visible distension from the thickness of his cock embedding itself in you. Your lips fall apart in a lewd ‘o’ as the pressure adds to the hot sparks of pleasure flooding your body. “That’s how deep I am, huh, princess? It's allll in your tummy,” he crows breathlessly, trying to sound cocky but failing. Miserably.

Your nod is borderline frantic. “Keep fucking me just like this,” you insist, eyes rolling back, body jolting. And he obliges.

His face is dusted in a dark pink shade that L’Oréal would kill to make a lipstick out of and Satoru’s sporting a fucked-out, hopelessly giddy grin. Sweat marches down his temples, his snow-white hair falling damp and disheveled over his brow from his exertions. His once crisp button-up hangs off his broad shoulders, the tie swinging from around his pale neck.

Blue eyes hazy and wrecked, lust swims in the yawning voids of his irises as he stares down at where he’s joined with his wife. He watches, enraptured, as your stretched cunt greedily sucks him in, tight walls adhering to him and pumping out slick.

With the way Satoru’s sinking into you with heavy deep strokes, you matching him with frenzied ruts of your own hips, it’s like he’s trying to crawl inside of you and never come out. This intimate closeness is what he craves, needs. Satoru’s long white eyelashes, clumpy and wet, veil his vision with how low lidded his eyes are. He blinks at you between the slits with raw, open affection.

Using his hold on your hips, he yanks you onto his cock over and over and over again. His chin drops to bump against his sternum, groans hissing through the barrier of his teeth as you cry out and squeeze around him. “Sosososo fucking good, swear on everything that you’re perfect. Use me for your pleasure. Juuust like that, pretty, I got you,” Satoru spews like a two-bit whore on the street.

He’s too loud. Any illusion that you may have been quiet enough to have gone undetected to the rest of the building has been long shattered, but schematics, schematics.

Your thumb draws at the plump swell of Satoru’s bottom lip, pushing into the slight natural divot of them. His eyes follow the movement, transfixed, and he opens up without hesitation when you replace your thumb with two fingers.

Satisfied, you sink them into Satoru’s mouth. “Stay quiet and occupy yourself with mommy’s fingers.” He lets out a muffled moan in response as you push them deeper, tongue instinctively curling to try and force them right back out, but he forces himself to relax. He draws his tongue lazily over your fingers, tasting his own saliva mingling with the faint flavor of your lotion.

Creeping over his soft palate, you press at the back of his throat, coolly watching him gag around the invading force for a moment before sliding them back out, back in with a wet noise. Drool escapes the corners of his stretched lips in rivulets and dribbles down his chin and onto your sternum, making him look more like a sloppy, over-excited puppy than the feared yakuza boss he is.

The points of his canines shrieeeek over the gloss of your nails when you stretch your fingers apart in a ‘v’ and nestle them between his teeth. Yet he doesn’t bite down. He holds your fingers there like a soft mouthed retriever, docile and tender.

“My baby likes having any part of mommy in his mouth, yeah?” You manage.

He dutifully nods. You indulge him until your fingers prune, letting him suckle and gag himself on you to his heart’s content. There’s a constant stream of gargled moans and whimpers flowing from him, all of his words running together until it’s just meaningless sound. Only then do you pull them out, allowing more of his saliva to splatter on your sternum and ooze down between your bobbing breasts.

It’s a little hard to secure a hold with your wet fingers, but you manage to snag the edge of his tie and once again use it to dictate the pace of his thrusts, pushing and pulling him around the same way one does with a toy.

By now, any semblance of coherency has all but been forgotten and he’s just rutting into you, mindless, puppy-like; the relief of fixating on you and your pleasure a thrilling change of pace from the constant demands and expectations that come with his position. He may be looming over you as he fucks you like his life depends on it, but he’s under no illusion that he’s the one in control here.

You’re moving in sync, two waves cresting and crashing and ensuring each other’s ruin every time you come together. Teeth chafe against skin, promising, before sinking in. Fingers grapple for proper leverage, smoothly trimmed nails sinking into warm thighs and scalps and sweaty backs. Your ass claps against his thighs so hard that it burns, sopping pussy ravenous in its efforts to envelop him.

“Shit, m’not gonna last long,” you heave. Your legs tighten around his slutty ass waist and cling there for dear life when one of his flexing hands drops away from your hip, hurriedly dipping down between you and frantically rubbing his thumb over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“You’re so close, I can feel it, f-fuck, squeezing me so tight. C’mon. Make a mess of my cock, please cum for me again, mommy. I’m all yours, I’m all yours, I’m all yours,” Satoru deliriously whines.

You see red.

It’s not the kind of red that comes from anger. No, it’s the kind that comes from having your brain cells fry from the sheer mind-numbing euphoria that bursts through your body like a supernova. You’re pretty sure you wail as your slick rushes wetly from your plugged up cunt, but it’s drowned out by the roaring blood swelling in your ears.

You babble a litany of nonsense, half of it praise and half of it mindless chants for more, for less, you don’t know. Satoru more than happily fucks you through your orgasm, thumbing your clit, driving wildly into you and making you mercilessly convulse.

"That's it, angel," he groans, feeling his own release fast approaching. A gooey feeling curls in his stomach, hotly insistent, and his balls draw up. It’s riding him hard.

Bowing further over you, he bodily pries your shaking legs away from his waist and tosses them over his shoulders, folding you in half like a lawn chair and making one sleeve of his shirt slide further down his arm. The new angle allows him to push impossibly deeper and your moan scratches it’s way out of the column of your throat.

"I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna cum, sweets," he grits out through clenched teeth, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. But it's a losing battle, his body trembling and tensing as he teeters on the precipice of ecstasy. Only you, his anchor, ties him down to earth. "Tell me I can... tell me I can cum inside this perfect cunt."

You don’t respond, either too busy drowning in the remnants of your climax or just blatantly ignoring him, and he releases a big shuddery whimper when he realizes his misstep. “Please,” he tries.

Big blue eyes watery and wide, he looks like a ruined angel above you. “I’ll buy you that new phone you wanted, or take you on a trip anywhere in the world. I’ll do anything, say the word and I will. Just— just lemme cum. Please, mommy.” His saliva-slick lips drag down your chest and seal around one of your pearly nipples, suckling gently and trying to appeal further to you.

He sounds so broken, so desperate, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. It almost makes you wonder if you could cum again just from hearing him like this. You know you could make him beg for hours if you wanted to, even demand that he halt completely, but he hasn’t done anything to warrant being on the receiving end of your borderline sadistic streak.

(Though, knowing this 6’3 eager to please masochist on top of you, he’d rock with it.)

“Go ahead, baby,” you tell him. Nails claw at his back, likely shredding along the feathery lines of the tatted angel’s wings, further spurring him on.

“Ffffuck, thank you, thank you, I love you so much,” he chants around your swollen nipple, voice breaking on each word. He pulls his mouth away, spit clinging to his lower lip and connecting him to your tits that sway every time he rocks his twitching hips against yours.

Satoru greedily paws at you, squeezing your pillowy breasts, tracing your curves, pressing into your navel, anything he can get his hands on. He's like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, determined to sample everything until he’s no longer allowed to.

Your neck strains as you thrash your head and he visibly wavers like a house about to fall. “What, can’t take it anymore?” Satoru pokes fun, but his question is really a ‘you good?’

“Shut up.” ‘I’m fine, I love you, go ahead.’

The perks of a married couple… telepathy.

Satoru drops his head, slams into you a little faster. The drawers continue rattling like teeth in a jar. Despite the euphoria clogging your pores and melting your brain down, you lift your hands, cupping his face, thumbs fanning outwards from the bridge of his nose and gently digging into the warming apples of his cheeks.

He leans into your touch, nuzzling into your palms as your thumbs brush away tears that he didn’t realize were escaping him. In his electric blue eyes that make your nerves sing with just a glance, you can see the depth of his devotion and trust in you, the way he's utterly handing himself over to you in this moment.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” you whisper. “Mommy’s perfect puppy.”

His vision goes black and his mouth opens. Then, suddenly, a searing and blinding white explodes across his retinas like a droplet of paint in a cup of water as he lets go.

His cock jerks, painting you over and over again with spurts of his spend. He pulses inside you with each aftershock that rumbles through his very bones, your pussy eagerly wringing around him in turn, milking him and siphoning his soul out via his cock, and forcing him to plug his load in deep.

The whole while, Satoru lets out watery whimpers, peppering your scrunched up face in sloppy uncoordinated puppy kisses and grinding into you. If you squint, you swear you can see a fluffy white tail wagging faster than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings behind him.

As he comes down and his movements peter off, stopping to mould his pelvis to the curve of your ass and leave himself buried in you, he nuzzles his way between your tits. Your perfectly soft, plush, pillowy tits. This is heaven. Needily, he rubs his cheek on the gentle swell of your right boob, drinking you and the smell of sex and sweat in.

Your hand sinks into his white hair, stroking the sweaty strands and trying to comb them into place between gentle scratches at his scalp to pacify him further. He practically purrs. In his wife’s presence, Satoru isn’t the almighty oyabun of the Gojo-gumi. Nuh uh, no sir. He’s completely and utterly your annoying husband that scrambles for your affection as if he’s a broke person on the street chasing pennies— and you always give it to him.

Together, the two of you slowly breathe and bask in the afterglow. Satoru, humming out sweet nothings, you, petting over him and probably tracking the fan above them that spins round and round. Minds blissfully blank.

(‘I need to buy this man a collar,’ you think to yourself. ‘And then peg the absolute dogshit out of him.’)

God, he’s so fortunate to be able to come home to you every damn day. He’s been counting his lucky stars since the day they met. A sudden burst of emotion swells in his chest, warm and golden like the summer sun.

“Love you, pretty,” he sighs dreamily. He catches your hand in his, planting a kiss to the back of it, then to your engagement ring and wedding band.

Your hands refix themselves on his cheeks with a gentle squeeze. “I love you too, baby,” you murmur, drawing him into a hopelessly sappy kiss. He pecks you one, two, three more times, chasing your lips, and you laugh softly.

Satoru jolts when skin cracks against skin in a sudden spank, a vicious throb skyrocketing beneath the skin of his ass. “Hey! Way to ruin the moment!” He complains with the most offended look he can muster. You smile with false serenity.

He’s sure it’ll bruise into a small reminder, one that will surely haunt him for days to come whenever he sits in his office chair and feels the bruise pulse beneath the pressure, drawing him back to this moment— Satoru breaking your back on his desk, waiting for you to give him permission to go ahead while he writhes, needy and wanting and begging with his body.

You pull back a little to scrutinize him. “That was for my shirt that you—“ he winces when you jab a finger at him, “destroyed.”

You yelp when he abruptly slots his arms beneath you and hoists you up off of the desk. Satoru drops down into his chair, sending them skidding back a few steps when it gets the wheels rolling, and cordons you off in his lap by squeezing you close, his stupid dick still buried in your guts. You widen your legs to properly straddle him then frown at the sensation of tacky drying cum, slick, and sweat between your bodies.

Behind Satoru, the sun peeks over his head and sets his white hair aglow. Towering buildings go on and on, stretching out before the empire of the Gojo-gumi.

He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and lets his touch linger a little before he snuggles you closer. In his arms, you’re utterly at ease. He’s equally at peace— always is, actually, in your presence. You quiet the incessant din of his life and fill it with you; your snark, your gentleness that you only ever show him, your authority that he leans on, your love and your dreams for you and him.

You’re intrinsically part of him now. Nothing can ever change that.

“I’ll buy you a new one, relaaaax. You can wear my shirt on your way out and I’ll just grab one of my spare suits for myself,” Satoru cajoles, puckering his lips and theatrically fluttering his lashes. You grumble something highly censorable. Trying to find a way to hush you up before you can let loose on him, he glances around the room, drinking in the pens, papers, the shattered lamp, random buttons, and half of their clothing littering the ground. A mess that he most definitely will not be cleaning up himself.

