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octoberautumnbox · 1 month ago

Text

Bruise

Soloist/IZ*ONE Jo Yuri & (named) Male Reader

Categories/warnings: smut, fluff?

Word count: 5.5k

a/n: prompt by @msafterhours! ty for hosting once again :DDDD

YALL BETTER TUNE IN TO SQUID GAME 3 TOMORROW

~~~

Dull thuds of feet against trampled carpet. A door that tries to creak open. The stench of lavender amongst iron and spent brimstone. Clear.

She kicks off her heels as you crash onto the couch, only for her to follow. The plastic crinkles and ruffles underneath the both of you, growing stickier with each passing moment you're putting off cleaning up. Instead, you both opt for catching your breaths, taking in the cool breeze of air conditioning, and most importantly, listening intently for how your muscles scream and cry from overuse.

With a grunt, she pushes herself up and reaches for the tiny white envelope on the table. She undoes the wax seal with two swipes of her fingernail and pulls out the letter, scanning carelessly through its contents before tossing it back onto the table and reslouching on the sofa. She's clocked out of work: she clutches her face with her hands, forcing her eyelids shut and her breathing slows to a steady, or steadier, pace.

“Congrats, come home,” or whatever the fuck. The letter is unnecessarily more verbose, unbelievably so, but the important parts couldn't be simpler. It was a job well done, after all, and an invitation like that is always a sight for sore eyes were it not already expected. You stare at the seal in the top-left corner, pushing down your animosity for your employer as best you can.

A hand on her shoulder is all the consolation you allow yourself to give. “Go,” cold, tired, stern. She peeks at you through her slender fingers, and you steal a glance of her eyes crinkling at the corners before she pulls them away. With what sounds like a herculean effort, she gets up from the couch and heads off slowly to the bathroom as you sit and stare at the now-empty spot on the couch. Your eyes land back onto the annoyingly white sheet of paper on the table, silently cursing its bare existence, while the shower comes to life somewhere in the back of the room and of your mind.

Push off the sofa yourself, follow the sound of pitter-pattering water. Your tie comes undone, as do your buttons. She watches through the open door how you slide the sullied clothes off your heaving form, momentarily pausing from scrubbing the vile leftover matter out of her hair. She covers herself modestly with her arms and the shower curtain—she can be as coy as she wants if it makes her feel better—as you lean against the sink and catch your breath.

Dark circles under your eyes, splatterings of rust dotted across your face and arms. Some fresher, redder, more vibrant than others. All marks of victory, and nothing more. The water is cool in your palms, in stark contrast to the heat that blazes off the skin of your back and nape. Wash away your blemishes, wash away your sins. All marks of victory, and nothing more.

You notice a towel on the rack, which you mindlessly reach for. Just then, the water ceases falling, and you knock on the cubicle door. She eyes you, and then the towel, and then you again. It changes hands far too quickly, and a few brief moments later she pulls back the curtain and emerges like brand new. She's wrapped herself in a pristine eggshell-white robe with the bow tied neatly over her tummy, as the towel sips gently from the moisture of her hair.

She places a hand on your shoulder, shoots you a knowing smirk. You switch places: the floor grows only marginally wetter as she steps out to make space for you in the shower, and as you will the water to life again, you hear the faint sound of teeth being brushed from the other side.

~~~

You step out of the bathroom, leaving the dirt and grime of the day behind you. You find her on the couch again, but this time it's stripped away of the sullied plastic covering. She reads the letter deep in thought this time, before finally looking up at you with an expression you can't quite decode.

A knock on the door, your senses switch back to high alert. Though her eyes stay expressionless, they're anything but dull, and all it takes is one shake of her head. You tiptoe over to the door and cover your side of the peephole with your hand. One. Two. Three. And again.

One.

Two.

Three.

You open the door by a crack, and on the other side is an unassuming boy dressed as a staff member of the hotel. He clutches in his hands a tray with a single plate of French fries, which he serves to you and leaves just as wordlessly.

It's fries. Steaming, fragrant, drizzled with cheese sauce and bacon bits over top. And the place is safe, from the staff to the food to the rooms. Still, looking over to her, you can tell she doesn't trust them as much as she did when she ordered them. And the feeling of pity roots snugly against, not in, your heart: you want more than anything for these fries to be as safe as when she ordered them.

~~~

Not even a single speck of dust, only a hauntingly spotless brown ceiling to stare at. She rests her head on your chest and her plate on your stomach, staring out the window to the moon and stars that seem so close yet so far out of reach. She chews carefully, not savoring taste or texture, but only feeling around for the way her body moves to sustain itself. She breathes slow, checking in with how obediently her chest expands as she takes air in and pushes it back out.

The silence makes known a ringing sound in your ears; it's a stark contrast to not even an hour ago when explosions large and small filled them instead. You can only imagine her feeling the same, looking out at the gentle borrowed light of the moon instead of the bright flashes of whites and yellows and reds that demanded to be beheld.

“How much?” you whisper, breaking the silence. Place a hand around her shoulders, pull her close and secure as if you had the right to do so. She looks up, no doubt wondering why it matters enough for you to ask.

“Enough,” she sighs, returning her gaze to the moon, “for a hundred new iPhones every month until I'm eighty. A million of every ring, necklace, and broach my dad could never give my mom.” She pauses, wishfully, “A good, quiet, safe life.”

You sink deep in thought. It's true, there's nothing more valuable than that. The opportunity to leave this all behind and start over is the single most important thing everyone in this line of work works for.

“And a bookstore?” you jest.

And she giggles. “And a café upstairs. And a flower shop next door.”

She brings the next fry to your lips, hoping you'd accept. “And maybe… a husband? Whose name I… know.”

Both of you flinch at it, as if she hadn't meant to say it out loud nor you meant to hear it, but just as quickly you recover and smiles tug at the corners of your mouths.

It's been on your mind for a while, too. Not the high fantasy of a lavish mansion or a vault chock full of gold coins to swim in, not even a two-story, three-bed, four-bath with a white picket fence keeping in two kids and maybe a dog. Just the privilege to hit snooze every once in a while, to have the option of the Wednesday farmer's market, to not seek clearance for exactly five watered down shots at the least horrendous of the closest agency-affiliated bars.

“Sounds like a dream,” you confess, airier and more vulnerable than intended. You've been working this job longer than you care to remember, more missions completed than worth counting, more bones broken and lives claimed than anything that would get you a good afterlife. And yet, all of it has brought you to where you are now: lying at midnight in a bed you can't even appreciate the luxury of, in a hotel you couldn't bring yourself to trust, with the only person you've ever met that you ever truly did.

You sigh, “If you're trying to tell me something, just tell me.”

Your eyes meet under the moonlight, finding tiredness and regret behind each other's gaze. It's been too long, too much, and it's a mystery not even the two of you could solve together why you haven't already quit. But just like that, the answer reveals itself like it was right there beside you all along.

“You've saved enough too. Come with me.” She brings her face closer to yours, planting sweet kisses along your jawline. Her plate is empty, laid to rest somewhere behind her and forgotten like what they do when agents misbehave.

Lock her lips with yours, savor the feeling of being vulnerable with the one person who's ever been worthy of it. She takes your neck in her arms as you position yourself above her, chasing a future she and you want more than anything this organization will ever be able to offer. “And I assume you'll be leaving whether or not?”

She deepens the kiss, licking your tongue and letting you into her mouth. She moans breathily once you start to have your way with her: her grip tightens around you as your hand slides down the middle of her chest. Her eyes flutter shut as you move on to her neck, careful not to suck too hard lest you leave evidence. She spreads her legs just enough to grant you access; rub her folds through the thin fabric that may as well not be there at all. Feel her heat rising as her breath shortens, admire the way she lets you hold her like she's the most precious thing in the world.

“You won't leave me, right?” She begs without begging you to make a promise she knows you can't make. You slide her panties down her smooth legs, and it's nothing but comfort and warmth beneath the cotton blanket you find yourselves under. She gasps at the very first contact of your fingertips rubbing against her clit, and she looks you in the eyes as if not believing that you're considering it for her. Her hips grind slightly against your hand, seeking more of the pleasure you're providing, all the while she grows even wetter at how much attention and care you give her.

She pulls your shorts and underwear down too, thinking two can play at this game. She spits ceremoniously on her palm, the moonlight reflecting off the tiny droplet of saliva collecting in her hand, before she wraps it over your hardening cock as a thank-you. Her strokes are deep and long, leaving no inch dry and untouched, as her body jerks lightly at every swipe of your finger over her sensitive bundle of nerves.

You stay on top of her, spurred on by how affectionately she watches you. Her hands stay on your shoulders, gripping tight as if she might lose you if she lets go. It's happened before, you think, and seeing her reaction under the dim glow of the moon, you feel it's a thought the two of you share.

“Answer me. You won't leave me alone, will you?” She spreads her legs, though absentmindedly. She stares desperately into your eyes, looking for an answer she knows she won't like. As you lean down to her lips, taking claim of her tongue once again, she rubs your tip to her folds, coaxing you in your moment of weakness to give in to hers.

“You know we can't make promises.” Push into her slowly, past her entrance, savoring how her walls part for you. It's heaven hearing her moan like this: airy, light, carefree. She squeezes your cock hungrily, tracing every inch of you with her pussy like it's what everything leads up to. You continue to move, thrusting gently in and out of her, and she can't help but moan and groan at the forbidden pleasure.

She wraps her arms around your neck, keeping you close as if you're the damning secret that unravels her life. She shivers each time you hit her good spots inside her throbbing cunt; she grows wetter and wetter as you keep using her body the way she needs you to. She was always the selfish type, not caring about how it felt for you, but something feels different this time:

“Come find me…?” she whispers into your ear between gasps. She nibbles at your jawline as she shakes, getting pushed closer and closer to her climax. Her back lifts off the mattress and her chest meets yours, begging silently for more contact she knows she can't have.

Fuck her slow, but deep. Part her walls tantalizingly gently, making her groan at how you violate her luscious body. Her smooth skin and beautiful voice all whittle away at your resolve: you're led closer and closer to the idea that maybe, just maybe, a life with her isn't that bad. She squeezes your cock deliciously inside her, wraps her legs around your waist trying to keep you, hugs you tight like she needs you to live.

“Faster…” she begs. Her toes curl and uncurl as you follow, her voice breaking as you speed up. She grinds her hips against you to meet your thrusts, and plants more kisses on your neck during the moments she runs out of breath. Her wetness soaks the bedsheets beneath her, all the while you bring her closer to her climax and yours.

And faster still. You reach too deep into her; with every “mm” and “aah” and “please” she mutters straight into your ear, you feel your resolve crumbling more. The bed creaks slightly as you keep fucking her, all the while thoughts of waking up next to her everyday fill your head.

Her hitting snooze for you. Her hand in yours as you pick out fresh vegetables every Wednesday. Her eyes closed gently as you take your first sips of a fine aged wine.

She kisses you deeply, exploring more of your mouth without you holding her back. Her sultry moans get the better of you, as do the faint ghosts of aloe in her hair. Her skin feels smooth against yours, as if they'd never been touched by blood or gunpowder. You can still taste the cheese lingering on her lips, fading farther away as she lets you nip and nibble on them as you please.

You're in much too deep, you realize. She has her pussy clenching around your cock, her fingers tangled in your hair, her forehead on yours as she greedily kisses you in what would be the last time. And you're not pulling away. “You're really leaving, aren't you…?”

Slow down, catch your breath, give her, and yourself, just a little bit of space. Your nose two inches away from hers, your lips still tingling with the feeling of her love, her beautiful eyes focused solely on you like she'd forget your face if she looked away for even a second.

“Yeah… I am. I'm done,” she confesses. She looks so much older than the last time you saw her in light like this—and it was only last week. She'd just finished scrubbing away the dust and soot of the day from her face, and the bruises on her arms were only almost all better. And yet, she still had just the slightest bit of fight in her eyes, the kind that carried a person through terror and tragedy knowing that the end of the tunnel was near. Now, here it is.

She giggles, “You know they'd get rid of me if I said anything?” She caresses your cheek, admiring you for everything you meant to her: confidant, partner, constant. Anything else is a reach, and the both of you did everything you could to stay behind the line. Despite everything, here she is, admitting so casually to a crime that would get her wiped from the world, saying it so crudely like it was just another day in the life of a commoner who didn't know the lengths agents like you and she went through to protect.

“Is that your plan? Out yourself and take a chance that they'd only throw you on the curb?” you chuckle, the question incredulous as it is weighted. Go slow in her again, try to knock some sense into her. She's not special in the slightest to get away with just a slap on the wrist like that. And yet, you hope with all the heart you have left that she is. “When has it ever worked?”

“We wouldn't—ah fuck—we wouldn't know… Once I leave…”

Shut her up. Seal her lips, swirl her tongue around yours. She can't say what she's about to say, not yet. Anything but that. You speed up, and she reciprocates. She grinds against you, and you wager she doesn't know what you're trying to do.

But do you know what you're trying to do?

She interrupts just a moment, “Switch,” and you have to physically tear yourself away from her to oblige. Only then do you allow yourself to feel the wear and tear of the day and the job again—pulling out of her may very well be one of the most difficult things you’ve ever done.

And yet, she’s nothing but careful with you: she guides you down gently back onto the mattress, making sure your bruises fall onto nothing but cushiony softness. She clambers onto you, her own body betraying the same fatigue both of you tried so hard to ignore. Her hand on your still hard cock, twitching against your palm, and the faint moonlight filtering through the glass window illuminates only half of the most gorgeous face you’ve ever seen.

She takes it in her again, slow and steady. She slides down, feeling herself stretch to accommodate your girth, all the while tiny whimpers escape her lips once more. She takes her sweet time, savoring probably the last she’ll ever have of you—you have to remind yourself of that—as the aches slowly meld with the pleasure of just plainly having her all to yourself like this.

“You always look after me…” she whispers, placing her hands on your chest. It’s a nice change, or separation if you will, that she’s never this handsy in the field. She holds you down, “Can I look after you this time?” and she slides herself up before letting herself drop back. “Mmh—” she whimpers, and it takes everything to not start fucking her again yourself. Instead, settle for the next best thing: swipe at the straps of her nightgown, slip them off her shoulders. It brings the sweetest smile on her face, and as the gown slips down off her shoulders and back, you’re met with the sight of her delicious boobs, all yours to grope and handle like she wants.

“All yours, all of me.” She traces her finger along your arm, and as she reaches your hand, she brings it to her chest. Her breast is soft and pliant, with a perfectly stiff nipple you can’t help but pinch and tug at, and all it does is spur her on further. “More… please,” she pleads, the pleasure getting the better of her, throwing caution to the wind. She never lets go of your hand on her tits, wanting you to touch her forever. She bounces on your cock faster, trying to coax out the release she knows she deserves.

“Fuck… Please, I’m close.” Reach up and take her other breast. Her boobs bounce against your hands, and you feel her body heating up more and more as she rides faster. Her nipples poke against your palms, wanting nothing more than to be pinched hard, pulled, sucked, abused, but you’re too much of a gentleman, aren’t you? You pull her down, and to her surprise, she finds herself laying on your chest. Grip her ass like it’s all yours, thrust into her despite all the aches your body nags at you to submit to. Instead, you follow her, giving her what she wants. It slips in and out of your mind why you’re doing this with her, the memory getting hazier and hazier, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You hug her tight on top of your chest as if this is the way you get to keep her. Her cunt only gets wetter with how hard you try to hold on, and she does the exact same: she wraps her arms around your neck again, wanting to never let go, as she desperately tries looking you in the eyes instead of having them roll to the back of her head.

“I don’t know what your name is,” you confess straight into her ear, “I don’t know how long you’ve been working with me,” you thrust up into her faster, “I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again,” she moans as you get rougher, chasing her own release while helping you chase hers, “but…”

And her lips crash against yours again. She grinds against you, trying to overtake your need with hers. She wants to give, wants to serve you, wants to return all the favors you’ve earned from times you saved her ass from whatever stray projectile was hurtling her way. She tries wrestling back control despite almost losing it herself, but she stays on top of you, licking your tongue, controlling the pace. She has to.

“Mmm… you don’t get to say it,” her breath is heavy against your ear, her voice raspy from all the deep moans and rough confessions of pleasure she afforded to you, “you don’t get to tell me you love me without saying my name too.”

She sits back up, plants her feet on the mattress, places her hands on your shoulders again, and bounces on your cock like there’s nothing else in the world to do. “You d-don't know how bad—ahh—I wanna say yours too…”

And you get the feeling she's running out of ways to beg, getting more and more desperate to give you the pleasure she thinks you deserve. Pleasure is splashed across her face: a furrowed brow showing how hard she's trying to outlast you, a forehead beaded with sweat at how bad she wants you to feel good, a lip bitten and next to bleeding keeping herself from saying things she knows she'll regret for all the wrong reasons.

Your breath hitches, and she almost doesn't catch it—she gives herself to you, insistent on making sure you won't want to pull out. She bends back down, pressing her tits on your chest, as she takes your lips one last time. Her tongue wraps around yours again and again, making the most of your remaining time together. She grinds hard on your cock, her slick, warm pussy squeezing around you like it's the only one she'll ever have, and it's this moment she draws her eyes open to find yours.

Her pulling up the covers for both of you. A bowl of fresh vegetable stew in the center of the table between two yet-empty plates. An arm around your shoulder as you stumble up the stairs together, thinking you're supporting her while she thinks she's supporting you.

A flash of blinding white, and your orgasm reaches its peak inside of her. You jerk inside her, and before you know it, you're shooting ropes of hot cum into her throbbing cunt. You thrust as deep as you can go, meeting every single squeeze of her velvet walls with another spurt of your seed, until her eyes glaze over and roll to the back of her head. She lets out a guttural moan as you paint her insides, filling her up beyond what she can keep inside her. Even as you throb and thrust inside her, you feel your cum mixed with her juices running down the underside of your shaft. And her arms wrap impossibly tight around your neck she jerks and shivers uselessly against you, each one the result of another stream of squirt splashing against your crotch.

She collapses on top of you, landing on your heaving chest. You breathe deep to replace the air missing from your lungs, but you can't deny it was the best feeling you've ever had with her, or at all. She lays there peacefully, lightheaded and satisfied, her head placed perfectly dead center of your chest, letting out tiny giggles as she catches her breath.

Place her gently beside you, make sure she's comfy in your embrace. She looks up at you with a love you've never thought possible, but this girl has always been an impossibility come to life. She holds your cheek, finally coming to terms with the fact that she might never have you for herself, and trying to forgive herself for a regret she might never, ever overcome.

“I wanna say it…” she laughs. Her teeth peek out from between her lips, her fingers gently trace your jawline as if trying to memorize it.

“Me too. Stupid rule,” you sigh, and it eases her a bit more. It's common courtesy, after all, to say a person's name when you confess your love—or so you think, who knows how this is supposed to go—so you hold back with everything you can.

She clicks her tongue and lets out a tired laugh, “Fucking ‘Master of Espionage’ can't figure out my fucking name,” and you silently wish you could hear her laugh forever. The smile gracing her features is one you never want to let go, one you want to keep alive for as long as you are.

“That's your job. My job is to make sure the ‘Master of Espionage’ doesn't get shot in the fucking face.”

And she settles. Her eyes give off a light that's betraying her weakness, “Why won't you come with me? Is there something you still need to do?”

It kills you, you don't even know. You don't have an answer for her, let alone a good one, why you can't be with her as she takes the next step into the rest of her life. Or, you couldn't admit that you think she'd never stay with a boring old dope like you who only knows how to pull triggers and crack necks. A young woman as beautiful and sensible as her would be wasted on someone like you—

Like reading your mind, “Stop that. Stop that right now,” she interrupts, and her lips meet yours one last time. She's insistent yet gentle, the way only she could ever be. “I want you… I'll always want you, I think. No matter what you try to convince yourself of.”

“That's cheating.”

“No it isn't,” she giggles again, “I make the rules. Not cheating.”

“Then…” take a deep breath, steel your nerves, “I want you too.”