Then, once he finds it, he scoots them along a fraction in the chair and taps his foot against a certain paper. You look behind you. “Oh, good, I needed your signature on this. Now I can go forward with my plan,” Satoru says cheerily.

You blink, confused. You don’t hold any executive power in this building, not enough to warrant your signature. Nor have you signed anything of note in the last week, here at headquarters, at home, or otherwise.

Satoru taps his foot against it again. Dotted along the paper are dried splotches of what is most likely your wetness. Your supposed ‘signature.’ Heat rises to your face. “I got us a seventh vacation home!”

“Fucker.”

After he has a giggle fest over it and you quiet him down with more kisses and unserious scoldings, which leads to an overly heated make out session that has you evaluating the pros and cons of another round, a fist pounds on the door. You pause in the middle of mauling your husband’s neck, painting the smooth expanse in hickeys in revenge for the two fat ones throbbing on your thighs, and pinch his side to push him into action.

Satoru rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a wonder they don’t get lodged back in his skull. “Does it look like I’m available? The door’s locked for a reason,” he hollers.

A beat. You hear Kento’s familiar, utterly exhausted sigh. “If you two are done in there.” It’s clear what he’s referring to. Your eyes flare again and Satoru tries for a smile. “Gojo is needed elsewhere. I’ve been made aware that Geto has been blowing up his phone for quite some time now. It’s urgent.”

Then, when neither of you answer, Kento adds, “There’s been an incident in Shibuya.”

Oh hell no.

Satoru’s about to show Shibuya a real incident for interrupting his moment with his wife.

author’s note: he will be collared in a drabble GOD WILLING

thank you all for reading this freaky ass shit, hoping to post more of my 1748282 wips soon :3 reblog and/or comment to let me know ur thoughts because i eat replies UP, they’re all greatly appreciated muuuah 🫶🏽

tags: @stuboo2053 @pvmpkingod @spirit-kat @skz8stay @loyalguma @amane1271 @irishiruuu @m1nrrva @onixsky @q2uq2u @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @libr4sonsa @kaitospo @n1vi @ieathairs

here are my fav comments from my betas (#smashsecretaryreader2k25movement):

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jo-com · 2 months ago

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──★‧₊˚🖇️✩ MY DADDY!

Max Verstappen x Family

୨ৎ Summary: During a race weekend, Max shares a quick thank-you hug with the event organizer’s child. But their own toddler sees it—and instantly gets upset.

୨ৎ Genre: Cute and Adorable

୨ৎ Note: Doing some fluff cuz i write angsty stuff all the time. There are some grammatical errors, google translated dutch and this is also not proofread but hope y’all enjoy.

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

The paddock was alive with noise—mechanics rushing, cameras flashing, fans cheering from behind the barriers. It was just another race weekend, buzzing with excitement and chaos.

Amongst it all, there walked Max, along with Y/n and their daughter lily—who was holding onto his hands while the other held a small stuffed toy that he had recently bought her and was now her current favorite toy to bring.

The camera soon turned all their attention on them— capturing the small yet warm moment between the three.

Lily glanced around, her wide eyes meeting the curious stares surrounding them. Instead of shying away, she beamed a gentle smile and gave a cheerful wave with her tiny hands, still clutching her favorite toy. When she noticed a camera nearby, she tilted her head and smiled a little brighter, as if offering a quiet hello to whoever might be watching.

Max and Y/n shared a look of fondness as they saw the cute interaction. Grinning widely at their daughter’s antics.

…

Once they arrived at the Redbull hospitality, Lily was quick to rush towards to plop down at the couch, struggling slightly from the height.

“Want me to help you out baby?” Max spoke, his tone gentle like he always was with her. Not the serious and assertive one he always had on camera. No. It was something he reserved only for the two of you.

Lily shook her head. Determined. “No papa, I could do it”

You smiled from ear to ear as you crouched down besides her level. "Sure you don't want any help schatje?"

She stopped mid way and sighed deeply— as if gathering all her strength for one big moment—Her eyes glint with pure determination, trying once more to climb the couch.

Max stood there watching, a wide grin plastered on his face, as Lily successfully climbed onto the couch all on her own.

"See mama, told you i don't need help" she spoke— her tone laced with pride, the kind she inherited straight from Max.

He chuckled, crossing his arms as he watched her triumph. "That’s my girl," he said proudly. "A true Verstappen—stubborn, fearless, and always finishing what she starts."

...

Later that afternoon, Max was showing Lily around, pointing out cars and waving at familiar faces in the paddock, when one of the organizers approached, a friendly smile on his face and a young boy trailing beside him.

"Max! Hope we’re not interrupting," the man said warmly. "Thought I’d introduce my son—he’s a big fan."

Lily peeked up from behind Max’s leg, clutching her toy. The boy, a little older than her, gave a shy wave.

She looked back at him but not with the same energy. A flash of predatory gaze lingered on the poor boy.

Max laughed awkwardly as he scratched the back of his head. "Sorry, lily isn't usually like this."

"No it's fine, he can get a little bit shy too." The man said, waving off his hands assuringly.

The organizer smiled warmly. “Actually, Noah really wanted to take a picture with you, is that okay?” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up.

Max chuckled, nodding. “It’s nice to know he’s a fan at such a young age—guess the racing bug really starts early.”

He gently took the phone from the organizer’s hands and crouched down beside Noah, wrapping an arm around him in a one-sided hug as he snapped the picture.

From the side, Lily stared with pure hurt. Her once cheeky smile turned into a scowl almost instantly. Without a thought she plunged forward and lightly pushed the kid.

"My Daddy!" she yelled, eyes blazing with jealousy.

Max’s eyes widened, clearly caught off guard. He quickly stepped between Lily and his son.

“Lily, what was that for?” Max asked gently, then glanced back over his shoulder at the boy, who looked startled but unharmed.

Max turned back to the organizer, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “I’m really sorry, she isn’t usually like this—I don’t know what came over her.”

The organizer gave a reassuring nod, kneeling down beside his son. “It’s alright. Kids will be kids. I’m just glad no one got hurt.”

He looked back at Lily, then Max, with a patient smile. “If anything, it just shows how much she cares. Sounds like she’s a true Verstappen—fierce, determined, and not afraid to stand her ground, just like her dad.”

Max let out a dry chuckle, waving goodbye to the organizer after apologizing once more before they leave.

...

He then gently took Lily’s hand and led her to a quieter spot away from the crowd. Crouching down so he was eye-level with her, he gave her a look that was both serious and soft.

“Lily,” he began, his voice calm but firm, “you can’t push people, even if you’re upset. That’s not how we show our feelings, okay?”

Lily huffed, arms crossing tight over her chest. “But he was trying to take you,” she said, her lower lip jutting out. “You’re my papa.”

Max sighed, trying to hide a smile. “I am your papa. And I always will be. But hugging someone or taking a picture doesn’t mean I’m not yours anymore.”

She looked away, grumbling under her breath, “Still looked like it.”

Max gently touched her chin to bring her gaze back to him. “It’s okay to feel jealous, but you have to use your words, not your hands. Got it?”

Lily’s shoulders slumped just a little. “Okay…” she mumbled, then added more clearly, “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to be mean. I was just mad.”

Max’s face softened completely. He pulled her into a hug. “I know, Lil. And thank you for saying sorry. That’s really brave of you.”

She hugged him tightly, then leaned back and gave him a dead-serious look. “But he still can’t have you.”

Max blinked. “Oh?”

Lily nodded firmly. “Only I can hug you. ‘Cause I’m the boss.”

Max laughed, standing up as he ruffled her hair. “Yes, ma’am. Boss of me it is.”

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bitteriekitten · 4 months ago

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regular things that get them horny.

synopsis — what the title says <3

warnings — implied nsfw content mdni please or i will steal ur kneecaps, afab!reader, teasing... i might've missed smt lmk if i did !

featuring — xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, & caleb (separate fics)

notes — i was not expecting the flurry of notes i received in my first ever written post ... thank u sm for the likes and reblogs they're much appreciated ily all sm <3333 this is still unedited because i'm tired :p - feedback is much appreciated btw !

Xavier gets incredibly turned on whenever he sees you stretch. Thanks to all the reports you need to fulfill after missions, he often spots you at your desk with your arms up and your back arched. You would let out a little groan after stretching, which doesn’t help his running imagination. Your uniform, which you often unbutton while doing paperwork, lifts up with your arms, giving Xavier a peek of the skin underneath your clothes. He could barely look away, let alone tell himself to calm down before he embarrasses himself. Your eyes would meet his, and Xavier gulps when he sees you smirk. “Enjoying yourself, partner?” you teased. Xavier doesn’t respond, instead deciding to adjust how he sits at his desk, hoping his bulge would calm down eventually.

Zayne can never control himself when he sees you wearing his clothes. Whether it’s a t-shirt, a button-up, a jacket, it never fails to drive him up a wall with how intimate it is for him to be sharing something that's his. The material is always too big on you, hanging a few inches above your knees - and you know that he knows you rarely ever wear anything underneath either. He loves seeing you walk around the house, to which he pulls you onto his lap with a deep kiss. “I had been looking for this shirt for a while now.” he said against your lips, his tongue darting out to lick at your neck. You shivered, “Well, it’s mine now. Unless you try to get it back.” Zayne smirked, taking on your little challenge as his hands slid under your (his) shirt.

Rafayel gets excited whenever you wear glasses. While you looked pretty much the same with your wire-framed glasses, he swears up and down that you looked like a completely transformed person. “I’ve never seen you this serious, cutie.” he said, staring at you from across the table with his cheek resting against his palm. You ignored his comment, probably because you were too engrossed in your work and you didn’t hear him, or you were purposely ignoring him to stay focused at your work. Either way, he bit his bottom lip to prevent a moan from erupting out of his mouth - the concentrated look on your face was like the cherry on top.

Sylus can’t help himself whenever you touch him casually. Your relationship had come a long way, and it clearly took great effort on your part to finally be able to feel him without flinching. It could be as simple as holding hands under the table, or your head resting on his shoulder, it would be more than enough to have him breathing in heavy sighs. “Keep doing that, sweetie.” he gently demands you as you trail your hands over his shoulders and over the expanse of his wide chest. You bit your lip as you settled more comfortably on his lap, allowing your hands to travel more over his body. “You like that?” you asked, your fingers grazing over his cheek. Sylus takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it firmly; that was his answer.

Caleb can’t help but get turned on when you cook. It’s something about the domesticity of it all, and the intimacy of you making a meal with him in mind. You rarely ever get the chance to cook something for him, because he loves being the chef in the relationship. Caleb wraps his arms around you from behind, breathing in the scent of your hair as well as the scent of the braised beef you were preparing on the stove. “Smells pretty good, Pipsqueak.” he murmured against your head. His hands slowly travel south, and he can’t help the grin on his lips when he feels you squirming under his touch. “C-Caleb, you have to eat…” you sighed, leaning your head against his shoulder. Caleb hummed and began placing kisses over your exposed neck, “Mmm, I think I want to taste something else first…” he whispered.

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thevillainswhore · 7 months ago

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Dancing With The Devil II

Pairing: Alternative!Bucky Barnes x Cheerleader!F!Reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Summary: It’s the night of the fundraiser, and after a few heated encounters with the one boy you should be staying away from, the tension between you finally comes to its peak when Bucky visits the kissing booth.

Warnings: College AU, bad boy v. good girl trope, inexperienced!reader, jealousy, kissing, dirty talk, smut, fingering, daddy kink, p in v penetration, tit/ass slapping, tit sucking/biting, degradation, mentions of fisting, mild drug use.

Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Divider by @saradika-graphics. Part 2 and the final installation to this fic — Dancing With The Devil ❤️ song inspo: Chase Atlantic - Slow Down. Thank you for all the lovely comments for the first part, I will get round to responding, I promise 🤍 enjoy x

The night of the fundraiser had arrived; your college campus was set up with an array of stalls that were all decorated beautifully. But you were proud to say, thanks to your hard work, that the cheerleader’s stall, embellished in shades of pink and red, was a show stopper.

The kissing booth had been a huge success so far. Hundreds of students had joined in on the fun and you witnessed many shy pecks to the cheek, some very awkward kisses and a few audacious make outs that had the gathered crowd whistling and hollering.

Even your own cheeks heated as you discreetly watched the more outgoing boys slide their tongues into your teammate’s mouths, wondering how such an insatiable kiss felt.

Luckily, Sharonl had been by your side all night, inadvertently keeping you self-aware and in check of your own thirstiness.

Somehow, you had managed to convince Daisy to let you be a part of the kissing booth. You weren’t all too fussed that she had put you on the sidelines, unable to participate as you were stationed on ticket collection. In fact, you were more relieved.

A few students had tried to choose you for a kiss and without fail Daisy came rushing over each time to instantly shut them down, harshly explaining that you were only the help.

While it stung, you were kind of grateful. You had no desire to kiss anyone. Almost anyone, anyway.

Sharon had redirected your wandering gaze every time you looked through the crowd. You knew it was silly to look for Bucky, even when he asked for you to be there. But a small slither of hope within you couldn’t shut the possibility down, even if it was just to see him in passing.

Your thoughts had been stuck on him all week. From your waking moments to the silent ones at night on your own while you were trying to fall asleep. His scent seemed to follow you, no matter where you went and his salacious grin, rotting your brain, had gotten you in trouble a few times while you zoned out in class.

Bucky was a drug you craved — one you couldn’t shake, even if you didn’t really want to.

In your peripheral vision, you caught a familiar face trying to discreetly peek around the side of a stall opposite you and get a glimpse over in your direction.

“You know, Shar. You never actually told me if you had any plans tonight.” It was true. She had been too busy dealing with your own crisis for you to consider how she could be spending her time.

Your friend shrugged while sipping on her fruity slushie. “Nope. I’m a free woman, spending time with my girl.”

Guilt began to settle in your stomach, then. Sharon had been by your side all night, refusing to help set up the kissing booth when Daisy set you on the sidelines. And by the sight of her man, hiding out just to get to see her, you knew she must have blown plans with him to be with you. Instead, she had decided to be a good friend and keep you company.

You slammed your own drink onto the makeshift table with a sigh. “Sharon, you can’t stay here.”

She abruptly stopped sucking up the last of her drink through the straw to look at you like you had grown two heads. “And why the hell can’t I?”

Pointing your finger over to a freshly caught, red faced Steve, you gave her a deadpan glare. “Because right there is your man, literally stumbling over his own feet just to see you. That’s why.”

You watched closely as your friend took a quick glance at her boyfriend, tightening her lips with amusement before shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” you scolded, ignoring her attempt to butt in. “Just because I’m on ticket duty, it doesn’t mean you have to waste your night with me. You should be over there with him! He looks like a lost puppy.”

Sharon scoffed and shook her head. “Don’t be silly, I like being over here with you.” But you couldn’t quite believe her when you caught her once again sneaking a look over to him with a longing in her eyes.

“Shar.” You leveled with her, grabbing her hand with an honest smile. “I promise I’ll be okay, go have fun with your man.”

She looked as though she was about to retort back, though before she could, you stood up and brought her with you. “I mean it.”

Your best friend looked skeptical for a second before she gave in with a sigh. “You’re sure you’ll be fine?”

“Positive.” You reassured her instantly with a bright smile. “Now go! Shoo—go smooch Stevie and tell me all about it later.”

Sharon pulled you into a crushing hug, rocking you dramatically from side to side while she squealed in excitement. “I promise, I promise! Thank you, sweets! You’re a fucking angel.” Squeezing you tightly one last time, she eventually let go, kissing your cheek with a wet smooch and taking off to her boyfriend.

Slumping back into your seat, you wiped your cheek and watched as Steve caught your friend into his arms, spinning her around with a huge grin and bright eyes. You sighed in bittersweet happiness, truly glad to see your friend so loved up — you didn’t regret sending her off at all.

Even if you were now pathetically alone, working the ticket collection of the kissing booth you put together.

The line of students queuing up to hand in their one free kiss tickets seemed never ending as the night went on. You collected so many that the thought of seeing another physically made you feel sick — you didn’t even bother to look at whoever was in line anymore, fixated on your only entertainment of the evening; watching everyone but you enjoy the kissing festivities.

So when the next forsaken pink ticket with a lipstick print came into your line of vision, you sighed with bitterness.

“You can go through,” you mumbled while you reached up to take the token. But as you tried to pull it into your hold, you were met with resistance.

You frowned, beginning to look up. “I said you can—“

“Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Bunny.” Devilish, bright blue eyes stared you down. “But believe me when I say I’d rather stay here.”

It took everything in your power to stay composed. Bucky actually came, your mind internally screamed at you.

Your nerves went haywire while the two of you still held onto the ticket. As the night had progressed, your hope to see him dwindled by the second until you eventually gave up. But as he currently stood in front of you, eyeing your body in your cheer uniform, you had a hard time not throwing yourself over the table at him.

“H-Hi, Bucky,” you whispered, still a little awestruck.

He smirked. “Hey, you.” The finger that held tight to the ticket caressed over yours, sending a shudder down your spine. “Good turn out, then?”

You cleared your throat. “Mhm, we’ve raised a lot of money so far.” That’s when you noticed two of his friends behind him. “I see you brought company.”

“I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.” Bucky grinned until he raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d actually be at the kissing booth, though. Not collecting the tickets for it.”

“Oh,” you muttered. How could you put it without sounding so lame? “Yeah about that—“

Before you could try to explain, Daisy came trotting towards you and the entirety of your body filled with dread. Instantly dropping your hold on the ticket, she was soon by your side wearing her practiced fake smile.

“Newbie,” she called, gratingly. “What is with the hold up? I gave in and let you do this because I thought you weren’t so incompetent after all.”

Daisy’s harsh words cut into you like a knife and you slumped into yourself, embarrassed to be scolded in front of Bucky.

You missed how she glanced to the queue, subtly changing her tune once she realised who was watching. “Come on, honey,” she said in a sickly sweet voice. “You’re not just letting me down, you’re letting the team down. I know you can do better than this.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you mumbled, “Sorry, Daisy.” You were so angry at yourself. The thought that Bucky had seen the whole exchange had you suppressing the urge to bolt it out of there.

But you were even more mortified as you looked up and witnessed Daisy twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes in front of him. “You’re Bucky, right? The one who beat up Tony Stark?”

You watched silently while he looked her up and down. Though it was the exact opposite of the way he looked at you, you couldn’t help the sinking feeling in your stomach that he may be interested in her.

“It’s actually James,” he said, face devoid of his happy expression from earlier.

“Huh?” Daisy replied.

You thought you heard Bucky scoff, but you told yourself you were hearing things. “My name is James.”

Daisy laughed. “But I’ve heard people call you Bucky.” Leaning over the table, she not so discreetly pushed her chest together with her arms, a pout on her lips. “Don’t you want me to call you that too?”

A thick haze of green burned your skin. You weren't sure how long you could take watching their back and forth, especially when the one person who disliked you was so obviously flirting with your crush.

To your surprise though, Bucky didn’t once let his gaze falter down, inherently keeping his eyes on hers. “No. I already told you my name is James.”

Daisy reeled back a little, shocked that her usual tactics of spinning boys’ into her web was going down the drain. “Anyway,” clearing her throat, she recovered quickly. “I see you bought a ticket. So I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that any of our cheerleaders in the lineup are available for a kiss.” She flicked her hair over her shoulders and added, “Me included.”

You ducked your head, trying to force down the sick feeling rising up your throat. Bucky choosing Daisy would break your heart. You already knew you had become quite besotted over him, but with the new tortuous idea of them in your head that could soon become reality, your heart felt like it was ripping out of your chest.

Unable to see his expression, you missed how his eyes flicked to you, a handsome smile he only reserved for you on his face. “Easy.” He licked his lips. “I pick my Bunny.”

“What?” Both Daisy and you looked at him in shock; you instantly snapped your gaze up to him with wide eyes while she scowled in frustration.

Bucky kept his eyes on you with his next words. “How about it, pretty girl? Wanna kiss me?”

Your mouth dropped open, jaw unhinged. No words were able to formulate together to answer him quick enough before you were interrupted once again.

“Unfortunately,” Daisy snapped. “You can’t kiss her, you can only choose from the line up.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky begrudgingly looked back at her. “Says who?”

“Me,” she retorted smugly as she crossed her arms.

He scoffed. “No one—least of all you—is gonna tell me who I can kiss.”

You gulped, head still swimming with the fact Bucky was putting up a fight to kiss you.

“It’s the rules!” Daisy shouted, garnering the attention of more people.

Exasperated, Bucky sighed. “Listen, Dorothy—“

“It’s Daisy.”

“—If I were interested in you,” he spoke over her. “I would have asked for you. That is the whole concept behind this kissing booth, right? You know the idea you didn’t come up with.”

Daisy’s cheeks turned bright red while the people who listened in from the queue snickered at her expense.

Bucky glanced back at you, his lips curling up while he still directed his words to her. “I should be grateful, though. You just made my job of making sure no one else got to Bunny before me so much easier. Thanks Denise, you can go now.”

The hushed laughter of the students was agonizing, even for you. Therefore there was only so much painful embarrassment the ice queen herself could take. Defeated, Daisy spun around with a huff and stormed off.

You followed her retreating back, half panicked about the fallout it could cause in the future. But you were brought back to the present as Bucky held his hand palm up between you. “What do you say, then? Wanna get outta here, Bunny?”

Looking up at him, his eyes gleamed with mischief and satisfaction. A small bout of confidence gave you the courage to stand up, take his hand and be led into what was bound to be danger. “Yes please.”

His hand engulfed yours while he trailed you away from the swarm of people on campus, whoops and hollers fading into the distance, and to a secluded alleyway. Gently, Bucky backed you up against the wall and stood in front of you, leaving hardly any room between you. The light breeze along with the cold bricks chilled your bare arms from your cheer outfit as goosebumps cascaded over your skin.

“You cold, angel?” Bucky asked, a tenderness to his voice.

“N-No, not r-really.” You tried to lie, not wanting to be a pain. But the stutter to your response as you shivered didn’t help your case.

He smiled while he shook his head. “Stubborn girl.” Pulling his arms out of the sleeves, Bucky shucked off his hoodie and wrapped it over your shoulders. “Perfect.”

His intoxicating scent hit you all at once — it was an effort to not bury your head into the material and deeply inhale.

Instead, you shyly gazed into his eyes. “I actually wanted to thank you for the other day. With—with Tony,” you clarified. “I didn’t get to say it before.”

Bucky drew closer to you. “That was nothing, pretty girl.”

The thick tension in the air and the proximity between you, so similar to the events in the storage closet, caused you to overshare. “You’re not actually so scary Bucky—like everyone says you are. You’re actually kind of like a big teddy—“ You cut yourself off, too embarrassed to continue what you were saying.

He lifted your chin with his finger to look at him. “Ah ah, don’t stop there, Bunny.” His nickname for you sent tingles shooting up your thighs. “Carry on.”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “I was going to say you remind me of a teddy bear, because you’re soft on the inside even if you do look a little scary on the outside.” Biting your bottom lip, you slowly opened your eyes.

Bucky smirked. “Yeah? You scared a’me, sweetheart?”

“Nu-uh,” you whispered as you shook your head with hooded eyes, placing your hands over his chest. “I really like how you look.”

Bucky grinned even wider. His large hands firmly gripped your face, eyes boring into yours. “I like how you look too, baby.” He pressed you further against the wall, licking his lips with animalistic hunger. His thumb smoothed over the pulse in your neck, watching with rapt attention as he felt the steady pump of blood.

Bucky was intense, full on and the epitome of your parent’s worst nightmare. But you just couldn’t find it in you to care. Sharon’s warnings, the common sense in your head — they were fighting a losing battle. You were doomed from the moment you met him.

“Y’know what else I like, Angel?” Bucky closed the distance between you, the weight of his body delicious while he skimmed his lips over the sensitive skin of your neck. “I like that a sweet innocent little thing like you can’t stay away from me either.”

“You don’t make it very easy,” you gasped as his tongue swept over the skin behind your ear.

He chuckled breathily. “Does your friend know you’re with me?”

You timidly shook your head. “N-No. She's with her b-boyfriend.”

“Oh.” The sensation of his teeth scraping the lobe of your ear forced a whine out of you. “So my Bunny’s bein’ a bad girl, right now?”

Your fingers tangled in the material of his shirt, pulling him closer. “Mhm.”

“Good,” he growled. “You’re not escapin’ me this time. No running away from Bear. I paid for my kiss after all.”

With a crazed look in his eyes, he ripped himself out of your neck and tightened his fingers into your hair, pulling you into him to crush his lips against yours.

“Mmph!” There was no time to process what was happening. Bucky’s fervid desire was blazing, like he couldn’t possibly stand the thought of not touching you for another second.

His tongue snaked into your mouth and you moaned at the delectable feel of his piercing flicking against your own tongue. The wet slaps of your lips while you made out echoed down the dingy alleyway; it was far from a comfy bed, but the rough brick scraping against your back strangely heightened your excitement.

Bucky suddenly grabbed your leg and hiked it over his hips. Saliva strung from his lips as he quickly pulled away to breathe into your open mouth. “Holy shit.” His chest rose and fell erratically, but a salacious grin decorated his face as though the struggle to catch his breath was exhilarating to him. “You’re sexy as fuck, Bunny.”

Your head spun from desire, a burning fever coursing through your veins like never before. “I’m so dizzy,” you slurred, completely relying on Bucky for balance.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he cooed before grinding his hips against your heat. “You haven’t seen nothin’ yet.”

The material of his denim jeans rubbed tantalisingly over your thin underwear — you felt the full force of his bulge against your covered cunt as your tiny skirt raised up.

You clawed desperately at his neck while your eyes rolled back. “Bear—please—”

“That’s right. Sing for me, baby,” he murmured, eyeing your neck with want. Your cries bounced off the brick walls when he began sucking your skin, just above your collarbone.

“Never—oh god—I've never done anything like this before,” you panted.

Bucky pulled away with a wet pop. You watched as his eyes dilated at the sight of a dark hickey staining your neck. “Don’t you fuckin’ worry about that. I’ll take care of you.”

Sharon’s warning still danced around in your head, a small voice clinging on to your last shred of restraint. “But—”

“Shh, Bunny baby.” He looked at you then, with his bright blue eyes and swollen lips. You hung onto his every word, even when the tips of his fingers teased the inside of your thigh. “I’ve got you, okay? You’re with me now.”

And just as Bucky pulled the soaked gusset of your panties to the side, you knew you were a devout sinner, ready to let him take over the entirety of your mind when he said, “Daddy’s never gonna let his Angel go.”

The pads of his two fingers slowly slid through the middle of your folds, the substantial amount of slick making the glide easy for him. “Oh fuck me,” he gasped. “Baby, you’re fuckin’ drippin’.”

Words were lost on you. Your nails dug deeply into his arms while you struggled to stand on one leg without shaking. “I—oh my god—I can’t.”

You missed the awestruck expression on Bucky’s face as he watched his own fingers move over your sex, the glisten of his rings coated with your arousal. With a sudden growl, he slapped your pussy, splatters of your wetness flicking over his forearm while you yelped in surprise. “Mm—that’s the good shit right there.”

He seemed to be entranced, lost in his own world as you clung to him. “Bear,” you whined needily. “Bear, I need you.”

But your cries went ignored. At least, only until he slowly sunk two fingers into your tight hole and made you scream out his name. “Bucky!”

The groan that rumbled through his chest vibrated through your whole body. His free arm slithered around your waist and pulled you into him. Blowing the strands of hair dangling in front of his eyes, he stared you down while he continued to fuck you with his fingers, each time grinding them into you as deep as possible and basking in the fluttering of your eyes. “You fuckin’ love that, don’t you, huh? Love Daddy shoving his fingers so far into your wet cunt?”

All you could do was nod dumbly, your head heavy and clouded over with lust.

“Of course you fuckin’ do.” Bucky laughed before suddenly pulling his fingers out of you and leaving you emptier than you felt before him.

You whined loudly with the sudden loss of fullness and slumped against him. “W-What—what’s goin’—Bucky—”

The sound of slurping beside your ear caused you to lift your heavy head with immense effort to the sight of Bucky sucking each of his fingers that had just been inside of you, like a starved bear. It winded you. He made sure to lick down to the knuckles, not a drop of your essence left untouched, even as he rolled his tongue over his rings.

You watched, dazed and dizzy until he hummed in satisfaction and finally opened his eyes to look at you. “You taste fuckin’ incredible.”

The fuzziness of your head switched off the part of your brain that made you tremble in his presence. You were holding on by a thread as you mumbled a “T-Thank you.”

A couple of seconds passed by with your heaving breaths and an unbearable knot pulsing away in your lower stomach. Though, Bucky soon interrupted the silence. “Wanna come take a look at my car?”

You frowned, an unfulfilled orgasm made you feel delirious. Had you heard him right? He had just stuffed you with his fingers, literally leaving you a disheveled mess on his shoulder and he asked if you wanted to go see his car?

“It’s a Mustang Mach 1. She’s a real beauty.” Bucky offered, as though the model type would sway you to say yes when you knew absolutely nothing about cars. He seemed so casual and so the only way you thought to act was the complete same.

Nodding your head, you took a deep breath and replied. “S-Sure.”

Grabbing your hand, he grinned and began walking you to the parking lot of the campus.

Little did you know, your very own devil was about to drag you into the pits of hell, tarnishing your white wings and making you his queen of the underworld.

“Oh my god—Bear, please!”

“Right fuckin’ there baby, ride my fuckin’ dick like the good girl you are.” Bucky’s fingers dug into the skin of your hips while you bounced on his cock, the skirt of your uniform bunched around your waist. “That's it, Bunny. Keep on hoppin’ for daddy, sweet girl.”

When Bucky had asked if you wanted to see his car, you truly thought that was what his intentions were. Even if he had just fucked you with his fingers, your naivety still let you believe he had no ulterior motives. Oh, how wrong you were.

You followed him blindly when he wanted to show you the interior, thinking nothing of the fact that he made you climb over the console and into the backseat for comfortability.

But now, as the windows fogged up and your bare tits bounced up and down since Bucky had torn his hoodie and the shirt of your cheer uniform over your shoulders, the only nonsensical thought your mind could supply was how much of a sucker you were for temptation — an innocent lamb ready to sin.

The meat of your asscheeks clapped against his thick thighs while your hand slammed against the window; the built up perspiration inside the car coming away as your palm slid down with a screech. “So—so big—you’re so big, Bear.”

Bucky’s sweat-stricken hair stuck to each side of his temple and he grunted deeply while the sound of your slick sloshed over his cock. “God, you’re leakin’ all over my dick.” He looked down and grinned at the sight of him stretching your hole wide open. “So fuckin’ wet for me, bun bun.”

Your needy whines were music to his ears as you threw your head back. “Mm—can’t help it—you— you do this to m-me.”

That seemed to please him greatly. “Yeah, Bunny?”

Bucky grabbed you by the chin, the chunky rings on his fingers indenting marks onto your protruding cheeks. “Who’s cock is stuffin’ your cunt full, huh? Who’s fuckin’ makin’ you soaked? Tell me, baby.”

“Y-You, Bear,” you moaned.

But Bucky wasn’t satisfied. “Say it like you fuckin’ mean it.”

“You’re keeping me full, baby! Daddy’s making me all wet!”

Bucky groaned with a sinister smile. “That’s more fuckin’ like it.” The thrust of his hips began to piston up into you and his balls slapped against the meat of your ass with the force. “Look at ya—all dumbed out ‘cause Daddy’s so deep in your hole.”

Drool started to dribble down your chin. The tip of his cock hit the sensitive nerves in your cunt just right and words were the last thing on your mind. “Can’t even think for me, can you, baby?”

The car bobbed up and down with the fast rhythm between the two of you, the suspension taking most of the beating. If you were of more sane mind, you would have been mortified with the thought of the scene should anyone walk by the parking lot. But as the muscles in your thighs burned from exertion, you couldn’t find it in you to care; not for the life of you would you stop, not when you had never felt such sinful pleasure in all your life. “I'm aching, Bear—please—I need more.”

Bucky’s eyes rolled back with the sweetest plea he had ever heard. With a growl, he ripped his hands from your waist and spanked your tits before wrapping them both around your neck to bring you nose to nose with him. “Don’t gotta do anything else but this baby, keep makin’ me feel good, yeah? Gonna fuckin’ blow soon.”

“Oh,” you whimpered. Your clit tingled with the prospect of Bucky cumming inside of your cunt and with a newfound energy, you worked harder to ride his cock.

Gazing at you with hooded eyes, he chuckled deliriously. “Sound good, bunny? Want me to blow my load inside a’ya?”

“Yes!” you pleaded, nodding your head desperately. “Want you to cum in my tight pussy, Bear.”

He laughed hysterically. “Look at how far you’ve come, Angel. Taking what you want like you own it.”

Your nails dug into the skin of Bucky’s chest. The quick glide of his cock in and out of your cunt was too much for you, so much that your mouth hung open shamelessly.

“Such a good slut for me, bunny—you wanna be my slutty little bunny, huh?” Gripping your throat tightly, he manhandled you away from his forehead to hold you up like a ragdoll. When you didn’t answer he lightly slapped your cheek until your eyes widened and looked at him. “Answer me you fuckin’ slut.”

“Yes Daddy!” you cried. “Please—I just wanna cum. Let me cum!”

Bucky bit his bottom lip as he looked down at your pussy sucking him in. “I don’t know, pretty baby. I don’t think you wan’ it bad enough.”

He was toying with you. You were a wreck in his hold with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“I do—I do!” you swallowed against the dryness of your mouth as you fought for breath. “Do anything—I’ll do anything for you, Bear. It's too much—please!”

“You cryin’ for me?” He laughed breathlessly. Sitting up with an excited vigor, Bucky licked the tear tracks on your cheek, still managing to thrust up into you while he whispered into your ear with a moan. “So goddamn beautiful when you cry for me.”

Running the tip of his finger down your stomach and down to your pussy, he forewent touching your throbbing clit and instead teased it against your already stuffed hole.

You gasped harshly at the feel of him pushing against your stretched cunt. “B-Bucky! N-No you can’t, you’re already—I’m already so full.”

But you were hopeless to the devil on your shoulder, the same one who began inching his finger beside his cock and pushing it into you. “Shhh, you can take it, baby. Make Daddy Bear proud.”

Taking a deep breath, you squeezed your eyes closed tightly as your slick helped to suck in both his cock and his finger. The sensation was unusual, but somehow you wanted more. Your mouth hung open on a silent scream.

“There’s a good Bunny—knew you could do it, sweetheart.” Bucky rubbed his thumb over the skin of your throat soothingly, giving you a couple of seconds to get used to the new feeling. But as soon as he felt the flutter of your pussy, he grinned wickedly and hooked his finger over the soft spongy spot inside of you. “Now hold on tight while I ruin your cunt.”