~~~

“We'll have you on holdover until we can find you a partner.”

“Excuse me?” You can't even begin to believe your ears. It's only been a weekend, you think. And already your partner is…

“Agents can't go out in the field alone. We'll match you with someone and then assign you two a mission.”

It's all but confirmed, then. You try and then fail miserably at forming a cold sweat; it's not like you didn't expect this—in fact, you knew she would. You just didn't think, or hope would be a better word, that she'd go so soon.

You can only stare back at the poor clerk who's only doing his job. Fight down the red that fills your eyes, scold yourself for blaming this guy, or anyone, or everyone, besides you. You're the one who failed to keep her, and there's no one else to point fingers at.

“You can visit the office floor in the meantime, agent. We'd assign you a cubicle, but in reality we'd have you a partner in about ten—”

“Whatever. I'm not doing field work today.”

The clerk clicks his tongue with a bored feeling, whether disapproval or tediousness, you don't care to place. “Fine,” he sighs, “Records department, cubicle 1A4. Welcome back, agent.”

You head off to your desk and slump in the chair.

~~~

Kempt and tidy, albeit showing signs of gray. Your glasses sit elegantly on your face, making the wrinkles look softer and more welcome than they should. You draw your attention away from the image of you in the window and back to the pretty waiter girl walking towards you.

“Ready to order, sir?” Seeing you nod, she swipes her pencil from her ear and spins it before touching its graphite to the paper. She smiles a familiar smile, one you can't seem to forgive yourself for placing.

“A mocha, please.”

“Size?”

“Medium.”

“We say ‘venti’ for that.”

“Whatever.”

“Hot or iced?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Hah, alright. It'll be five minutes, sir.”

She walks away, heading for the counter. For some reason, your nerves are quiet—no alarms blaring, no warning lights flashing. If anything, you're hopeful that it's over and that you could finally leave the past behind you.

And then you see her. She emerges from some back room, exchanging a few words with the pretty waiter girl. They share a giggle before she turns and spots you. Her jaw drops like she's seen a ghost before shooing away the waiter to the kitchen.

She takes careful steps, looking around like there's something to find. She's inconspicuous—she hides it well—and slips into the booth opposite you.

Kempt and tidy, albeit showing signs of gray. Her glasses sit elegantly on her face, making the wrinkles look softer and more welcome than they should. She stares at you, wanting to say a million things yet having none come out.

Do the heavy lifting for her, again: “Hi.”

“I—welcome. You…?”

“Congrats on the whole thing.” You look around: potted plants hang from the ceiling, bright windows let light into the cozy space just like next door. Jazz plays softly in the background like a cliché that fits so damn well.

“Thank you. You look good.” She smiles, and her eyes crinkle at the corners. She looks you up and down, and you feel yourself doing the same.

“Yuri,” you whisper, feeling the syllables roll off your tongue and past your lips. It feels forbidden to say, forbidden to hear, yet those laws were lifted so long ago.

She laughs a beautiful laugh, like old times. “How did you find me?”

“I'm sorry I took so long… But I'm here now.”

“You say that like I didn't wait.”

She holds your cheek again, feeling the wrinkles where there used to be residue of war. It's a different feeling, a strange one, but nothing unwelcome.

You grasp the hand on your cheek, “Is she…?” before watching her give a solemn nod.

The pretty waiter girl appears beside your booth promptly, setting down your mocha and an americano for your old friend. Yuri shoots a tender yet knowing look at her, but she's only puzzled so far.

“Mom, do you know him?” She glares at you, wondering why her mother has her hand on your cheek. The cogs on her head turn slowly, but they turn nonetheless. “Oh my God…”

“And you must be Mihyun,” you tease, taking a sip of your coffee. It's sweet, bitter, and comforting, much like the end of a long journey where you're all but one more dirt path from home. “Mm, good for a ‘venti.’ But I wanted it iced, though.”

She chuckles in disbelief, but the moment you scoot to make space, she tears up. She sobs lightly as you put your arm around her, and Yuri joins on her other side to wrap her in a tight hug.

“It's very nice to meet you, sweetheart,” you whisper, kissing her hair. “And you too, my love.” Find her once again, eyeing you with that signature mischievous smile as if saying how dare you make my daughter cry.

“What did you tell her that she isn't kicking me out of here right away?” you laugh, and Yuri laughs back.

“I told her her dad is a wonderful man, and that he always put me first. For a little while, she couldn't understand why I never took a boyfriend. She liked one of the regulars from a long time ago, the handsome one that looked soft and homey, but I said I knew better and she was nice enough to leave it at that.”

“Sounds like I have quite the shoes to fill.”

“Better start now…?”

“Sangja.” You turn red in the face saying it, and just as expected, Yuri snorts.

“Fuck you. All this time, Agent Box?”

“As if you were any better, Agent Glass.”

~~~

a/n: this might be the most fanfiction-y fanfiction i've written so far bc of that namedrop and also for giving her a gun lmao anywayz tune in for squid game s3 next week y'all!!

a/n: update y'all they gave her a gun 😭😭😭😭

#kpop smut #girl group smut #izone smut #jo yuri smut #jo yuri #izone yuri #fic box

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reignpage · 4 months ago

Text

FRESHERS WEEK

An introduction to Eden University and its students!

Where love, heartbreak, and loss is taught

Welcome to your first day on campus!

Frat Boy!Gojo

Starting your 3rd and final year of university engaged to a guy you've never met before wasn't ever on your bucket list and yet this is very much your life. You have to make it work. You just have to. But goddamn it, the loser makes it so hard. Every conversation leaves you seething with rage because he's so fucking annoying. Why is he kinda cute though?

Forced engagement

Goth!reader

Frat president!Gojo

Somewhat enemies to lovers

Forced proximity

First Day

Piercer!Geto

You needed a job. The hot, tattooed, motorbike-riding enigma has an opening at his studio. You're surprised he takes you in and keeps you despite all the cups you keep dropping. This is supposed to be professional, boundaries must be respected, but why is he so alluring? Why can't you stop yourself?

Boss x employee

One year age gap

Receptionist!reader

Geto owns a piercing and tattoo studio

Soft!dom

Clumsy, sunshine!reader

First Day

Art Student!Choso

As an art student with a rebellious streak, the campus vandal, colloquially called Cursed Womb, is everything you wish you could be. Everything about his art, his free spirit, his passion draws you in. But you'll never know who he is so you just focus on your art project with your quiet, brooding classmate. They don't bear a resemblance, do they?

Secret identity

Project partners

One-sided pining

Love triangle

Fem dom!reader

First Day

Basketball Captain!Toji

Your boyfriend breaks up with you because you didn't want to put out. How unfair is that? If he was more significant on campus, you'd totally write a scathing article about him on the Bulletin, but he's some nobody. And unfortunately for you, you've got bigger fish to fry: the captain of the basketball team wants you to put him up higher on the Who's Hot List. You might as well get something out of it, right?

Revenge

Shy, quiet girl x popular jock

Friends with benefits

Gossip writer!reader

Campus whore!Toji

First Day

Physics Tutor!Nanami

He's hot, like super hot, and better yet, he doesn't know it. The fluttering of your heart, and something lower, makes you want to get to know him intimately. But he wants to keep things strictly professional. You'd totally respect that, except, you see the way he looks at you. So, whilst you both learn a thing or two, why not have a little fun?

Popular girl x nerd

Mutual pining

Both learning from mistakes

So close yet so far

Insecurities

First Day

Vice President!Sukuna

He doesn't remember what he did. You don't want to remind him. Everything you've done since then has been to forget it all, to prove you're above them, every single one of the people who ever thought you'd never amount to anything. You're ambitious, you're smart, and you're meant for more. You know it. So you can't let him drag you down with him. You won't. Even when his claws dig deep. But why does he make everything so difficult for you?

Most intense story here

Not cutesy/romcom

Revenge

Very dark/read warnings

President of student council!reader

Annoying saboteur!Sukuna

First Day

These stories are told via mixed media:

Smaus

In-between/behind the scene fics

Asks and answers (can be filtered on my page via #modernau)

No requirement to read all the series but recommended to read Toji’s to appreciate Gojo’s and Sukuna’s

All series are completed

Always happy to answer questions at any time

Happy reading!

#dividers by @enchantings #jjk x reader #jjk smau #jjk smut #jjk fluff #jjk angst #Gojo x reader #Geto x reader #Choso x reader #Toji x reader #Nanami x reader #Sukuna x reader #jjk college au

754 notes · View notes

ewanmitchellcrumbs · 10 days ago

Text

Improper Fraction

Pairing: Michael Gavey x f!reader Warnings: Sexually explicit content. Word count: ~5.1k.

Summary: Michael gets great satisfaction from humiliating a fellow student during the fresher's week pub quiz, only to get a nasty shock when he realises he'll be seeing lots more of her. And she's keen to get her own back.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“Isn’t this something we should save for the first years?” she asked Libby, as they pushed through the door of The Bull.

It was early evening, and the place was already starting to fill up as students crowded in for The Bull’s annual end of Fresher’s Week pub quiz.

“We come every year,” Libby replied breezily, making a beeline for an empty table in the corner, and shrugging out of her denim jacket.

“But we’re not students anymore,” she protested, hovering behind the empty chair opposite her friend.

“I’m not, but you are, so why break tradition?” Libby grinned, a toothy, determined smile that made it clear she would not be budged on the matter or from her seat. “Since you’re stood up, you can get the first round. I’ll have my usual.”

She rolled her eyes, sighing as she turned to go and fetch their drinks.

She had studied Mathematics for four years at Oxford University, before being accepted for the integrated master’s level course in Mathematical and Theoretical Physics. She was hoping that the research level training would help her on her path to becoming an astrophysicist, until then she worked weekend shifts at a bookshop just off of the high street. Libby had completed the three year History of Art course more than a year ago, and had yet to move on from the city. Libby claimed it was because she enjoyed the culture and pace of life, but she knew her friend better than that – it had more to do with the bartender she’d been hooking up with on and off since she’d started a part time job at the wine café in Jericho. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for Libby sticking around – it meant not having to look for another flatmate, and Oxford would be a lonely place without her; a proclivity for numbers and equations left little opportunity for socialisation.

Pushing her way back through the crowd, trying and failing not to allow the two pints of Strongbow she carried to spill over the edge of the glasses, she frowned as she saw two men she didn’t recognise seated at the table either side of Libby. One was dark haired with a nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once, and the other was sandy haired and bespectacled – the sort of person she’d move away from on a bus, judging by the well worn Merrell walking shoes that peeked out from beneath the table.

Placing the glasses heavily down upon dog eared beer mats, sending more cider frothing over the sides and onto the sticky wood beneath, she shot Libby a questioning look, before taking her seat opposite her, the two strangers now on either side of her.

“This is Oliver,” Libby explained, dragging her pint towards her, “ and this is Michael. You need a minimum of four people for a quiz team, so I invited them to join us.”

“Hope you don’t mind,” Oliver said apologetically, shifting his gaze to her, “all the other teams were full.”

“Fine by me,” she replied with a shrug, hoping she appeared more casual than she felt. There was something about Oliver that made her feel uneasy, though she couldn’t fathom a tangible reason for why that was.

Libby took a swig of her drink, either not noticing the tension around the table or choosing to ignore it. “Oliver’s studying literature,” she said brightly, “so we’ll smash that round. What about you, Michael?”

“Maths,” he answered.

There was something smug and self assured in how he allowed the syllable to roll off his tongue, as though he were announcing to the table he was better than anyone else seated at it, without even needing to say the words.

“No way!” Libby swatted his arm, earning a scowl which she again chose not to notice, and nodded towards her friend seated opposite her. “Two maths boffins at the same table!”

Michael turned to her, his eyebrows raised in obvious disbelief. “You’re reading maths?”

“I was. I’ve just started my masters,” she offered a thin smile, taking a drink as a distraction from the scrutiny she felt beneath the intensity of his stare. The bittersweet liquid fizzed against her tongue, and she found it an effort to swallow as he continued to study her intently.

“Wow, someone actually worth talking to,” he scoffed finally, having decided he was satisfied with her answer. “I’m a genius. I can do any sum in my head. Go on, ask me.”

She hadn’t expected that. A normal person would have asked follow up questions, enquired about what a masters degree in mathematics entailed, instead he had managed to turn the conversation back to himself.

Laughing nervously, she shook her head. “What?” she stammered, “I–”

The tapping of a finger against a microphone echoed through speakers around the pub, and the loud chatter and laughter quieted down, as the quizmaster introduced himself and explained how each round would be conducted and scored. It was broken out by subject – a round each for English, maths, science, history, geography and art, with a bonus round for pop culture. Not an average pub quiz, but Oxford wasn’t an average university, and the student body revelled in flexing the superiority of their intelligence.

Oliver took care of the English round, marking his answers down against the shared sheet of paper with quiet confidence. When it came to the maths portion, Michael gleefully snatched up the answer page and pencil.

“I’ll take care of this round, don’t worry,” he announced, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger.

She scowled, irritated by his dismissal of her, but decided, for the sake of keeping the peace, to keep quiet. It wasn’t until the final question in the round – add 8.563 and 4.8292 – that she finally spoke up.

“I should get to do at least one,” she insisted, grabbing the pencil from Michael and slanting the paper towards her.

She quickly scribbled her answer – 13.395 – and then righted the page back towards him.

Michael’s eyes moved from what she had written and then to her. “That’s wrong,” he said with a smirk, and crossed out her answer, replacing it with 13.3922.

He was right, of course – in her haste to contribute she had forgotten to add a zero to the end of the 8.563 portion of the sum, and instead carried the final 2 of 4.8292 into her addition of 9 and 3.

She dropped her gaze to the drink in front of her, watching the bubbles rise to the top of her half drunk pint, as it sweated with condensation. Her cheeks blazed with humiliation. If only this Strongbow were large enough for her to topple into and drown. “How could I have gotten that wrong?” she thought, “Such a stupid bloody mistake.” The quizmaster announced a short break, and Oliver offered to buy a round for the four of them. Michael joined him at the bar, leaving her and Libby alone.

"Don't spiral," Libby urged, leaning across the table and rubbing her arm in a comforting gesture, "literally no one but you cares that that wasn't the right answer."

She raised her head, glancing around, and her eyes immediately met the steely stare of tMichael as he looked over his shoulder at her from the bar. The smug, self satisfied smirk on his face was proof enough that Libby was wrong – he cared.

“That’s wrong,” echoed in her mind on repeat for the rest of the evening.

By the time the quiz drew to a close, their team had not even come close to winning. The fifty pound bar tab had gone to a team that Oliver told them was made up of a student named Felix, and his cousin, Farleigh, and a gaggle of their hangers on. He spoke of them with a longing that suggested he would much rather be at that table than theirs. The maths and science portions they had perfect scores for, thanks to Michael – she hadn’t participated after he had corrected her, what little enthusiasm she had started with had been crushed. They had done okay on English and art, thanks to Oliver and Libby’s efforts, but had only managed a few points for geography and history, and had gotten nothing at all for the pop culture round.

“Guess we’re all just a bunch of losers then,” Michael commented with a wry smile, before downing the dregs of his lager.

There was something about the enunciation he placed on the word “losers” that formed a pit in her stomach – even if it wasn’t a direct dig at her, it served only to exacerbate the embarrassment she already felt at her earlier blunder. She knew it was silly to have such a strong reaction to an honest mistake that had been made in a hurry and, deep down, she knew it wasn’t that that was getting at her – it was how he seemed to gloat and take satisfaction in her having been wrong in the first place.

“Right,” she said, rising from her seat and grabbing her bag as she looked to Libby, “shall we?”

Libby nodded. “Was great to meet you both,” she said brightly, pulling her hair free of the collar of her jacket as she put it back on. “Sorry we weren’t better quiz buddies.”

“Wait,” Michael called after her as she turned to leave.

She paused, eyes wide in anticipation as he rose from his seat and extended a beer mat towards her. There was a phone number scrawled hastily on the lager stained edge of it, alongside the name ‘Michael Gavey’. “Just in case you ever want any tutoring,” he grinned, “seems like you might need it.”

Before she could open her mouth to speak, Libby was dragging her outside, the beer mat still held limply between her thumb and forefinger. The moment the door swung closed behind them, she exhaled a growl of frustration up at the sky, which had turned to the inky black of night in the time they had spent in the pub.

“I’m sorry,” Libby said, the soft look in her eyes showing she really meant it, “if I’d have known he was such an arrogant twat, I’d never have–”

She sighed, waving a hand dismissively as she interrupted her. “It’s not your fault. I just want to forget I ever met him.”

“Don’t chuck it away!” Libby called out, halting her actions as she held the beer mat precariously over the top of a litter bin on the street corner.

“Why in god’s name would I ever want to keep it?” she asked incredulously, yet found herself slipping his number into her bag all the same.

Libby grinned, linking her arm through hers as they began to stroll back towards their flat. “You could have some fun with him, get your own back.”

She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. She’d settle for never seeing him again, that would suit her just fine.

Unfortunately, she had no such luck.

**DIVIDER**

It was an uncomfortably warm Thursday afternoon, almost a week had passed since the Fresher’s Week pub quiz, and she had mostly forgotten about the egomaniac she had been forced to share a table with. She had spent the week buried in dissertation research, wanting to make a start as soon as possible to ensure she chose the field best suited to her to write about. However, the unseasonably warm weather was making the library feel stifling – as much as she admired the university’s dedication to preserving the historical beauty and structure of its buildings, it was days like today that she resented the lack of modern conveniences, such as air conditioning. Original stonework was all well and good, but she failed to see how it could be appreciated if its occupants were all forced to sweat to death.

She rested her elbow on the table, her chin propped on her hand as her eyes scanned repeatedly over the same line in the plasma physics textbook she had pulled from the shelf. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she placed her hand over her mouth much too late as she let out a loud and exaggerated yawn.

“If this is the attitude you have towards your studies then no wonder you get such simple addition questions wrong.”