A loud squeak was finally forced out of you once he began fucking back up into you. You thought you felt full before, now you were holding onto the last of your sanity; lost in the pits of a torturous yet addicting feeling.

“What’s a’matter, hm? Thought you were already too full, baby? But just look at your slutty little pussy taking more.” Bucky hummed with a nefarious gleam in his eye. “Wonder if I could get my full fist in you.”

The juices from your cunt squelched loudly, dripping down the length of Bucky’s finger and gathering in the palm of his hand. The image of him steadily working you up to take the size of his fist, imagining the wide gape your hole would make as you clenched around his wrist was too much for your already overstimulated self to handle.

“Wan’ it,” you garbled around the spit in your mouth. You could barely keep your eyes open as you withstood the battering your pussy was so greedily taking. “Wan’ you to fuck me with your whole hand, Bear.”

Bucky sucked bruises on the skin of your tits as they bounced in his face, the wicked intent smothering his face deepening the more you lost your will to him. “Fuck, angel. You really are perfect.”

With his free hand, he palmed your ass, forcing you to bounce on him even harder. “We’re gonna have so much fun together, yknow that, baby?” His voice rang like a melody in your head, one you were becoming lost to. “Yeah. Daddy’s gonna teach you all kind of new things, pretty girl.”

The blossoming ache in your lower stomach magnified into a tight ball of pleasure, your clit painfully throbbing with the need to let go.

“I can’t—,” you sobbed. “I need to—gotta cum, Bucky—please.”

“Are you askin’ me permission, sweetheart?”

“Yes!” You cried to the roof of the car. “Please—please Daddy—please let me cum. I can’t hold it any l-longer.”

“You gonna cream all over Daddy’s hand, baby?” Bcuky’s voice grew hoarser as he pistoned his hips into your waiting cunt, meeting you each time you threw yourself down. “Gonna give me your sweet little cunt juices so I can taste you again?”

“Ugh!” You whined, high pitched. “Anything you want—anything you want!”

You were balancing on the fence between heaven and hell; the lines of pain and pleasure blurring so much that you were sure you were going to pass out as your legs shook and your stomach cramped with refrained edging.

But by some almighty higher force, your prayers were answered when Bucky’s fingers harshly pinched your enlarged clit and twisted, timing his motion perfecting with a scrape of his fingertip against your inner walls. “Make a mess on me then, Bunny.”

White noise blasted over the deafening screams released from your inner core, the rattle of the bouncing car and Bucky’s deep moans as your pussy clenched unforgivingly around his cock. Your soul seemed to ascend, overtaken by some unnatural force as your limbs seized and became weightless all at once.

It was like your body wasn’t yours anymore, like you weren’t actually present as your conscience waned in and out. One second you felt the explosive ricochets of electricity dance along your veins, and another you were sure you blacked out.

Your clouded mind came back into focus as a pair of hands squeezed your hips, your sex clamping down tightly on the length of a cock grinding inside of you.

“You were so fuckin’ good, Bun.” Bucky’s gruff timber woke you up fully. The sight of him licking your combined juices as he stared heatedly between your legs brought you back to the current.

Looking down, you blinked several times to find a thick load of milky white cum leaking from your hole.

“You—,” you swallowed the dryness of your throat as you tried to gather your thoughts. “You c-came in me.”

Leaning his head back against the seat, Bucky laughed with a fucked out smile. “I absolutely fuckin’ did, Angel.” He thrusted up into you one last time, smirking at the yelp you let out. “And don’t you look a pretty picture.”

Your bashfulness came back in full force as you buried your neck into Bucky’s chest, slumping onto his body with a whine, his cock still hard in your cunt.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, baby.” He sighed, satisfied as he grabbed a smoke from his front pocket half way down his thighs. “You did real good for me, sweetheart.”

You turned your head into his cheek. “I did?” You asked, craving his validation.

Lighting his joint and taking a hit, Bucky blew out the smoke from his mouth, grabbed your chin and fused his lips to yours once more, taking no preamble or measures before tangling his tongue with yours.

You whimpered as the taste of weed teased your tastebuds, squirming unashamedly, even when more of Bucky’s load rolled down your legs.

Regretfully soon, his lips left yours and he gave you one last peck to your forehead before bringing you to rest on his chest again.

“I’m fuckin’ keepin’ you, bunny baby.” Bucky slapped your ass and you jolted, clenching around him as you whined out loud. His tongue darted out to lick his raw-bitten lips, a hungry smirk on his face while he squeezed the bruised, sore flesh. “All mine.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes one shot

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mercvry-glow · 4 months ago

Text

In the cool blue

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. while staying at the cody house, a small group of rivals takes you, j and nicky hostage while the other are out. pope helps you in the after math.

warnings. based off of season two late episode six/early seven (so spoilers but also eh), reader is at the house with j and nicky when javi shows up, assault, drowning, gun mentions, reader and j get beat tf up, pope is actually pretty chill in this he's a softie today, established relationship, angst and hurt/comfort, general animal kingdom stuff, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. this is now my longest fic 😭 idk what inspired me to get this out but I really hope y'all enjoy bc this is a doozy and my current magnum opus. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 5700+

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

You were stretched out on a lounge chair by Smurf’s pool, your freshly painted toes resting on the edge, a silk robe sliding off your sun-warmed skin. The water glowed that dreamy blue under the patio lights, casting ripples of light across your legs.

J and Nicky were inside, supposedly studying—though judging by how quiet it’d been for the past hour, you figured they were either making out or asleep, but with Nicky banging Craig you didn’t know. Either way, it meant you had the place to yourself. For once, things felt… safe. Even with Pope gone, running one of those jobs he never gave you the full story on.

You liked it better that way.

Until you heard the gravel shift.

At first, you thought it was just the wind. But then came the unmistakable slam of feet on the driveway. Then another. Then voices—low, quick, male.

You sat up.

The voices weren’t familiar. They didn’t carry like Deran or Craig’s. They were sharper. Harder.

You turned, just in time to see movement at the side gate. Four shadows. One of them kicked it open without hesitation.

Your blood ran cold.

You were moving before you even realized it, sandals forgotten by the chair, robe trailing behind you as you bolted across the backyard and slipped inside through the back slider, locking it instinctively—too late.

Before you could even breathe, a glass behind you shattered.

You screamed—just a little, more of a gasp—and darted down the hall, barefoot on tile, adrenaline flooding your veins.

You ducked into the nearest hallway closet, pulling the door shut as softly as you could, heart pounding so loud you swore they could hear it from the kitchen.

Then came the noise.

Boots stomping on tile. Furniture dragging. A bottle shattering.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to hold in a whimper.

“Where is it?” one of the men barked.

“Check the freezer! Smurf used to keep cash in the damn freezer,” another snapped.

Cabinet doors slammed open. A chair was kicked over. Something heavy crashed to the floor and shattered. They were tearing the place apart like they knew something was here—and they wanted it now.

You didn’t dare peek. You couldn’t even cry. You just stayed curled up in the dark, wedged between winter coats and some old duffel bags, praying your knees wouldn’t give out before it was over.

You weren’t cut out for this. You weren’t a Cody. You weren’t like Pope.

You were just the girl he liked to keep close.

And right now, you were alone.

You didn’t even know how long you’d been in the closet.

Seconds? Minutes? It all blurred. Your muscles were locked, knees tucked to your chest, the smell of mothballs and old leather coats clinging to you as loud crashes and shouted curses continued to fill the house.

They were everywhere—kitchen drawers being yanked out, bedroom doors thrown open. You heard the crack of something heavy hitting the wall, then the dull thud of furniture being flipped.

Your fingers gripped the hem of your robe, knuckles white.

“Nothing’s here!” one of them yelled.

Another guy laughed, a low, mean sound. “Bullshit. This is Smurf’s place. There’s always something here.”

They were getting closer.

The voices grew louder. Clearer. Footsteps pounding down the hallway—your hallway. You squeezed your eyes shut.

And then they stopped.

Right outside the closet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You heard someone mumble something under their breath, and then—

Click.

The door handle shifted.

You barely had time to suck in a gasp before the door was yanked open, the bright hallway light flooding the tiny space. You squinted up at a man with a shaved head, a leather jacket, and a small scar across his cheek. He froze when he saw you—half crouched in the back of the closet like a deer caught in headlights, robe pulled tight across your chest, cheeks streaked with silent tears.

His eyes widened, and for a split second, you thought maybe he’d just back off.

But then he smirked.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and oily. “What do we have here?”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

He grabbed your arm, hard, yanking you up to your feet like you weighed nothing. You stumbled, your bare feet skidding on the hardwood.

“Thought this place was empty,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes raking over you like he was trying to figure out if you were worth more than whatever cash they’d been looking for.

You tried to wrestle yourself back into the closet wall, like maybe you could disappear. But he faster, calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist like a vise once again.

“Let go of me!” you gasped, but it barely came out.

He yanked you to your feet with zero care, dragging you forward, your bare toes sliding on the hallway floor. You fought him, pulling back with what little strength you had, but his grip only tightened.

“Don’t make this harder, princess,” he snapped, dragging you through the house as drawers hung open, broken glass crunched underfoot, and the stink of beer and sweat filled the air.

“I didn’t see anything—I swear—” you tried, breath shaking.

“Bet you know where the money is, though,” he shot back.

“I don’t!”

He ignored you, hauling you through the busted slider door and out into the cool night air. Your robe flared in the wind, and you blinked against the patio lights still glowing around the pool. Just minutes ago, you’d been lying there, peaceful, content—now you were barefoot, bleeding from your heels, and being dragged across the stone like some kind of prize.

The others were outside now too. Three men, scattered across the yard, tossing things from the poolside storage chest, upending flowerpots, one of them even kicking at the filter cover.

“She was hiding inside,” your captor called out, shoving you forward a few steps. You stumbled, caught yourself just before you hit the edge of the pool.

“She know where it is?” one asked, barely glancing up.

“She will.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart thundering so loud you swore it echoed off the water.

One of them walked up to you slowly—taller, older, colder-looking. His boots stopped just short of your bare toes.

“You got about ten seconds to tell us where Smurf keeps her stash,” he said. Not yelling. Just matter-of-fact. Like he wasn’t asking—he was waiting.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Wrong answer.

The one who’d dragged you out stepped behind you, grabbing your arms tight and jerking you back against him. The edge of the pool was at your toes now. You felt the chill of the water in front of you, the way your balance shifted just slightly.

“Think again,” the tall one said.

Tears burned in your eyes, but you blinked them back.

Someone would come.

You twisted in his grip, heels slipping on the wet tile, arms aching from how tightly he held you.

“Please—please, I don’t know anything!” you gasped, trying to plant your feet, but he kept pushing you closer to the pool’s edge.

The taller guy just stared, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I swear to God, I don’t—Smurf doesn’t tell me anything! I just—I’m just Pope’s girlfriend!”

“Which means you know something,” the one holding you growled, yanking your arms up hard enough to make your shoulders burn.

“I don’t!” you cried out, voice cracking as panic bubbled up into your throat. “I don’t even live here—I didn’t even want to be here, I just—they told me to hang out! I was by the pool!”

“Then you shouldn’t have been hiding like a little rat,” the man sneered into your ear.

Your breath caught. “I was scared,” you whispered. “You broke the door down—I thought you were here to kill someone.”

Another guy—shaggy hair, wide eyes like he was hopped up on something—laughed darkly from the side of the yard. “Might still happen, sweetheart, if you don’t start talking.”

“I don’t know!” You squirmed in the first guy’s grip, finally throwing your elbow back into his ribs. It wasn’t much, but it caught him by surprise and he grunted, stumbling just a step.