She tensed, her shoulders pulling up to her ears. “Oh christ, please no,” she thought.

That familiar voice, smooth as silk, and yet maddeningly irritating sounded again, this time much closer. “Mind if I join you?”

Michael didn’t wait for a response, instead placed his books beside hers on the table and sat down.

“Is your friend…Oliver?” she began, searching her memory for his name, “Is he not around for you to study with?”

“No,” he answered, his tone clipped and more curt than it had initially been, suggesting this wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss further. He opened a notebook, drumming his fingertips listlessly against its lined pages before looking at her again. “What’s that you’re reading?”

She sighed, lifting the textbook to show him the cover before setting it back down again.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked conversationally.

The casualness of the question caught her off guard, and she frowned for a moment before leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms across her chest. “Would it upset you if I didn’t?”

“I suppose not. I’m quite used to people disliking me. But I’d be curious to know why you in particular feel that way.”

She hated the way she felt when he stared at her like that, his gaze penetrating and intense. It made her skin prickle, and her mouth run dry. She wet her lips, doing her best to keep her voice quiet and even in the hush of the library. “I find you rude and arrogant.”

“Well, you’re meek and insecure,” he stated matter of factly.

Bristling with annoyance, she rounded on him, leaning closer as the anger in her voice combined with the effort to keep quiet caused it to come out as a hiss. “See?! This is exactly what I mean, who the fuck says things like that?!”

“I’m confident in who I am, secure in my intelligence,” he explained calmly, “can you say the same about yourself?”

She scoffed, pushing her chair back so hard that the legs scraped loudly against the stone floor, the sound echoing off of the vaulted ceiling of the library. There was no way she was going to stay here with this prick and be insulted, it was too hot to put up with someone so irritating. She gathered her belongings into her arms, not bothering to put them back into her bag, and stormed away.

**DIVIDER**

“He called me meek and insecure, can you believe it?” she raged at Libby as she sat cross legged on the sofa of the living of their small flat.

The communal space was open plan, a cosy living room that opened out onto a poky kitchen. Libby stood at the breakfast bar, her back to the cupboards as her fingers tapped against a Super Noodles flavour packet, while she waited for the kettle to boil.

“We-ell…” Libby began, offering her a tight smile.

“Are you kidding me?!” she seethed, wide eyed with disbelief.

Her friend turned, poured boiling water over the noodles in her bowl, before placing it into the microwave. It beeped as she pressed buttons, before whirring to life.

“You’re my best friend,” she said, crossing the space to sit next to her, “and I think you’re amazing, but I don’t think you think that. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

She frowned, her mouth twisting in confusion. “Is it a bad thing that I’m not arrogant?”

Libby shook her head. “It’s a bad thing that you allow yourself to be torn down so easily. Look at how you acted at the pub quiz.”

“That jumped up little twat was rude to me!” she protested, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

“He was,” Libby agreed, “but what I think got to you is that you share the same field of study, and despite only being in his first year he’s more secure than you are.”

She fell silent, chewing her lip. She wanted to protest, to say she was wrong, but she couldn’t. It had gotten to her how confident he was in his own ability, and he was really only just starting out. She had just begun a master’s degree and was still doubting herself, feeling as though she didn’t belong.

“I think he quite likes you,” Libby added with a knowing smile, “and I think if you gave yourself the chance to think about it, you’d realise you fancy him a little bit too.”

“Absolutely not,” she denied flatly, “have you seen the way he dresses?!”

“Already thinking about taking his clothes off, see?!” Libby laughed as she swatted at her.

She tutted, pawing through the things that she had brought back with her from the library, noticing something that she hadn’t bundled in with the textbooks she’d borrowed. She rummaged in her bag, her heart dropping upon realising it wasn’t in there either. “He’s got my notebook…”

Libby grinned as the microwave beeped, jumping to her feet “Saved by the bell!”

Feeling around amongst the stray bobby pins and discarded chewing gum wrappers at the bottom of her bag, her fingers finally wrapped around the beer mat she’d chucked in there the previous week, and pulled it out. She tapped it against her knee as she looked at the phone number, trying to decide between spending ten pence on a text message to ask if he had her notebook, giving Michael her own number in the process and opening herself up to further interactions with him, or just cutting her losses and buying a new pad. The one she had left in the library had all of her dissertation notes though, and she’d have to start from scratch if she bought a new one.

Flipping open her Motorola, she typed out a text message – “Do you have my notebook?” – and hit send.

Almost twenty minutes later, and ten minutes into an episode of Come Dine With Me, her phone buzzed with his response – “who is this? ;-)”

“For fuck’s sake,” she groused to herself, letting her phone snap closed and drop back onto the sofa cushions, as she resigned herself to simply buying a new notebook. She didn’t want to play his stupid games, and certainly wouldn’t be texting him back.

A few moments later, her phone buzzed again – “Yes, I have it. You could come & collect it from me tomorrow?”

**DIVIDER**

This was not how she had envisioned spending her Friday night. When she had finished her third year, and moved into a flat with Libby, she thought she had seen the last of student halls. Yet, here she was, trudging up the steps of Balliol College as the faint sounds of laughter and music drifted faintly along the hallways. It was a reminder of her own university experience – or rather the one she’d missed out on. She had spent many Friday nights lost in her studies, while the rest of her peers socialised and partied without her. It was what had made her glad to be out of student accommodation – she was free of the reminder that the world was going on around her while her own was at a standstill.

She checked her phone again, ensuring she had the correct room and then knocked. Michael answered, wearing a blue checked shirt tucked into tan coloured cargo trousers, and she had to fight a smirk at the sight of how high up they were belted around his waist.

“Come in,” he offered, stepping to one side.

She hesitated – she had been anticipating just grabbing her notebook from him and then leaving. An invitation into his room was unexpected. She relented when he gave an impatient raise of his eyebrows, and stepped inside.

It was cleaner, much cleaner, than a student’s room had any right to be. The window was cracked open, allowing a slight respite from the humidity of the old building, and the scent of bar soap and clean laundry hung lightly in the air. The sheets were pulled taut against the single bed that sat against the far wall of the room, with a poster above it that made her lips quirk into an involuntary smile – “sketching rational functions is a pain in the asymptote”. The desk in the far corner of the room was even tidy, with all of the books stacked neatly. It was there that she spotted her notebook, placed close to the edge.

“So, I’ll just grab this and go then…” she began, moving towards it.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, grabbing a plastic water tumbler full of white wine from the bedside table and holding it out to her, “I’ve got us drinks.”

“Wine?” she asked with a raise of her eyebrow, accepting the cup from him. “Very fancy for a student.”

He smirked. “Well, you’re an older woman, I thought alcopops might be beneath you.”

She sipped the wine. It was room temperature, and so tart upon her tongue that her face reflexively twisted in disgust as she swallowed it with a slight sputter. “Thank you,” she coughed, “that is truly, truly awful.”

Michael lifted his own drink in mock toast. “Costcutter, two bottles for a fiver. I am a student after all.”

The two of them sat side by side on the bed, their backs against the wall as they drank their sour wine, and chatted. He was all of the things she had thought he was – arrogant, obnoxious and callous – but he was also fiercely intelligent, confident, witty and handsome in his own curious sort of way, though she attributed that to the bottle of wine they had polished off between them. She discovered that he had earned his place at Oxford via a scholarship, and had an eidetic memory for numbers – he really could do any sum in his head, and was hoping to specialise in mathematical engineering.

“So, theoretical astrophysics is your thing then?” he asked, as he cracked open the screwtop on the second bottle of wine and refilled both their tumblers.

“You read my notebook?!” she asked, feeling her skin grow heated with embarrassment. The idea of him reading her notes made her feel vulnerable, as though he was looking at her naked.

“I had a quick flick through,” he admitted with a shrug, “it’s rare to find someone our…well, your age, with an interest in maths and physics, especially a woman.”

She hummed softly in acknowledgement, her gaze falling to the plastic rim of the cup she held in her hands.

“Why do you do that?” he asked, twisting his torso to face her properly. “Why do you diminish yourself like that?”

She shrugged, sipping her wine. It was less foul now that she had gotten used to the taste. “I dunno. I just–”

“I’ve read your notes,” he pressed, “your intelligence is far superior to anyone I’ve met here so far. Why aren’t you proud of that?”

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Hard to be confident in your abilities when you get a stupid pub quiz question wrong.”

Michael scoffed, rolling his eyes. “But you knew where you went wrong,” he insisted, “do you see what I mean? You aren’t walking around genuinely believing that 13.395 is the answer, you know it’s not.”

“Then why were you so cruel about it?” she asked softly, her tone laced with uncertainty.

“I was teasing you, I didn’t mean to be cruel,” Michael admitted, “I guess I was trying to flirt…”

Her lips parted slightly in surprise, the admission making her breath hitch, before she giggled. “So you are bad at something after all.”

He grinned. “I suppose so, but I’d still rather be a maths genius.”

She shifted around on the bed to face him. “Can you still do any sum in your head after a bottle of wine?”

Michael reached up, placing his half drunk cup on the window sill. “Try me.”

She lifted her gaze towards the ceiling momentarily as she thought of a sum, before looking at him again. “98 times 63?”

“6,174,” he answered with a confident smile.

“That’s incredible,” she laughed, leaning forward and placing her hand on his thigh. “149 divided by 4.8?”

She noticed him tense, his sharp intake of breath from the presence of her touch, and he blinked, hesitating before he answered. “Erm…31. Shall I do the decimal places?”

“No,” she replied, smirking as an idea occurred to her.

She moved to straddle his lap, her knees either side of his legs as she wound her arms around his neck, her breath ghosting against the shell of his ear. “865 times 17?”

“Jesus Christ," he breathed as his hands came to rest up on her hips.

She could feel him trembling beneath her, and she enjoyed it. She wasn’t sure if it was the cheap wine, or knowing she had a self proclaimed maths genius at her mercy, but she felt powerful. “That’s not the answer, is it?” she cooed, burying her fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck and tugging gently. Michael groaned and the sound made her clench around nothing as heat pooled in her belly. “865 times 17?”

“Uh…it’s…it’s…14,705,” he stammered, his breaths becoming laboured.

She wasn’t even sure if that was correct herself, she’d need a calculator to check, but right now she was too lost in the moment to care. For the first time in a long time, she felt confident. “Good boy,” she purred.

Trailing her hands down the cotton fabric of his shirt, she slowly began to unbutton it. His skin was pale as it was revealed to her, his chest had a light dusting of blonde hair that trailed down to his bellybutton. He was thin, but in a way that showed the definition of wiry muscle instead of the outline of bone. He looked mesmerised as he stared up at her, pupils wide and full lips parted, and he muttered a curse under his breath as she dragged the flat of her palms over his bare skin.

She was curious to see if he’d make a blunder and embarrass himself just as she had when they first met. She rolled her hips against his provocatively, feeling him growing hard beneath her, as she ran the tip of her finger down the centre of his chest. “58,793 plus 118,248?”

Michael whined, his eyes screwing shut as he bucked up against her, gripping her hips tighter as she rocked against him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chided, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. “Correct answer, or I’ll stop.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, contining to press his erection insistently against her through his trousers. “It’s er…it’s…shit…it’s 177,041.”

“Well done. I think that deserves a reward, don’t you?” She smiled wickedly down at him, pulling away as he leaned up in an attempt to kiss her. “No, not that.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him, it was just that that felt too intimate for what they were doing. She was enjoying being in charge, and didn’t want to break the spell of whatever had empowered her to take the lead.

His eyes dropped to her hands as they grasped at his belt buckle, tugging it open and freeing his cock. His chest rose and fell unsteadily as she wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly. It wasn’t overly girthy, but what it lacked in thickness it made up for in length. A prominent vein ran along the underside, and the head was ruddy and swollen, weeping with arousal. Michael hissed through his teeth as she swiped her thumb against the tip of him, the pass of her palm against his shaft becoming more insistent.

“17,604 divided by 56?” she whispered.

He moaned, the back of his head hitting the wall with a soft thud as it tipped backwards in pleasure. She could feel herself growing wet at the sight of him, the telltale patch of dampness in her underwear growing sticky and clinging to her flesh.

“It’s…it’s…”

“Yes?” she urged, stilling her hand on his shaft, but not letting go.

“Please…please don’t stop,” he panted, his voice a pitiful whine.

“Then tell me the answer,” she demanded, giving him a gentle squeeze that made his hips jerk off of the mattress.

“314…point…point,” he gasped as she resumed the back and forth motion over his manhood, and she grinned wolfishly.

“Poor baby can’t remember the decimal point?” she teased, feeling him begin to throb against her palm.

“I can’t…I can’t,” he panted, “I’m gonna…”

With a final flick of her wrist, she watched in rapt fascination as spurts of pearly release coated her hand and splattered across his lower abdomen as he pulsed steadily in her hand, gasping for breath as his hips bucked involuntarily.