You broke free for half a second—just long enough to bolt toward the other side of the pool.

But the tall one was fast. He grabbed a fistful of your robe, yanked you back so hard your legs gave out.

You hit the ground on your knees, palms scraped raw from the stone. Before you could move, a boot shoved your shoulder, forcing you to stay down.

“Try that again, and I’ll throw you in face first,” he warned.

Tears spilled hot and fast down your cheeks now. You shook your head, voice high and broken. “Please—I’m not lying—I swear to God, please just let me go! I didn’t do anything!”

No one answered. The only sound was the water lapping gently behind you, and the soft clink of something metal being tossed into the grass.

They weren’t hearing you.

They didn’t care.

And Pope… Pope wasn’t here to fix it.

You curled in on yourself, trembling. You’d never been this scared in your life. And if they decided to stop being patient?

You didn’t know what would happen next.

Your wrists were burning.

The zip ties they had grabbed bit into your skin as one of them yanked your arms behind your back, cinching them so tight you cried out. “Shut up,” he muttered, like your fear was an inconvenience.

The others had gone quiet. Focused.

The tall one paced near the pool, agitated, eyes scanning the yard like he was waiting for something to appear. The guy who tied you up shoved you down roughly back onto a lounger, rope around your ankles now too. You kicked, once, but it only earned you another curse and a warning glare.

You were helpless.

And then… movement.

From the corner of your eye, past the broken slider door and toward the far patio table, you saw J—slow, careful, almost crawling—edging toward the backpack he’d left out there earlier. It was half-hidden under a chair, just slouched enough that no one had noticed it yet.

But you knew what was inside.

His gun.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting in a silent gasp as you watched him stretch a hand toward the strap, his body low, fingers just brushing the zipper. He was so close—

A shout cracked through the night like a whip.

J didn’t freeze.

One of the guys—shaggy hair, twitchy—was already rushed toward him, tackling him towards the pool. J tried to dive away, but the man cracked him across his ribs, sending him sprawling across the stone with a sharp grunt and into a chair.

“Don’t!” you screamed from the lounger, struggling against the ropes. “Stop it! He’s just a kid!”

“Yeah?” the tall one snapped, stalking toward J now with ice in his voice. “Then he should’ve stayed hidden.”

The man in the brown jacket went to grab some leftover rope as two of his men continued to beat up J. They ignored your cries, focused on getting the teen who knew much more than you did.

J coughed, curled on his side, one arm over his stomach. He looked at you—eyes wide, scared, like he was sorry. Sorry he got caught. Sorry he couldn’t stop this.

And all you could do was watch, wrists bound, robe soaked with your own tears, knees bleeding from the flagstone.

Inside the house, somewhere deep, a door creaked. Maybe Nicky was still hiding—maybe she’d heard it all.

God, you hoped she stayed hidden.

J was already coughing, barely able to get to his knees when they grabbed him again.

You tried to scream—tried to tell them to stop—but your voice was hoarse, useless against the chaos unfolding feet away from you.

The tall one grabbed J by the collar and hauled him. His shoes scraped across the tile, hands clawing at the man’s arm, but he was no match. Not like this. Not when he was winded and scared and outnumbered.

“J,” the tall one growled, voice calm in that cold, terrifying way, “who else is in the house man?”

“No one… just us,” J grunted, trying to gain his breath back.

Wrong answer.

“Go check the bedroom.” the man, who you assumed to be their leader, said as two of them left to go search the house again.

The silence was heavy, water sloshing up onto the patio as J’s body stayed on the stone. You curled instinctively, like maybe if you didn’t watch it would stop, but the zip ties bit into your skin again and you could barely even sit up, and it kept you in the moment.

The tall man knelt at the pool’s edge, grabbed J by the back of the shirt, and held his head. “Smurf isn’t here?”

“Sh-She went to meet you…”

You started sobbing quietly.

“She didn’t show.”

They didn’t listen to whatever the teen had to say, and two of them took J into the pool holding him up by his shoulders.

“Hey, Jay. Where does Smurf keep her money?” the bald man asked, brandeshing his revolver like it was no big deal. J could barely get his answer out before they shoved him under.

Your heart seized in your chest. “He’s not lying! He’s just a kid!”

They yanked him back up—J came out sputtering, gasping for air like a fish yanked from the deep, hair plastered to his face, chest heaving.

“One more time,” he asked, voice deadly quiet, “Where is Smurf’s money?”

J shook his head, water dripping down his face. “I swear to God—I don’t know—”

Back under.

The splash this time was smaller, like J didn’t even have the strength to fight it.

You were screaming now. Screaming and crying and twisting so hard your skin was raw from the rope, your knees scraped to hell from the concrete. “Please! He doesn’t know anything! Please don’t kill him!”

Finally—finally—they let him up again.

He floated toward the edge, wheezing, barely able to lift his head.

The tall one stood slowly, glanced over at you.

“You believe him?” he asked, wiping water from his hands.

You nodded frantically, eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, I believe him! I swear he’s telling the truth—there’s no money here! I-If it was, it'd be behind the dryer o-or shoe boxes!”

He didn’t move. Just stared at you for a long, uncomfortable second.

Then he said, “Maybe we’re asking the wrong person then.”

Your stomach dropped.

The twitchy guy who’d hit J first turned, stepping closer to you with a smirk, eyes running over your soaked robe, your trembling frame. They had dragged the poor boy out of the pool, beating him a bit more before turning their attention to you.

“Nah,” he said. “She looks like a real good liar.”

And then the tall one said it—flat, casual, awful.

“Next time, we start with her.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t even think.

Just cry.

You didn’t even realize how loud you were until the tall one’s eyes snapped back to you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Shut her up.”

Your breath caught in your throat, panic curling deep in your gut.

“No—no, please, I didn’t—” You tried to scramble backward on the lounger, bound wrists twisting behind you, but you didn’t make it far. One of them—the twitchy one—grabbed your ankle and yanked you off the chair like it weighed nothing. You hit the stone patio with a painful thud, cheek scraping the ground, knees buckling beneath you.

“Get off me!” you cried, kicking, writhing in the ropes. “Don’t—don’t touch me!”

But he already had both hands on you, dragging you toward the pool.

“Guess she wants to take a swim,” he said darkly, like it was funny.

“No! Don’t—please, please don’t—!”

You thrashed harder, your robe getting twisted, legs scraping over the edge of the concrete just as your toes touched water. Cold. Too cold.

J was still wheezing, choking on his own blood, on the opposite side, watching in horror as they pulled you closer to the deep end.

“Leave her alone!” he tried to shout, voice wrecked from coughing.

The tall man didn’t even look back. “She wants to run her mouth, she can hold her breath.”

And then you were in the air—ropes tight, arms behind you, no way to break the fall—

Splash.

The cold hit you like a brick.

You sank instantly, robe ballooning around you, legs kicking uselessly as your wrists stayed locked behind you. You tried to swim, tried to surface, but the water kept dragging you down, twisting your body as you fought against it.

Your lungs burned.

You broke the surface once—gasped—only to be shoved back under again.

You didn’t know which of them did it. A hand on your head, a push between your shoulders. You couldn’t see. Everything was bubbles and blur and cold, cold, so cold.

Your scream was just a gurgle under the water.

You were going to drown.

And they didn’t care.

You came up again, coughing violently, gasping through sobs, and someone finally pulled you toward the steps, dumping you like trash onto the slick tile. You coughed, spit, choked on your own breath as you curled onto your side, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Now shut the hell up,” the tall one said, calm again, like none of it meant anything.

Behind him, J was still slumped on the ground, bleeding, soaked, and shaking.

And you—barefoot, half naked, shivering, and drenched—lay there helpless, your body shaking so hard it barely felt real.

You didn’t say another word.

The cold, sharp air felt like it might never leave your lungs. You shivered uncontrollably on the edge of the pool, the water dripping from your hair, your robe clinging to you like a wet sheet. The ropes around your wrists bit deeper into your skin, but you were too numb to even notice it anymore.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t see her at first, just heard the shuffling footsteps—slow, dragging, someone stumbling.

“No one else in the house huh?,” the tall one said with a grin, eyes flicking over toward the door.

And then, like something out of a nightmare, Nicky was shoved into view.

Her face was swollen, bruised, blood streaking down her cheek from where someone had hit her. She was tied up too, wrists bound, her own robe in tatters from the way they'd manhandled her. She could barely stand, her knees buckling as they shoved her forward, her eyes red from crying, hair in disarray.

“No—no…” you whispered, horrified. Your voice cracked like glass under pressure.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t even try to. She was too dazed, too hurt, and when they shoved her to the ground next to you, she just crumpled, hands still tied, trying to curl into herself as much as possible.

“Nicky, please,” you begged, trying to push yourself toward her, but the ropes kept you in place, your body too weak to get far.

The tall one crouched down in front of J, who they had just pulled out of the pool one last time, was still trying to sit up from where they’d dumped him on the ground after you’d been thrown in the pool. He was shaking now—no longer the kid who thought he could hide a gun, no longer defiant. He was a ragdoll, eyes wide with fear yet dropping with exhaustion as he looked back and forth between you, Nicky, and the crew.

“Think I came all this way for twenty-five grand!?” the tall one said, eyes cold and calculating, smacking J in the face with the money you told them where to find. He drew another gun from his jeans, “Last goddamn time! Where’s the real money?!” The gun was aimed right on J’s face, locked and loaded and this guy wasn’t afraid to do it.

J’s lips parted. He didn’t say anything at first, and the silence was worse than anything else. “I told you I don’t know, I swear!” the blonde boy promised, desperate and pleading. They stepped on his bad leg, the one he hurt in the church hiest, as you and Nicky screamed in pain for him.

Nicky flinched when one of the men reached down and grabbed her by the arm, lifting her up roughly. She winced but didn’t cry out, just staring at the ground, her whole body shaking.

“Get her out of here?” the tall one said again, voice flat.

J didn’t respond. His hands were shaking, too, but he wasn’t answering.

The crew didn’t wait.

One of them grabbed Nicky, taking her god knows where after she left your sight as the two men kept arguing over the fucking money. J’s scream was guttural, and he collapsed back to the stone, curling in on himself, chest heaving with pain.

You gasped, heart hammering in your chest as you fought against the ropes, but you couldn’t do anything.

J tried to speak, but it was barely a whisper. “Smurf’s got a storage unit on Freemont!”

The tall one stood back, his eyes cold, hands in his pockets. “What’s the number!?”

J said he didn’t know but would take them as long as they didn’t take Nicky, begging them to stop before pushing him into the pool one last time. His body arched, another groan escaping his throat as he struggled to swim, just as you had. He wasn’t able to defend himself, wasn’t able to do anything but take it.

You could feel the heat rising inside you, your stomach twisting in knots. You wanted to scream, to help him, to do something—but you were just tied up, helpless, watching him be broken apart in front of you.

They left after that, leaving you on the floor barely conscious. Taking Nicky and leaving J to drown in the pool his grandmother owned. You tried to crawl toward him, wrists bleeding from the ropes, but your vision went white, then black, then nothing at all.

The Jeep rolled to a slow stop in the driveway, headlights washing over the front of the Cody house. The gate was open. The porch light flickered. One of the patio chairs was overturned on its side like it had been thrown or tripped over. Something about the stillness was wrong. Off.

Pope stared at the front door—it hung open just a crack, too quiet, too deliberate. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as his instincts kicked in. He killed the engine and reached down beneath his seat, pulling out his gun. “Stay in the car.”

Smurf started to follow, her hand already on the door handle, but Pope turned to look at her sharply, eyes already storm-dark. He told her to stay put.

She didn’t listen.

“I said stay in the car!”

By the time he was creeping up the walkway, gun low and steady, Smurf was already on his heels. Her voice was low but sharp, cutting through the heavy silence—there was no way in hell she was waiting in the damn car while something had clearly gone sideways.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the house, the sight hit them first—The living room was a mess. Chairs overturned. A shattered lamp across the floor. One of the barstools broken in half, splinters fanned across the tile. Picture frames cracked and crooked on the walls.

Pope’s eyes swept the scene, methodical, calculating. Smurf stepped over a smashed photo of Baz and Julia, heart hammering in her chest as her gaze caught the trail—scuffs on the floor, a faint smear of blood.

Pope moved room to room, clearing each space like the soldier he was, finger resting steady beside the trigger. The whole place was silent. Empty. But it wasn’t abandoned. Something had happened here. Something bad. And it wasn’t over yet.

Smurf made it to the back of the house first. She reached the sliding glass door and stopped cold.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Outside, under the cold glow of the moon, two figures lay in the stillness. One, half in the pool—barely moving. The other crumpled on the concrete like a broken doll. She bolted, flinging the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. “Pope get out here!”

And he was right behind her, and when his eyes landed on the scene, he didn’t hesitate. J was slumped at the edge of the deep end, one arm hanging limply into the water, lips blue, chest barely rising as he coughed out water. His skin was soaked and pale. They ran for him, dropped to thier knees, and hauled the rest him out in swift motion, dragging him onto semi-dry ground

You were collapsed on the pavement not far from him, your wrists still bound, rope burns angry and raw. Your clothes were damp and ripped in some places. Your head lolled to one side, blood matting the edge of your hairline. You were breathing—but it was shallow, strained, like your body was hanging on by a thread.

Andrew dropped beside you, hands still as he checked your pulse, pressed his fingers against your clammy cheek. There was blood, but it wasn’t fresh. Whoever had hurt you. Tied you up. Left you here like garbage. His jaw clenched as he tore the ropes free with his knife.

His own heart was racing now—not out of fear, but rage.

Behind him, Smurf was crouched next to J, trying to keep him awake, her expression darkening with every slurred word that came out of the kid’s mouth. Something about a storage unit. Fremont. Smurf’s name. Nicky. And a man—Javi. He’d given them what they wanted. It still hadn’t been enough.

Pope was tense, but not from the sudden adrenaline rush. From fury. From failure. From the sight of you lying there like that, and J barely clinging on.

Smurf pulled off her coat and draped it over J’s shoulders, and You flinched slightly as Pope tried to move you, a broken whimper escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake.

The air felt thicker now—like the violence hadn’t left yet. Like it was still sitting heavy over the house, waiting to be answered.

You woke to the low hum of an air conditioner and the faint scent of bleach and detergent—clean, sterile, unfamiliar. The world came back in pieces. The pressure in your skull. The aching pull of your muscles. The bruises blooming beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light of a shaded living room. You were lying on a couch, a heavy blanket draped over your legs, the cushions dipping slightly beneath your weight. Your old clothes were gone. Replaced with a big, worn t-shirt that didn’t belong to you and a pair of sleep shorts. The fabric was soft. Smelled faintly like soap and someone else’s cologne.

Specifically the someone next to you.

You turned your head—barely—and saw Pope, sitting silent in the chair beside the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet. His eyes were fixed on the floor, brow furrowed, that same stormcloud expression carved into his face like stone.

There was a first-aid kit on the table nearby. A bloody rag beside it. A bottle of water, half-drunk. And your wrists—carefully wrapped in gauze. Clean. Tended to.

He’d done it. You could tell.

His head finally lifted. Eyes meeting yours.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Not coldly—but intensely, like he was trying to figure out if you were real or maybe just what to say.

Your throat was dry. Scratchy. Every part of your body screamed in protest, but you managed a slow breath. You swallowed, trying to sit up slightly, and he was there in an instant—hand on the couch cushion near your arm, grounding you, steadying you without touching.

He didn’t ask how you felt. He didn’t need to.

The silence between you said enough.

You blinked at him, struggling to find the words. You remembered the pool. The ropes. The last thing you saw—J’s body going under, your own lungs burning, your screams swallowed by the water.

But you were here now.

Alive.

Pope leaned back slightly, never taking his hazel eyes off of you. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and gravely.

"You’re safe now."

It wasn’t a comfort. It was a promise.

And in the look he gave you, you knew—someone was going to pay for what happened, every second of it.

The silence lingered, stretching long between you.

Heavy.

You kept your eyes on him, chest tight and aching in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries. There was this pressure building inside you—like your ribs were made of glass and every breath was another tap against the surface. The weight of it all pressed down until it cracked.

Your lip trembled before you could stop it. A choked breath caught in your throat. And then, without thinking—without asking—you pushed the blanket off and slid off the couch, barefoot and trembling, legs unsteady beneath you.

Pope moved instantly, as if to stop you from falling, but froze when he realized where you were going.

You stepped between his knees and just… folded.

Dropped down into his lap like gravity pulled you there, like it was the only place you could go. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you buried your face against his shoulder and finally let it go.

The sob came out broken and raw, like it had been hiding deep in your chest, waiting for the moment you were safe enough to let it out.

And Pope didn’t speak.

He didn’t stiffen or push you off. He just wrapped his arms around you, slow and solid, one hand bracing your back, the other cradling the back of your head like you were made of something fragile. He held you like that was his only job now. Like that was all he could do.

Your body shook with each breath, each silent sob that spilled into the fabric of his shirt. You weren’t even sure what part of it broke you—J being thrown into the water, the ropes cutting into your skin, the helplessness, the fact that no one came until it was nearly too late—or maybe just the simple weight of surviving it.

Pope stayed quiet. Solid. A wall at your back.

He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you to stop crying. He just held on tighter.

Eventually, your cries softened. Still trembling, but quieter now, worn out from the storm. Your arms loosened, head still pressed to his shoulder, breaths coming in uneven little gasps.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whispered against him, the words barely audible.

Pope didn’t answer right away. But you felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way he breathed in through his nose like he was trying to keep it together, too.

“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “You’re here.” In that soft, impossible voice of his—rough and raw and honest—you could feel the edge of something else underneath.

You stayed like that for a long time, curled against him in the quiet. The sounds outside the windows were distant—cars passing, wind through the trees, the faint hum of someone’s music down the block—but none of it touched you here. Not in this little pocket of stillness, where Pope’s arms stayed around you like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together with his own hands.

Your breathing slowed eventually. You felt the exhaustion in every limb, every bruise, but you didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to let go. The silence between you shifted—less sharp now, more full. Safe.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke again. "I thought no one was coming."

Pope’s hand moved slowly along your back, not soothing exactly—more like he needed the contact too. He let the silence linger a moment longer before he answered.

"I should’ve gotten there sooner."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker than usual, rimmed with something unspoken. Not guilt exactly—something deeper. Regret. Rage. Fear. All the emotions he felt so intensely.

“You got there,” you whispered. “You found me.”

That mattered. It mattered more than he probably realized.

He looked at you for a long second. You could see it then—the way his jaw clenched, the slight shake in his hand as it rested against your hip. He hadn’t stopped replaying it.

Finding you like that.

Finding J.

“I didn’t know what I was gonna see,” he said finally. His voice was low, hoarse. “When I walked in.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging again. “They were gonna kill him. And they were gonna take me and Nicky too. I—I thought—”

Your breath hitched and his hand was already on the back of your neck again, grounding you, pulling you gently forward until your forehead rested against his. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say anything romantic or comforting. Just held you there, close.

“The guy…” you breathed, “he kept asking about the money. Smurf’s stuff. I don’t even know what the hell they wanted from me.”

“You didn’t tell them anything,” Pope said, more fact than question.

You shook your head. “Didn’t know anything important enough. I just… took the beating.”

His grip on you tightened for a second, like the thought of that was too much. Like he needed something to break. But then he took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You did good.”

You looked at him—eyes puffy, cheeks streaked with tears—and almost laughed, but it came out cracked and sad. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You survived,” he said. “That’s everything.”

And you knew, in that moment, that if Pope had gotten there even five minutes later, he would’ve dragged bodies out of that pool himself. Not to save them. But to make sure they stayed under.

You let your forehead rest against his again, breathing in his warmth, the steady thrum of his presence. Not perfect. Not even close. But steady in the way only Andrew “Pope” Cody could be—quiet, fierce, unmovable when it mattered.

You closed your eyes.

“I don’t feel safe anywhere right now.”

His arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time. And his voice was soft enough it barely reached your ears.

“You are when you’re with me.”

mercvry-glow 2025

#animal kingdom #animal kingdom tnt #animal kingdom x reader #animal kingdom x you #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew cody x you #pope cody #pope cody x reader #pope cody x you #andrew pope cody #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x you #shawn hatosy #❥ - Pope Cody

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em1i2a3 · 21 days ago

Text

Ordinary Dream

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Fem!Reader!

Summary: The Void comes out one night looking for some comfort from you.

Warnings: Clingy Void? Soft Void? Fluff, A hint of angst, non-sexual intimate touching, reader is naked but nothing sexual happens in this, mentions of throwing up.

Author’s Note: Going through my requests and saw this one and thought this would be a nice little short blurb just to get my brain back into Bob mode after going all out for Todd today ehehe. Anyways. Hope you enjoy this little dude!

Word Count: 3,163

You weren’t sure what woke you that night. Maybe it was the subtle creak of the mattress springs shifting beneath the weight of movement. Or the whisper-soft shuffle of bare feet across the thick, carpeting of your bedroom. The air was still–quiet in the denseness of the late-night, where even small sounds felt magnified, and suspended in moonlight and hush. You peeked through the curtain of your lashes, blinking groggily just in time to see the door to your ensuite ease shut with a soft click–no light flickering on behind it. Just darkness coming from the small space between the door and the floor.

A soft, drawn-out groan left your lips as you stretched beneath the covers, the warmth of the sheets pressing against your naked body as you reached your arms above your head, toes flexing downward. You arched your spine against the mattress with a sleepy sigh, trying to ease the stiffness clinging to your muscles from falling asleep at a strange angle and with Bob tangled up in you.

When you rolled onto your side your hand landed in the empty space that was usually occupied by your partner, feeling that it was still hot from his body. The pillow he laid on held the soft impression of his head, molded to the curve of him like it had memorized him. Your fingers brushed against the residual heat, and something in your stomach tightened. Something subtle. Something subconscious. Like there was a small, sudden realization that there was the absence of where your comfort once laid.

You breathed in and decided to listen for what was going on beyond the door of the washroom. For a moment, there was nothing, just the soft ticking of the watch you had on your nightstand–but then, there was the faint click of the faucet.

Followed by the unmistakable, sickening sound of retching. You sat up immediately, the covers falling away from your shoulders as your breath caught in your chest. Concern surged through your sleep-heavy body, cutting through the haze like someone had poured cold water all over you. Your hand instinctively clutched the blanket, pulling it loose from where it was tucked under the mattress as you rose to your feet, draping it around your body like a robe. The fabric pooled at your ankles, trailing after you as you padded quietly toward the door, heart climbing steadily into your throat, pumping right in the center of it, almost making you choke.

You knocked gently on the ensuite door.

”Bob…?” Your voice was soft, slurred slightly by the numbness in your face from where you had pressed too hard against your pillow, “Hun…Are you okay?” There was a beat of silence, and then a muffled response came out.

”Mmm…Yeah. I’m ok-okay.” But the words were punctuated by another dry heave. Your brows knit together, your frown deepening as worry won out over hesitation. You curled your fingers around the doorknob and twisted gently.