She smiled down at him when he finally stilled, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks, fogged up glasses, and the mess he’d made of both of them. “Turns out there are some sums you can’t do, after all,” she teased, letting go of him.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, lifting off his glasses and running a hand through his hair as he sagged back against the wall. “I don’t even care, that was incredible.”

She laughed softly, wiping her hand off on the bed spread as she climbed off of him and sat next to him. “What about me?” she asked coyly, “You got to come and I didn’t.”

He eyed her sheepishly as he put his glasses back on, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. “I don’t really know how. I mean, I’ve never…”

Dread passed over her like a bucket of ice water as she realised he was a virgin. She hadn’t even stopped to think that this could be his first sexual encounter, she’d just assumed it wasn’t, and was now terrified she’d taken advantage of him.

Seeming to sense her inner turmoil, he reached out, his slender fingers gently encircling her wrist in an attempt at reassurance. “I guess I don’t know everything after all,” he offered with a slight smile, “but lucky for me, I have a brilliant teacher.”

She softened, her eyes lifting to meet his as she relaxed, knowing she hadn’t overstepped. “I suppose tutoring sessions may be required after all.”

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fresherssarkarinaukrii · 1 year ago

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How to Get a Job in HR A Step-by-Step Guide

If you have a strong passion for working with people, developing organizations, and fostering a positive work atmosphere, then a career in Human Resources (HR) could be an ideal choice for you. As the demand for skilled HR professionals is continuously increasing across various industries, now is the right time to explore the possibilities and start your journey in this dynamic field.

This comprehensive guide will provide you with practical steps and effective strategies to help you secure your dream job in HR.

#How to Get a Job in HR A Step-by-Step Guide #How to Get a Job in HR #Hr jobs #here hr jobs #govt jobs #fresher jobs #govt jobs online #https://freshersarkarinokari.blogspot.com/2024/03/How-to-Get-Job-in-hr.html

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multimilfs · 4 months ago

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Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: The Bigger Bear

Summary: Agnes is set to be recognized for her work on a case, but getting her to the event leads to some... unexpected circumstances.

Ao3 + Part 1

Words: 10.6k

A/N: An enormous thank you to my beautiful beta readers; @saphiccarma , @louisaa-a , and @harknessshi who were kind enough to take their time and read over this for me!!!

Included: Established relationships, G!P, daddy kink, mommy kink, hand jobs, begging, dom/sub, kink exploration, car sex, accidental stimulation, accidental drug use, dirty talk, humiliation, possessive sex, porn with plot.

Tag List: @sapphicharknesss @grilledcheeseandguavajelly @milfslvr @kathrynscontroversiallyyounggf @raleighgay @ninatheronhahn @lizzieolsie216 @ajaasiopaoo @sweetestberryofthebunch @meiwan @pagetboobstarcomments @coffeemelko @alli23rt @thefearoffallingapartohohoh @ambessasevikasexslave @cowtownz @ilovehotactresses @supergirl107 @jillisselt @reignofnightmares @sapphic-gays @heady-pomegranate @dmtrxie @sp3c-tr0 @evie-101 @poisson-99 @renravens @scullysstrapblog @littlebminus @hvrkncss @blue2908 @lolitscaitlin @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @bqqbacenbuger @tastycadaversoup @women-are-so-ethereal @fruityrat47 @yluji @absolute-memegarbage @starryalexis @snickerdoodles-stuff @cheesee07 @rosie6reyes @kmaxmadness

With sleep still clouding every corner of your mind, you sigh, trudging down the stairs.

The to-do list sits empty, which in theory allows for more time to relax; but relaxation often turns to boredom, and you find yourself missing Agnes. You sigh again as you aim for the kitchen, passing the living room.

Three steps past the living room you pause.

You know every inch of your home top-to-bottom, down to the scuffs on the baseboards from Agnes kicking her shoes into them—which is why you know the dark mass sitting on the couch shouldn’t be there. You back up and blink at the sight of your wife.

She’s clad in a flannel shirt and boxers, hair a frizzy halo around her head. Her glasses threaten to slide down her nose as she stares down at the pages of a book.

“You’re home today?” You ask.

“Chief told me to leave, take a ‘well deserved break.’” Agnes scoffs, not looking up from her book, “Just because we wrapped that case yesterday doesn’t mean there aren’t others.”

“True. But you can look at the others with fresher eyes if you rest.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were conspiring with him. He said the same thing.”

“Common sense for those who believe in work-life balance.” You smile, crossing to the couch and sitting down, leaning into her, “What are you reading?”

An arm loops around you, pulling you more firmly into her side. Long fingers brush against the exposed bit of flesh on your side. Warmth radiates from her and you cuddle into every bit of contact she offers. The sigh that leaves you this time is pleased—dreamy.

Agnes switches to reading the book aloud. Yet you’re not paying attention to the words, but rather, her voice; the gravelly note in it as she keeps her voice low in the peace of the morning, how it speeds up and slows at different intervals depending on how eager she is to see what happens next. Head resting on her shoulder, you take in all of her with so much affection it could make you sick.

Like the details of your home, you know every contour of Agnes’ face as if you possess a map. You know every wrinkle and smile line, the subtle freckles that become brighter in the summer. If she’d let you, you’d kiss every mark on her face a dozen times over.

Instead, you settle for tracing your finger down the length of her nose. She pauses.

“What are you doing?” She asks.

“Admiring.”

Hesitation, then she shrugs it off, “Okay.”

She begins to read again, mouth twitching with a grin when you trace the sensitive spots of her skin. It makes you grin. Faintly, you have the thought of hooking a finger in her mouth to see how she’d react, but you’re enjoying the comfort of being near her too much.

Her lashes flutter when she blinks behind her glasses. The muscles in her jaw work double-time when she reads faster. You drag your finger along said jaw with agonizing tenderness.

Tenderness that fills you so fully you can’t keep silent any longer, murmuring, “My handsome girl.”

She swallows roughly.

“What is your deal?”

“I told you,” you smile, leaning in to kiss her jaw, “I’m admiring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“Part of my job, sorry.”

“Don’t remember that being in the vows.”

“If I remember correctly, you don’t remember any of the vows—your focus was on the wedding night. As if we’d never had sex before.”

Agnes barks out a laugh, “A lot of you was on display, what else could I focus on?”

“How much you love me, for starters.” You pout.

At the sight of your expression, Agnes rolls her eyes, the hint of a grin still pulling at the edges of her oh-so-kissable lips.

“That’s what the rest of our lives were for.” She waves you off, “The wedding night had its own purpose.”

“Loving and fucking can and do exist at the same time, you know.”

“You don’t say.”

You don’t dignify the comment with anything beyond a petulant huff.

Like a cat sure of their rightful spot, you curl back into your wife’s side as if you own the space; as if the curve of her body was molded to match your own. The length of a strong shoulder plays the part of your pillow.

Agnes’ fingers twitch around her book. She resumes reading, silent this time.

The allure of sleep still beckons with a convincing hand. Your eyelids droop—but though you may close them, sleep does not come. You alternate between opening them to make a half-hearted attempt at reading the pages and letting them slip closed on the hope of slipping away. Similar fatigue plagues the whole of your body.

A bird calls outside. There’s a brush against your foot as Scratchy hops by.

The lingering notes of Agnes’ cologne tickle your nose. You press closer—as if it’s possible— wanting to drown yourself in the scent, in her. She huffs a near-silent laugh.

Your stomach growls. It squeezes, searching and desperate. You should make something for the two of you, but that requires moving away, and you’d rather cut off your own hand than do that right now.

But the noise doesn’t escape your wife’s notice, “Let me finish this chapter and I’ll make breakfast.”

A simple, innocuous statement; yet it turns your heart to liquid.

Before Agnes, how many times did you trudge through the day, ignoring your own needs due to your exhaustion? How many past partners had cared enough to put their tasks on hold to do something like make you breakfast?

The offering doesn’t surprise you; you’ve been together too long—but in the silence, you’re painfully aware of a time where the idea of anyone caring felt impossible. You had only let yourself imagine someone like Agnes in the dead of night, where the lack twisted in your chest. And you had given up on ever finding what you needed… until she walked into your life and shook the foundations of what you knew to be true.

The affection and gratitude gnaws at your insides, desperate to be expressed. How do you express the gravity of a love like yours? How do you explain to Agnes the way she makes you feel without her waving you off, unwilling to hear praise?

Without a word, you spit in your palm and slide it past the waistband of her boxers.

Agnes jolts when you take her in hand. Her fingers press indents into the pages, eyes wide and searching your face for a hint of explanation.

“Keep reading.” You say, with more force than intended.

You’re stunned when she does so without argument.

Pages turn, minutes pass. You listen to how her breathing changes as your hand works over her length, varying your strokes, paying attention to what makes her hips twitch. The change is slow—gradual, the sun changing position as you bring Agnes’ cock to wakefulness.

You don’t mind the time it takes; allowing you to revel in the closeness, breathing in the scent of her and embracing her warmth as she slowly grows hard in your palm.

Every now and again, you’ll tilt your head back to admire her side profile again—the subtle pucker of her lips, her darling cheekbones, the beautiful meandering outline of her nose. You want to show her love so overwhelming that she never doubts her beauty again. You want to smother her in it. You want to sink your fucking teeth into her.

Agnes inhales sharply when you squeeze, sitting up a bit straighter. You smile into the skin of her neck at how hard she’s growing, and how with every minute that passes she loses control over her focus.

“Baby.” She whispers, pleading.

A strange desire for a different title comes to life in the back of your mind. You shove it down.

“Keep reading, Agnes.”

A throaty whine. You like watching her try to do what you ask, but you want to see her squirm more. You nip at her neck.

“You’re so perfect.” You whisper, hand stroking faster, “And all mine.”

Though Agnes’ eyes are focused on the book in her white-knuckle grip, they don’t move across the page. Her chest rises and falls, hips twitching as she bucks into your palm. A thin sheen of sweat clings to her temples.

When you run your thumb over the head of her cock, she whines, thrusting up.

“So responsive, aren’t you?” You run your tongue along the shell of her ear, “So needy for more of me around your cock. You just can’t get enough.”

The flutter of pages and a clatter as her book hits the floor. Head thrown back, she squeezes her eyes shut, throat bobbing. Slowing the movement of your hand, there’s a rush of heat between your legs at her pitiful little noises. God she’s fucking perfect.

Her cock throbs as you drag your hand over every tense inch. Fist so loose you’re hardly making contact, Agnes’ hand seeks your own; gripping you around the wrist and tightening the grip for you, fucking herself into the warmth of your palm.

That won’t do.

Extracting yourself entirely, you tsk, “I didn’t say you could touch.”

Agnes’ head rolls in your direction. Shadow falls over her face, her eyes darker for it. Pink and red paints an enchanting vision over her flesh. You resist the urge to give in and give her your cunt—because then she won’t learn, will she?

“Baby,” she grits out, jaw tense, “don’t tease.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d behave.”

“I’m not a fucking dog.”

“Oh?” Your head tilts. Her cock is pressed against the front of her boxers and you trace your finger along the outline of her, “But I thought you liked being a good boy.”

A violent throb beneath your touch. Her hands clench in the couch cushions.

“God.”

You bring your ghosting touch up to her throat. Sweat clings to your fingertip as you dip along the sharp structures of her physique. An idea pops into your head that has you clenching your thighs.

“Maybe I should put a collar on you. You’ll never forget who holds your leash if you’re wearing my name around your neck.”

“Fuck no.”

Agnes twitches.

You laugh—a mean sound that you don’t entirely recognize coming from your mouth. Oh. The sound of your own twisted confidence and the power wrapped within only deepens the heat between your thighs.

“No?”

A dangerous note lingers in your voice. Agnes—whether not noticing or not caring—snarls.

“No.”

“What a shame.”

In a beat, you’re gone; off the couch and out of her reach. You crouch to pick up her book and look up through your lashes. Agnes swallows, eyes blown out, cock straining enough that she must be in some kind of pain.

The weak, pleading look on her face has been replaced by something harder—the veneer of Detective O’Connor, who spits in the face of higher forces and never once stops to ask for forgiveness. Your mouth feels too full; your tongue desperate to trace along the hard line of her jaw and into the divots of her collarbones, the press of bone firm against your soft appendage.

You love her in power and control, but you want the glimpse caught in her office on Christmas Eve—you want her so desperate she’ll humiliate herself for a touch.

With a sweet smile, you throw the book into her lap, “Have fun with your hand.”

A brief glimpse of her shock makes you shiver with satisfaction. You’ve never walked away, never denied either of you; you’re the desperate one, willing to do any degrading little thing she suggests if it means she’ll take you.

You’re not sure where this desire to dominate has been hiding, but god if it isn’t delicious.

A step away from leaving the room, her raspy voice calls, “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t… Don’t leave me like this.”

Leaning against the doorway, you laugh, “I’m not taking orders.”

“Come on, baby,” She says, in a near-whine, “I don’t want my hand.”

“You want mine?”

For flair, you hold yours up, wiggling your fingers with a raised brow. She stares and gulps. Then, she nods.

“Words, Agnes.”

“Yeah. Yes.”

You step back into the room with an expression of faux-sympathy. But instead of returning to the couch where she waits, hard and wanting, you sink into the armchair at the edge of the room. The cushions caress your form without fuss. You sink deeper, getting comfortable.

Agnes' eyes haven’t left you for a moment—good. You fold one leg over the other and finally meet her gaze.

“You’ll have to come over here and earn it.”

She’s up from the couch in less than a second. Her feet wobble beneath her, but she’s so eager that the questionable footing doesn’t stop her.

You hold up a hand.

Agnes stops.

“Crawl.”

Her teeth make an appearance, lip curling. You brace for a mouthful of venom as you prod at the pride she protects so viciously—but Agnes sinks to her knees.

You feel as if you’re watching the scene in slow motion. Agnes crosses the space on all fours, hair obscuring her features, even as her eyes never leave your own—not even when the sharp rays of sun sneak through the slats of the blinds and light directly on the electric-blue orbs. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

Desire churns and makes you clench. The emptiness between your legs is so prominent that it’s painful. You want her inside you, but you have all day.

When Agnes reaches you, there’s a split second where she looks unsure, hands twitching in front of her as she tries to decide what to do with them. You wait. Even if you’re enjoying holding all the power, you love how she surprises you.

Agnes’ eyes leave you as she bends, pressing her lips to the sensitive skin of your ankle.

“My angel.” She murmurs, alternating to the other side, “My love.”

It’s a slow ascent. She’s taking her job seriously—worshipping every inch of you on her way up to the space between your legs, murmuring words of devotion and praise in a voice so reverent it almost feels out of place; you are the offering upon the altar she kneels before, and she’ll do whatever is required to demonstrate her piety.

Your chest is heaving by the time her lips make it to your inner thighs. How unfair, how so like her to steal the power back by completely surrendering herself to you—tears prick at your eyes, your body searching for a way to release all this emotion inside.

You have never loved or trusted anyone like her. You want to fucking ruin her for it.

Before she can reach your covered center, you weave a hand in her hair and yank her head back. She groans. The sound makes you clench. But it’s nothing compared to how she looks up at you.

The heart in your chest squeezes, you whisper, “Perfect.”

She bristles like the words are an insult. You don’t give her time to argue, leaning down to capture her lips. Your tongue sweeps across them and into her mouth with a desperation that makes your heart race—the need to taste her, to taste your flesh upon her, drives you to near-madness.

When you pull back a thin web of spit connects you and you lick it from where it meets her bottom lip.

Unyielding, you grip her jaw in a hand, and stare into her eyes, “Who do you belong to, Agnes?”

A beat.

“You.” She breathes.

It takes everything in you to keep your eyes from rolling back in your head.

“Stand up.”

Agnes does as you command as quickly as she can manage. You tamp down on your giggle when her knees crack, but you know she can see the amusement in your eyes; a matching look in her own.

Said look fades when you remove your sleep shirt and yank her boxers down.

The cold air of the room pebbles your nipples. From her position above you, Agnes licks her lips. You take her cock in hand once more and she throbs; no matter who is in control, she loses it seeing you beneath her.

You squeeze. Her hips thrust forward.

“Don’t tease, angel.” She begs.

“Behave and I won’t have to.”

Punctuating the statement with a firm stroke cuts off any arguments. Pretty blue eyes roll right back in her head, her hips moving, seeking more—soft little pants leaving her in place of words.

It’s not going to take long to make her cum.

When your hand falls into the rhythm that best suits, your mind begins to wander; it feels nice to touch her, taking your time—you’ve both found yourselves so caught up in life as of late that sex was a collection of frantic movements between tasks. Not that it was ever bad sex. But there’s something special about having time to tease and draw out the actions.

How fortunate you had no plans today.

You’re going to take your time and worship her like she worships you. You’re going to familiarize every inch of Agnes’ body with your tongue; imprinting her taste until it’s all you hold in your mouth. By the time you’re finished, every inch of her will shake at the reminder of how good you make her feel.

Looking up through your lashes, that warm devotion in your chest expands until it’s hard to breathe. Her hand digs into your shoulder as she thrusts, eyes closed, completely trusting you to hold her steady.

You push up the bottom of her shirt and press kisses to the soft skin of her stomach. Her hips stutter for a moment and you feel her tense, fighting her desire to check on you. But that isn’t what you want; you want her to take, to enjoy without guilt or worry.

“Who do you belong to?” You repeat, speeding up your movements.

Faintly, you remember why you don’t use your hand very often; your wrist hurts.

A choked gasp, “You.”

“Yeah you do.” You smile, bolstered by her affirmation, “Every inch of you is mine—mine to love, mine to cherish, mine to break. And I’m going to break you, baby. I’m going to fuck you until all you can do is pant like a fucking dog.”

Agnes keens. Her chest is rising and falling so fast you worry she might hyperventilate, but she doesn’t once stop moving, fucking into your hand while whimpers of “yours, all yours” leave her lips. The power of taking every ounce of her fight makes your head feel floaty.

Her thrusts grow more erratic as she nears her peak. The hands on your shoulders tense and loosen.

“Let me. Please l-let me—” She cries.

You tense out of nowhere, waves of pleasure coalescing and rocking through you as you cum without a touch. Heaving gasps of air as you breathe through it.

Your voice is weaker than you’d like, “Give me a pretty necklace, baby.”

Agnes wastes no time in fulfilling your request. With one final snap of her hips, they stop, and spurts of cum shoot from her cock, painting the bottom of your face and neck in her desire. You watch every inch of her face—the furrow of her brows as she works through the feeling, and how every muscle loosens as the pleasure settles like a warm blanket.

Carefully, you extract your hand from her softening length, licking her off your lips. She regards you through heavy-lidded eyes.

You scoot to the side and make room to tug her down next to you. She allows it. Soft and pliant, she curls wordlessly into you, head falling on your shoulder—only narrowly avoiding the mess she’s made.

“You did so well,” smiling, you kiss the top of her head, “you make me so happy when you let yourself have what you want. And you look so perfect when you do.”

She grunts in acknowledgement. Her body weight is pressing against you more insistently with every passing second, and you let it, running your hand up and down her back until her breathing evens out.

Even as she dozes off, you can resist whispering, “My love. My handsome girl.”

---

Days later, you curse, every muscle still sore as you answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is Chief Proctor, would you—”

You don’t think before rushing out, “What is it? What happened?”

Did something happen when Agnes was out following a lead? She rarely goes alone, but you know how stubborn she can be about being made to wait. Did some perp try to fight back, or get her before she could get them? Fuck, did she get shot?

“Everything’s fine, Agnes is just fine!” He rushes to reassure you, and you feel like you can breathe again, “I wanted to ask if you’d come in so I could run something by ya.”

You put your head in your hand. The heart in your chest is still beating too fast, fear still coursing through your veins even though there is no danger.

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there soon, Chief.”

---

A few heads pop up when you walk into the station, but you don’t give them any attention; too exhausted from the scare earlier to entertain polite conversation with Agnes’ coworkers. You beeline straight for the Chief’s office when you spy that your wife’s is empty.

Harold sits at his desk trying—and failing—to wipe a ketchup stain off his white shirt.

“Sarah’s stain treatment must be holy with all the messes you make.” You say by way of greeting, plopping into the chair opposite his desk.

An embarrassed flush works up his cheeks. He clears his throat, dropping the crumpled napkin on the desktop and straightening up.

“Thanks for coming in. Sorry for scaring ya.”

Waving off the apology, “What’s up?”

“Well, you know the annual State banquet is coming up. I was wondering if you could get Agnes to be there.”

You raise a brow. It takes all your will-power not to scoff at the request.

“Chief, she hates those things.”

“I know, I know—but look, they, uh, well what I mean to say is we—”

“Chief.”

“They want to recognize Agnes for her work in the Maximoff case.” He blurts.

The second he says it, you know you have no choice but to figure out a way to get her there.

Ten months; that’s how long you watched Agnes agonize over the Maximoff case, obsessing over the details she was missing. She’d leave before dawn and come back after dark. And even when she was home, she spent half her time sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at all the photos. Some nights she brought Vidal with her—others, she sat in the dim kitchen alone, head in her hands while the world went on outside.

She’d have worked 24/7 if you hadn’t insisted on days off. When she took them, she slept the whole day.

Agnes doesn’t do her job for rewards, but you’ll be damned if you let her pass up recognition from the state; especially after everything she went through.

“Fuck.” Dragging a hand down your face, you sigh, “She’s going to be a bear about this.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.”

---

“Did you pick up your suit from the dry-cleaners?” You ask in lieu of a greeting.

Agnes’ scoff is faint. The front door shuts with a half-hearted slam. Then, the squeak of rubber on wood; you wish she would stop doing that.

“No, honey, I came straight home after you texted me about it seven times.”

She comes into the kitchen, plastic-covered suit in hand, and you relax. That’s the last thing on your list, ready and secured.

“Oh bite me.”

Agnes grins, “With pleasure.”

You turn when she rounds to you and accept her hello kiss. The taste of un-burnt coffee lingers on her lips and you frown.

“Did you go out for lunch again?”

“The guys needed a pick-me-up.”

“Agnes.” You groan.

“It was a few sandwiches, baby. It’s not going to break us.”

“That would be true if you didn’t buy ‘a few sandwiches’ three times a week.”

A hand is dragged down her face. She sighs.

“I’m going to put the suit in the closet and do some work in the office, yeah? Yell when dinner’s ready.”

You grab her before she can go too far, “No, hey, I’m sorry—I just, there’s been a lot coming out of the account this month and I’m worked up over it. I’m sorry. Stay, please.”

Worked up over it being an understatement—the state you were in after paying the final installment on Nicky’s funeral arrangements this morning could’ve earned you an Oscar. But you don’t want to dwell on that. You want to finish dinner with some light banter from your wife, sit next to her at the table, and cuddle up in bed talking about nonsense; none of which you can do if she locks herself in her office.

Agnes relaxes in your hold. She may let you handle the finances, but she’s just as aware of the bills, and likely has a hunch of which are bothering you.

“When do you plan on telling me where we’re going?”

“Just enjoy the surprise, baby.”

“It wouldn’t take much digging to uncover your evil plans,” she says, making you snort, “if you save me the work I’m sure we can strike a deal.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Tell me what I want to know and we can knock your time down from six hours to three—less, with good behavior.”

There’s a purposeful press of her hips against you. She’s not hard, yet, but you take her meaning.

“You can’t last that long and you know it.” You taunt.

“Practice makes perfect.”

You roll your eyes. Playfully pushing her away, her grin nearly makes you melt—but you focus back on dinner before she can tempt you into letting it burn.

“Go hang your suit up and stop harassing me.”

Her grin feels like a brand when she kisses your cheek, “Yes, ma’am.”

---

The door clicks open and you get a whiff of Agnes’ cologne. You smile, not looking up from where you’re fastening your own bracelet.

“Can you help me with the tie?”

After several failed attempts, you loop the clasp through the chain link. Looking up, your breath stops. You swallow.

Agnes stands in the doorway of the bathroom in a deep brown suit, the jacket button undone to reveal the dress shirt beneath. It’s a bit big, offering a slouchy silhouette that makes her look phenomenal. The matching tie sits unraveled around the back of her neck just waiting for your hands.

You stand to help and she shifts. The adjustment moves one side of the suit jacket and that’s when you see it—the carabiner with her keys attached to one of the belt loops; simple, something she has on her everyday, but the sight of it has you sinking to your knees in front of her.

“Fuck, baby.”

She smirks down at you through the mane of hair she hasn’t pulled back yet, “Stand up.”

“I need you,” you whine, hands reaching for her belt-buckle, “please, Daddy, I need you so bad.”

Her hands pause as they reach for you. Clear as a whistle, you both register the desperate want in your voice; the kind she’d expect to hear after edging you a few times.

Something about the suit is driving you wild—sending you from 0 to 60 from the mere sight of her. Maybe it’s the effortless way she pulls it off. Maybe it’s that she’s so comfortable in a way she’s only displayed wearing her flannels. Maybe it’s both, combined with the reminder that this woman is yours.

You love her so much it threatens to stop your heart and you need to fuck her about it.

“Please.”