”I’m coming in, okay?” You didn’t wait for permission, you just pushed your way through slowly, and turned on the light with a soft him. The warmth of the glow gave way to the crisp, cooler air of the bathroom, and your eyes landed on Bob–slumped on his knees in front of the toilet, one forearm braced against the edge of the bowl, the other trembling slightly as it rested over his stomach. His back rose and fell with uneven breaths, with strands of his damp, light brown hair clinging to the sides of his forehead. His skin had paled even more than his normal tone, and his shoulders were hunched, muscles tensing up like another wave of nausea was passing over him. His eyes were sealed shut and he was mumbling something incoherent to himself as you stepped closer to him.

”Oh, sweetheart…” You whispered under your breath, padding barefoot across the tiled floor, crouching beside him without even thinking. One of your hands gently smoothed up the line of his spine, while the other brushed the sweat-matted hair away from his face. His skin was cool to the touch–almost alarmingly so–even though he felt damp, like he had been running a fever, “What’s going on?” Your voice was gentle as you leaned in closer, brushing your fingers along his damp temple, trying to get a clearer look at him. The overhead light was a little too bright for this hour–cool, sterile–but it caught every detail: the fine sheen of sweat clinging to his brow, the tension in his jaw, the barely-there tremble of his hands.

He looked…Worn through.

That same weightless ache you’d felt earlier bloomed wider in your chest.

Your eyes dropped to his face. The curve of his cheekbone, the dark bruising just beneath his eyes. A shadow too deep to be from exhaustion alone–black, as if it bled up from somewhere inside him, pooling beneath the skin like smoke trying to escape. Right where his under-eyes always puffed slightly when he was run down. But this–this was different.

Bob hunched again suddenly–his arm tightening over his stomach, as if bracing for another wave of nausea–but this time, nothing came. Just a broken sound in the back of his throat, followed by a slow, shuddering breath.

“He’s…He’s trying to come out tonight.” He said hoarsely. You felt your pulse quicken in your neck as your hand continued to rub along his back, gently massaging it with your open palm.

“Void?” He nodded immediately. Tight. Like the words he was trying to form in response wouldn’t be able to escape his mouth. Your hand swept slowly against the freckles that laid on his shoulders, soothing him through the silent confession he had provided, and you sighed.

”What’s going on with him that’s making him do this to you?” You asked quietly, watching as the muscles in Bob’s neck strained slightly while he swallowed, like the bile had burned his esophagus. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, his lashes fluttering open to reveal that the whites of his eyes had gone obsidian. The blue of his irises were in stark contrast against the darkness, and in the center of his pupils were twin white stars, like pinholes torn through a veil. You exhaled softly and cupped the side of his face, the pad of your thumb ghosting over the rise of his cheekbone. His skin was chilled but radiant, flushed faintly with the fever of what he was trying to contain.

“Bob…”

His jaw flexed beneath your palm. Then he sighed, long and low.

“He’s been…Wanting to be let out for a few days,” He murmured, voice shaking but no longer hoarse–just small. “But I’ve been afraid. Because he’s not pushing with anger. He’s not trying to take control or burn anything down. He’s just…” He swallowed again, and the movement of his throat looked painful. “He’s desperate to be with you. He said he wants to be held.” You softened immediately, your fingertips brushing down to his neck.

“Bob… He needs affection too, y’know?” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “He sees through your eyes. Feels what you feel. He watches the way I touch you, the way I kiss you, and he wants that. You both crave connection. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it without making you afraid.”

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut at your words–like hearing them was too much.

Like they hurt.

“I know…” He said quietly. “I know. And I know it’s not fair to keep him locked away. But I–” He paused, hand lifting slowly, shakily, to cover the back of yours. His palm was cold against your knuckles. “I was worried.” You brushed your thumb slowly beneath the bruised curve under his eye–where darkness had begun to pool and move like molasses, blooming in the space between man and entity.

“Worried about what?” You whispered.

“That he’d try to take too much.” You exhaled gently through your nose and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his once more.

“He won’t. And if he tries…I can stand my own ground.” You smiled faintly. “Even though you and I both know…He’s harmless with me.” Bob’s breath trembled between you.

”…You’re right.” You pulled back just enough to look at him again. The blue in his eyes was dimming now and the white pinholes took up more space now, almost like it was dilating from the conversation the two of you were having.

“I think you need to let him through now…” Bob sighed, and nodded, before pulling away from you, leaning his back against the wall behind him. You stayed kneeling on the bathroom floor as the shift began, your blanket now puddled around your waist, one hand still hanging in the air where it had just touched his cheek. Watching. Waiting.

It started in his fingertips.

The color bled from his skin like ink dropped in water–spreading out in dark veins that swallowed up every patch of freckled flesh. As if someone had taken a brush soaked in the purest black and swept it over his hands, up his arms, across his shoulders and throat.

And then his chest–his ribs rising with slow, steady breaths, muscles shifting beneath a surface that no longer looked human. His skin had turned to obsidian. Not flat, not matte–but slick and gently reflective, like polished volcanic glass under moonlight. And it moved, subtly, like the surface of a calm lake catching ripples from something just below.

His light brown hair was the last to go.

It darkened in strands–first the roots, then the mid-lengths, until it turned fully silken black, falling around his face in weightless, flowing threads. The softness of it almost didn’t match the rest of him, but that was what made it stranger. Beautiful. Alien and delicate all at once.

Your breath caught in your throat when the first tendrils emerged.

They slid out from his back and shoulders like smoke given form–reaching and coiling in the air, tasting the space around them. Slow and deliberate. Like stretching after years of confinement. A shiver crawled up your spine as one of them curled gently in your direction, but didn’t touch. Just hovered.

His face–what remained of it–was shadowed but shaped like before, only now marked by the silhouette of a mouth and twin glowing eyes.

The Void knelt before you, fully formed–but so still.

Then, softly:

“Y/N?”

His voice was quieter than before. No distortion. No thunder layered beneath. Just a breathy whisper of your name, tender and unfamiliar in its gentleness.

You barely had time to breathe before he surged forward–not fast, not aggressive, just immediate. Like he’d been holding back for too long and couldn’t do it a second more.

He wrapped his arms around you.

The coolness of his body hit your skin like a gust of night air. His arms didn’t shake. They didn’t clench or claw. They simply wrapped around you tight–too tight, like he thought you’d vanish if he didn’t pull you close enough. Like he needed your body against his to stay anchored in this world. You gasped softly at the chill, the feel of his skin slick and smooth under your hands, like touching running ink.

But you didn’t pull away.

You brought your arms around his broad shoulders, pressing your cheek to his obsidian throat, and whispered softly into the crook of his neck:

“I’ve got you.”

He exhaled hard–like he’d been holding in air he didn’t need. Like the release made his chest cave in against you.

“I’m sorry,” He breathed into your shoulder. “I tried not to. I tried to wait. But I needed–”

You pulled your hand up, threading it into the black silk of his hair, and cradled the back of his head. You could feel how deeply he leaned into your touch, like your nails tracing his scalp were pulling something human to the surface again. He whimpered quietly. Not dramatic. Not monstrous. Just…Small, like it was so out of place for an entity like him.

“Void…” You murmured, voice low and gentle against the crook of his ear. “You don’t have to apologize. But you need to know something.”

He stiffened slightly.

Your fingers didn’t stop moving.

“You can’t hurt Bob like that again.”He tensed further, a breath catching in his throat.

“He’s doing what he thinks is right,” You said softly. “He’s trying to protect both of you. He doesn’t deserve to suffer because you feel left out.”

Silence fell like snowfall–heavy, hushed, still.

Then a broken whisper:

“I…Won’t do it again. I promise.”

He pressed his face deeper into your neck, arms clutching tighter.

“Just please don’t let go of me.” Your heart clenched. He sounded so young and child-like when he said that. So desperate to be wanted. To be told he was safe. You pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I’m not letting go,” You whispered. “But we can’t stay like this on the bathroom floor.” You traced soothing lines against the base of his skull, massaging gently with your nails. He made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a shiver, and his body started to soften in your arms.

“Let’s go to bed,” You suggested, “Then you can hold me for however long you need. I promise.” He drew in a deep breath and sighed.

”…Alright.” His arms finally loosened around you, reluctantly, like he was peeling himself away from a lifeline. You helped ease his weight back as the two of you pulled apart just far enough to move.

You stood first, adjusting the sheet clumsily around your naked body with one hand while the other reached out to him. His fingers curled into yours almost immediately.

It was strange–how something so terrifying to the world could look so hesitant when you offered him something as simple as help standing up. He didn’t let go of your hand even as he rose to his feet, the cool strength of him rising with a whisper of shadow and grace.

You reached behind and flipped the bathroom light off, blanketing the room in soft dark again. Moonlight washed the floor in silver as you quietly guided him back through the bedroom, bare feet padding across carpet. The air was still cool, but the bed still held the warmth from earlier, soft and inviting, like it had been waiting for both of you.

The Void climbed in first, slipping under the duvet, his black silhouette nearly disappearing against the dark linens, his glowing eyes being the only thing you could truly see of him in the darkness. You let the sheet fall from your shoulders and slipped beneath the covers, the mattress dipping gently under your weight. The duvet rustled softly as you settled into the center of the bed, the crisp sheets cool against your bare legs.

Before you could even adjust your pillow, he moved with no hesitation.

He followed instinctively–curling into you like a wave drawn to shore, fitting himself into the shape of your body with such urgency it made your chest ache. He settled half on top of you, half beside you, his head pressing into the space between your breasts and collarbone, one arm wrapping possessively around your waist like he needed to keep your soul anchored to his.

His skin, still cool and impossibly smooth, pressed against the warmth of your body in stark contrast, but it didn’t make you flinch. If anything, you held him closer.

You adjusted beneath him, shifting just enough to let him rest fully against you, your own arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders. One hand found the base of his skull, and your fingers immediately curled into the silk of his hair, petting him with slow, methodical strokes. The sound he let out was quiet–nearly a whimper. Almost involuntary.

His fingertips–longer than Bob’s, and less calloused–began tracing light, aimless patterns along your skin. Gentle sweeps along the slope of your ribs, the dip of your stomach, the softness of your side. He sighed deeply against your chest, his breath cool and steady where it ghosted across your skin.

“I’m really sorry for hurting Bob…”

You breathed in slowly, and brushed your thumb across the back of his neck.

“I know,” You said softly. “And I’m sure he knows, too.”

The Void was quiet for a moment.

Then he burrowed closer–somehow–nuzzling his face into the curve of your body like he was trying to vanish inside you. His arm tightened around your waist, and one of his legs slid across yours under the sheets, entangling completely, his body melting into your side like warm wax folding into flame.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” He whispered. “He’s kind. And I’m…”

“You’re not a monster,” You interrupted gently.

He didn’t respond right away.

You tilted your head and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his black hair, fingers still stroking soothingly through it, combing through the weightless strands.

“You’re just lonely…And you acted out of impulse to try to get what you needed.” His entire body gave a subtle, shuddering exhale. As if your words had reached something buried too deep for even Bob to touch.

The glow of his eyes dimmed slightly, blinking against your skin like he was growing sleepier now that he was safe. Now that he was held. One of his tendrils peeked from beneath the duvet, coiling lightly around your thigh–not tight, not aggressive, just a slow gentle brush.

You felt his lips–just a shadow of a mouth–press against your chest.

“Thank you for letting me come to you,” He whispered, quieter than breath.

You tightened your arms around him and smiled into the dark.

“There’s no version of you I wouldn’t take care of.”

That was the last thing said between you for a long while.

The Void settled entirely then–his limbs heavy against yours, his cheek pillowed to your chest, his body humming faintly with the low vibration of cosmic quiet. He didn’t shift again, didn’t twitch or pull away. He just…Stayed.

Clinging to you like he belonged there.

Like he’d finally found a shape that soothed him.

And when you finally drifted off to sleep, your fingers still tangled in his hair, his arms wrapped around you like armor, The Void followed soon after–dreamless and warm, nestled in the softest corner of the universe he’d ever known.

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