Agnes snaps back into movement. Her hand grips your chin, firm, “I gave you an order. Stand up.”

It’s mean and unfair and so fucking hot. You whine, but you do as she says—though not before pressing a kiss to the front of her pants, longing for the prize past the layer of fabric.

“What did I ask you to do?” Agnes says when you’re stable on your feet.

“Help you with the tie.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Your hands find the fabric and go about the motions, though you have to slow down when your hands stutter. Even if she rarely wears them, you’re glad you memorized how to fix a tie, or this would be a significant loss to her ensemble.

God you want her so bad.

“Could we… just something quick?” You ask.

“Oh no, honey, you’ve been on my ass about this dinner for weeks.” Agnes laughs, something cruel, “I’m not living in suspense any longer. You can handle an hour.”

For an agonizing moment, you consider breaking—telling her that you’re about to be stuck in a stuffy government building with sub-par food, so she’ll refuse to go and punish you for trying to trick her—but then you remember the nights she ate Planter’s peanuts straight from the canister and got two hours of sleep, all so she wouldn’t leave the case for too long.

“Okay.”

Her smile softens, “Good girl. You’ll meet me downstairs when you’re ready?”

“I shouldn’t be long.”

She nods. Agnes presses a kiss to your forehead and squeezes you in a sweet gesture, before heading for the bedroom door. You listen to her go, unable to look—if you do, you might be tempted to use the rest of your time getting ready with your favorite vibrator.

Half-way down the stairs, she calls, “Do we still have ibuprofen? My head is killing me.”

“In the medicine cabinet. Bottom shelf.”

She grunts an acknowledgement and you laugh. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you take a few deep breaths; it’s only a few hours—you can handle it.

---

The second you pull up to the State House, Agnes stiffens. Her leg that’s been bouncing with agitation the past half-hour stills.

“What the hell are we doing here?”

“You’re the detective, you tell me.”

Agnes glares, “Turn around.”

“No.”

Some defiance is commonplace in your relationship; it’s hard to earn a punishment if you don’t act up a little bit, after all—but the note in your voice now is firm, the kind you’d employ in the middle of a fight. Agnes regards you with steely eyes.

“Excuse me?” She asks, slow.

Her voice is tight, her jaw too. Slowly, you watch her hands tense over the armrests, as if she’s trying to measure her patience. A small murmur of fear prods you.

This isn’t Agnes putting on a stern act to remind you of your place. This isn’t even a mild bit of annoyance you can tread lightly around. This is the type of anger that builds over time—and making her walk through those doors might drive it to bubble over.

Chief Proctor’s words echo in your mind, “Yeah, well, you’re the bigger bear. You’ll find a way.”

You’ve driven the hour and a half here and she’s going to be pissed regardless. In for a penny…

“I didn’t stutter.” You raise a brow, making direct eye contact, “I’ve driven us all the way here and I told the Chief we were coming. So we’re going to go inside, sit through this dinner, and play nice. Am I understood?”

For a split second, you see her eyes widen. Then her face flushes a deeper red and her hand tightens on the armrest again. You are so dead.

Her voice is surprisingly entreating, “Baby—”

“Am I understood, Agnes?”

A long, long moment of silence.

“Fine.”

You smile, triumphant. Leaning over the middle console and giving her ample time to reject your nearness, smugness burrows into your mood when she leans in closer; and you press a sweet kiss to her lips.

Whispering against them when you pull back, “That’s my good boy.”

Her broken groan makes you feel alive.

---

As far as State banquets go, you’ve been through worse. They must’ve upped the budget in the years since the two of you stopped attending—the food isn’t half-bad and there’s an open bar; which is exactly where you’re waiting to get Agnes a drink when a warm presence slides up beside you.

“I’m surprised you got her to come.” An amused voice comments.

Agent Vidal is a vision in deep green. Her dark hair lays in soft waves over her shoulders, offset by gold earrings that catch the light when she shifts. A small smirk plays at the edges of her mouth.

“She didn’t know until we pulled up outside.” You admit.

That startles a laugh out of the woman. It’s a bit maniacal, but you like it—it suits her.

“No wonder she looks so pissed,” A glass of champagne is passed over the bar and she takes it with a nod, “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Silence lapses between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable as you’d expect. The bartender is dipping around and under the makeshift bar; you perk up, recognizing the ingredients for the drink you ordered Agnes.

You glance over at Agnes and find her distracted; a couple of detectives have wandered over to your table. Her face is still flushed though she doesn’t seem as upset. Frowning, you wonder if maybe she’s coming down with something.

The bartender passes you Agnes’ drink and you smile. Vidal hasn’t left your side. She looks you up and down with those rich brown eyes of hers.

“I never had a chance to thank you for my Christmas gift.” A sultry grin replaces her smirk, and it’s your turn to flush, catching onto her meaning, “Though I’m disappointed it wasn’t delivered in person.”

Your throat feels dry. Staring at the drink in hand, you consider whether a sip will help.

“It was a spur of the moment thing.”

“I guessed as much. Still, I was impressed.”

“Thank you.” You smile, not sure if it’s the proper response.

“Should you two ever find yourselves in my city and willing, don’t hesitate to call me up, sweetheart.”

Vidal doesn’t give you time to respond before vanishing into the crowd. Good—you’re not entirely sure what you would’ve said. But it does a good job of reigniting your desire from earlier in the evening.

There are people rushing around near the podium, which means you don’t have enough time to drag Agnes into the bathroom for a little relief. You settle for taking your seat next to her and lacing your fingers together. Though you blink at the heat coming from her.

It isn’t until the other detectives take their leave that you murmur, “Do we need to go?”

To hell with the award or recognition or whatever it is. Agnes’ health takes priority over everything.

“I’m fine,” she says, gruff, “let’s just get through this and go home.”

“My love—”

“Leave it.”

Every part of you screams to do the opposite, but you sigh and settle into your chair. You pull Agnes’ hand to your lips and kiss the back of it. Her eyes soften and that’s enough for you.

You hold onto that soft look in her face as people step up to the podium and drone on about numbers and figures; nothing the actual workers in the room care about, but necessary to show the government officials in attendance that the state forces are still worth funding. As if they need even half of what the budgets are. To keep yourself from going crazy, you steal a few sips of Agnes’ drink.

About an hour has gone by when Vidal steps up to the podium, unfolding a pair of glasses. You realize her purpose here seconds before understanding dawns on Anges—who turns with an inscrutable look.

Pressing another kiss to the back of her hand, you smile.

What Vidal says goes in one ear and out the other, try as you might to pay attention; but you’re too caught up in watching the emotions pass over Agnes’ face—surprise, hesitant softness, feigned indifference. She deserves every kind word being leveled her way, deserves to have everyone in this room know the hours she put in, deserves to be appreciated.

When the clapping starts and all eyes turn to her, her flush deepens, and she looks unsure. Her eyes meet your own as she searches for comfort.

You lean in and kiss her cheek, whispering in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.”

And the look she gives you—fond, watery eyes and a hesitant smile—makes the entire evening worth it.

---

When the speeches wind down, the two of you are swarmed by state officials and officers alike who want to give Agnes a kind word. She’s a bit tense through every interaction, but takes it in stride. Some well wishes are no trouble.

It’s when the people you know come over that you can feel the trouble start. You hide your grin when they start trading jokes, Agnes scoffing, back in her element.

Her glass sits empty on the table and you snatch it up discreetly.

You manage to catch the bartender before he cleans up for the night. And though you can tell he’s not thrilled to do more work, he makes the drink—you slip him a twenty and his mood perks up.

In the few minutes you were gone the table was completely occupied by your friends; Chief Proctor and his wife Sarah, John, a few of the other Westview detectives and some from Eastview, even Vidal. Every seat at the table is filled. You grin as their laughter echoes in the room, drawing eyes from other lingering groups.

Vidal has stolen your seat. She leans back in it with the same air of poise she possesses in everything. Not for the first time, you completely understand what drew Agnes to her.

While Chief Proctor captures the table's attention with a story, you offer Agnes her drink, and slip into her lap, unbothered. You can’t help the little squeak you let out. And though your wife manages to tamp down on any noises, her hand is digging into your hip, blunt nails threatening to draw blood.

Agnes is painfully hard beneath you.

Her behavior starts to make sense; the flushed face, how stilted her movements have been, her agitation. You blink. Agnes has been off since the drive here.

Without thinking, you adjust to get comfortable, and her grip tightens.

Hissing so only the two of you can hear, “Don’t fucking move.”

You’re impressed, past all the worry—she hasn’t been like this since Christmas Eve, and even then you think this might be worse. And you’ve put her in a precarious situation without meaning to.

You’re deeply reminded of the moment in her office; how little it had taken to drive her over the edge. It’d been fun, though unintentional. But there’s an audience now.

Her breath is ragged. When you chance a look, her mouth is pinched, but her eyes are blown out. One shift—either in you standing up or moving on accident—and she’s going to put on the show of a lifetime. And no one seems in a hurry to leave.

An idea hits you.

“Where is your phone?” You whisper.

Agnes slides it off the tabletop and into your hands without a word. She’s trying to measure her breathing—in 5, out 5. But the throbbing under you only seems to get stronger.

You find the number without much fuss.

You: Be discreet, but I need your help.

If you weren’t moments from disaster, you’d be impressed; the recipient doesn’t so much as glance your way. They respond without even a blink out of place.

Vidal: Go on.

You: I need you to find a way to get everyone to leave.

Vidal pauses after reading the message. She turns her attention back to the group while your heart beats in your ears. Then, you see her regard the two of you from her periphery. The corner of her mouth twitches.

Vidal: What’s in it for me?

You: Are you serious?

Vidal: As a heart-attack.

Vidal: Tick-tock. It doesn’t look like she can hold out much longer.

You resist the urge to sigh, worried it’ll jostle too much.

You: Your offer becomes a promise. If we’re in your area, we’ll call.

Vidal: You’ve got a deal, sweetheart.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Rather, Vidal employs a slow form of manipulation on the group that leaves you breathless; she starts a small story you don’t really hear, drawing everyone in, only to end it with an exaggerated yawn.

A yawn that passes through every other person at the table.

God she’s good.

Putting on an apologetic smile, she stands, “It’s been a long night—I know you all have a long drive home. Congratulations again, Agnes.”

She throws a smile your way, eyes twinkling. Everyone else at the table stands as if on cue, offering their own apologetic goodbyes; leaving you to wonder if Vidal is some kind of witch.

Only when everyone has departed do you turn to Agnes. Her face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“If I move, are you going to…” You ask, soft.

A hesitant nod.

“What can I do?”

Her voice is gravelly, “Just—give me a minute. Don’t talk.”

You raise a brow at the second command, but don’t open your mouth to question her. She relaxes beneath you by just a hair. Each breath is slow, measured.

Some of the organizers have begun to clean up around the edges of the room. They avoid interacting directly with any of the lingering guests, but their pointed looks aren’t subtle.

A few groups take the hint and begin to head toward the front. It’s around this time that Agnes taps a finger against your hip.

“Get up, carefully.”

A despicable part of you considers doing the exact opposite. The room is mostly empty and she’s capable of being quiet when she tries; if you were to grind down hard and fast, she couldn’t do anything but accept the inevitable—the humiliating inevitable.

But you shove that down and stand, using the arms of the chair to lift yourself so there’s as little friction as possible.

Agnes huffs out a breath.

“Are you okay to walk to the car?” You murmur.

“I’m not going to lose it from walking,” she scoffs, “give me a little credit.”

“You’re being very mean to the woman who could’ve utterly humiliated you a minute ago.”

“The same woman who gets off on that?”

You don’t deign to respond to that comment. Rather, you hold your hand out, wiggling your fingers expectantly. Agnes’ fond smile warms you as her hand slots into place in yours.

The night air seems to help as you cross the parking lot. Agnes’ breathing loses its ragged edge, her gait a bit smoother. There’s only the sound of your intermingled breaths and the jingle of her keys; the reminder of earlier making you throb.

Releasing her hand, you reach the passenger door before she can and pull it open, “Your carriage awaits.”

Agnes scoffs.

“Thanks.” She kisses your cheek before sliding into the car.

You rush around to the driver’s side and don’t even turn the car on before leaning over, scrambling with her suit jacket to reach the belt buckle on her pants. Agnes straightens in her seat. When you brush her cock in your search, she twitches, swearing under her breath. A strong hand grabs your wrists.

Blinking, you take her in with a look of disbelief.

“Are you trying to torture yourself? Because that’s my job.”

“You’re just—You’re going a bit fast.”

“I’d say this is overdue in your current state.”

“Drive and we can handle this at the house, yeah? Not in the car like a couple of horny teenagers.”

You laugh, disbelief coloring the sound.

“I think being hard this long has stopped the blood flow to your brain.” You deadpan, “Just let me suck you off and we can go home.”

Agnes' eyes widen just a fraction. Inches from your hands, her hips twitch, as if unable to hold her movements back. But her grip on your wrists only gets tighter.

“Let’s wait.”

“We’ve both been thinking about your cock in my mouth since before we left.”

“Baby—”

“Do you not want my mouth? Because I’m more than ready to take you if we want to climb in the backseat and—”

In your haste to fulfill your mutual desires, you missed the signs staring you right in the face. Or maybe you wanted to miss them.

Agnes’ head hits the headrest with a thud that goes unheard beneath the volume of her moan. Every muscle in her form tenses, with the exception of her hips—which are rutting forward in search of anything to deepen the pleasure.

Where you expect the hand on your wrist to slacken, it grows tighter. And as if on instinct, said hand falls to her length, effectively using yours to stroke herself through the rest of her orgasm. It’s messy, and her desire is seeping through her pants, but you can’t look away—not as her hips hump forward, almost in a frenzy, and as her mouth parts to let escape her groans.

In time, her hips still. Silence reigns over the space.

Your hand rests over her suit pants, where you can feel her cock continue to give weak little throbs. Her eyes have fallen closed.

“Did I just get you off with my… voice?” You whisper.

A breathless laugh, “You sound surprised.”

“I’ve never heard of that happening before.”

Her eyes open, then. It’s too dark to see the look in them, but what little light exists makes them sparkle. Your heart squeezes.

How the hell did you get so lucky?

Then she opens her mouth and says, ever so soft, “There’s no part of you that doesn’t drive me crazy.”

You blink. Heat flares in your face and you look away, suddenly shy. But her finger beneath your chin brings your gaze right back up.

“Agnes…”

“Where’s all that boldness now?”

Your blush deepens, “You liked it.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She sounds slightly puzzled by the information, “You surprise me. Not many can.”

There’s a lingering exhaustion in both of you that prompts you to start driving, eager to get home. Agnes sets one hand in the center console, palm up; and you place your own into hers.

“Is that why you married me? Cause it gives you plenty of time to figure out my mind?” You tease once you’re safely on the highway.

“Don’t sell yourself short, baby—your mouth was a contributing factor too.”

You giggle. Your face flushes, again, despite the circumstances; Agnes has seen you in more situations of embarrassment and desire than anyone could hope to, and yet you still blush at her dirty jokes.

In your periphery, the lights over the highway catch her smirk.

“The same mouth I oh-so-generously offered, and you denied?” You ask with mock-hurt.

“‘Oh-so-generously’ my ass. Don’t pretend that was a selfless act.”

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” You pout, “You couldn’t keep yourself together long enough to get out of your pants.”

Her hand tightens in yours. She jolts in her seat, as if flinching from the remark, and you glance over—but her face is impassive.

You shake off the moment and settle into the rhythm of driving. Singing along to the music, there’s a calm over you as you traverse the open road, enjoying the lack of other drivers at this time of night. Agnes settles back into her seat, singing under her breath to the songs she knows—early 2000s rock, mostly.

Halfway through the drive the song changes and you perk up. It’s modern with a heavy beat, the singer going back and forth between high notes and breathless singing, and you match it with a passion, not thinking too much about it.

Agnes watches every movement.

And when the song ends and you lean into the seat again, you hear a soft ‘fuck’ from her. You look over, brow raised.

“Baby?”

“Focus on the road.” She snaps.

She avoids your eyes as you squint. The muscles in her neck are taut, a few straining, kinda like when—

Oh. Oh.

“Agnes, are you hard again?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Agnes huffs out a breath. Two fingers pinch the bridge of her nose, “I don’t—This isn’t normal.”

“You’re just having an up-day in the hormone department. It’s not a bad thing.”

“This isn’t… It’s like I’m in my twenties again, getting turned on at the drop of a hat. I wouldn’t mind if not for this fucking headache.”

The information swirls around in your brain for a moment before striking like a snake. No fucking way. She couldn’t have been that careless, right?

“Baby, what color were the pills you took?”

She pauses, “What?”

“The pills. For your headache. What color were they?”

Agnes throws her hands up, looking baffled by the turn in conversation, “Blue, I think. What does it matter?”

You laugh. You laugh so hard tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes—and you almost miss taking the first exit you find, looking for a dark, empty lot.

“Ibuprofen is pink.” You finally force out.

Her brows furrow. Then, like a switch flipped, it registers. Pink crawls up her neck. Veined hands tense on the armrests.

A song comes on that is upbeat, a little cheery. Agnes slams the off button.

“Why the fuck were those in the same place?”

“It is the medicine cabinet. That’s where medicine goes.”

You find a dark, empty lot and pull in. Agnes doesn’t seem to notice as she watches you.

“That’s—You—Why were they on the same shelf?!”

Your wife. Your beautiful, brilliant, decorated detective of a wife—who somehow managed to miss the bold label on the pill bottle. Another round of laughter bubbles up.

“You’re an idiot,” you say, voice fond as you throw the car in park, “and I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

Her mouth snaps shut. Something inside you purrs.

You continue, “Get in the backseat, Agnes.”

There’s a moment where she bristles. She leans toward the middle console, lip curling. But then—she winces. The car is turned off, then, with a deafening finality.

It is only you and your wife and the wind outside.

Leaning closer, your hand finds the length of her with ease. You trace a finger along all her straining inches. Dark, wanting eyes don’t blink as they take in the sight of you. Agnes is exquisite, cast in shadow and moonlight through the windshield.

“I won’t ask again.”

“And if I don’t?” She murmurs.

“You’ll spend a lot of quality time with your hand.”

Leaves rustle like insect wings. Trees above sway, dipping into the light kissing Agnes’ strong jaw.

Her seatbelt unclicks.

You smile. Agnes rolls her eyes.

“This is your fault. It’s only right you fix it.” She grouses.

Neither of you pay much attention to your surroundings as you clamber into the backseat. You’re parked in the middle of a town you don’t know, where any patrol officer could see you, but you don’t care—Agnes would talk her way out of it.

No, all you care about at this moment is having her inside you.

You straddle her thighs as she furiously works the buckle of her belt. In her eagerness, her hands are fumbling, and you take over with a laugh. Strong hands settle on your hips. The hold pulls you forward a fraction, just enough to press her cock against your core.

“Ass.” There is no way that action wasn’t intentional, “Condom or no condom?”

“Need to feel you.”

Her honesty is rewarded with a kiss. Managing to unclasp her belt, you waste no time in slipping a hand inside to free her. A stuttered gasp is your reward.

Agnes is heavy in your palm. She’s throbbing, veins prominent along her length, absolutely flushed. You run your thumb over the tip to collect the fluid there and spread it down her slowly. It won’t be enough, though—so you reach between your legs for some more.

When you spread the wetness down her and give an experimental pump, her hips jump. Agnes’ head falls against the headrest with a low moan.

In shades of grey shadow she is a vision; limbs sprawled across the backseat, hair wild around her head. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Eyes squeezed shut, her mouth parting when you squeeze. Ecstasy softens her hard angles when you stroke reverently.

Tears bead at the corners of your eyes. You blink them away.

“My sweet, stupid baby.” Tittering, you tighten your grip, “Too silly to read the label on the bottles. Or are you so desperate for this pussy that you took them anyway?”

You push your panties aside and rub yourself against her. Agnes grunts, pushing up for more. The tip of her cock hits your clit and stars erupt behind your eyes.

“‘Was an accident.” Agnes defends.

The defense feels pretty weak when she’s humping her cock against you like she’s never cum before, but you’re not much better. You’ve been wet and wanting since sitting in her lap. And even if you’re playing tough, all you want is to sink down on her length and ride her until you know nothing more than how she stretches your cunt.

You clench at the mere thought of her. Of how perfect it feels to be so connected—and how warm you feel when she spills herself inside you, clutching any bit of you she can get her hands on. Fuck, you need her so bad.

But—a little part of you whispers—don’t you want to play?

“I’m sure. Just a dumb little mistake.”

“Mhm.”

Seemingly unsatisfied with sitting back, Agnes sits up to mouth at your breasts over your clothing. It makes you bear down where you grind against her. The vibrations from her moan and the muted scrape of her teeth over your nipple makes the emptiness unbearable.

You reach between the two of you and—tentatively—slap her cock. Her startled whimper drives you wild.

You’re reminded of your idea from a few days ago; of putting a pretty collar around her neck and treating her like a dog. It’d take some convincing, but she’d like it—letting you take control, the denial of begging, the heated destruction of her pride as she humps your flesh like she can’t help herself.

Another blow to her length.

Toes curling at the sound of her pretty little cry, you can’t stand the separation any longer. You need her deep inside you. If you don’t get it, it’ll kill you.

“It’s so generous of me to fix your mistake for you, isn’t it?” You ask, “What do you say?”

Whining, pathetic little breaths, “Thank you.”

“You want this pussy, baby boy?”

“Yes, yes. Fuck.”

A thought bubbles up inside you—that wayward desire from the day she spent at home once more rearing its head, urging you to give it life. You’ve thought about it at length only in private moments. The want makes you hurt.

But will it be too much? Will this be where Agnes draws the line?

Fuck it.

Trying to sound as sure as possible, “Tell Mommy how bad you want it.”

The second you give it life, you’re terrified of seeing it die. You hadn’t been honest with yourself about just how bad you wanted it—too scared that it was wrong, or shameful. Calling Agnes Daddy has always been natural; but is calling you Mommy… wrong?

You hold your breath as Agnes gasps. Tears threaten your composure. As you stare up at the ceiling of the car, you try to rid yourself of them.

She’s going to laugh. Shame bubbles up. You should’ve kept it to yourself.

Agnes’ nails dig into your flesh as she whines into your neck, “Mommy—please, please let me—let me have you, cum in you—I’ll be your good boy—please.”

The tears fall, but they’re not sad—they’re euphoric.

Not bothering to hide them as you line her up and sink down, adjusting to the stretch, you hope she knows how happy she makes you; how safe you feel in her arms, admitting the lurid desires in your mind and just being. With every inch of her cock you hope she understands that she is your everything.

Her hands shake when she bottoms out. You can feel how desperate she is to just take it, but she waits. For you.

Kissing her cheeks, lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead; you can’t get enough of her handsome face, “Take what you need, baby.”

The dam holding back her need breaks. Hips snap up hard and you would gasp—if you could draw enough breath between thrusts. Shivers descend through your body as she chases her peak, brushing that perfect spot inside you with every movement.

This would normally be where Agnes taunts you, prying admissions between thrusts and holding back to make you talk; but both of you are too far gone to prolong what you want.

Little uh uh uh moans dissolve into something more primal, grunting and growling into the flesh of your neck. It makes you clench hard around her.

“Fuck.”

You couldn’t have said it better yourself.

“You like that?”

Agnes nods against your neck. She’s panting, and the sound feels deafening in the silence of the backseat. At the speed she’s pistoning her cock inside you, she’s going to be sore tomorrow.

You reach down and toy with your clit, fingers slipping over the little bundle of nerves. Every thrust of Agnes’ cock drags more wetness from you. It fills your ears just as your wife’s noises do. You whine, struggling to get friction where you need it most.

Long fingers brush your own away. They slip against the same spot but with better coverage. Then, she does it again.

“Right there, right there.”

Her fingers never leave your clit. Even as you lift yourself up and slam back down, taking every inch of her with growing fervor. Even as her thrusts falter in their speed at how you clench. Agnes is dedicated, even when staring down her own ecstasy.

She gives so much—and to no one more than you.

A home. A love. Comfort from the hard edges of the world and a soft place to expose the truths of yourself. Agnes gives all of these things without hesitation, without asking for much in return. It’s her turn to take.

You tamp down on the whine as you secure both of her wrists and hold them away from you. Her eyes—which had slipped closed in the heat of the moment—snap open.

“What are you—”

The question cuts off when you take the entire length of her once again. It becomes a pained-sounding groan, but her eyes don’t close. You clench and try not to come at the sight of her staring like you hung the moon.

Agnes fights your hold admirably. Her hands ache to settle on some part of you, to make you feel good because that’s what she does. But you can’t let her—not right now. This has to be all about her.

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. All I could think about was how I’d do anything to have you.” You pant, “And now look at you. You’re all mine.”

Her agreement comes quicker than you anticipate, “All yours.”

“All yours who?”

“All yours, Mommy.”

“That’s right. And you want to be Mommy’s good boy, don’t you?”

A particularly violent throb inside you.

The answering nod is a touch frantic, “Yes—yes.”

“Then I’m going to give you instructions, and I expect you to follow them to the letter. Because you’re so good for me.”

No verbal response. Rather, Agnes' head falls to your chest, groaning into the fabric still separating the two of you. You continue to ride her even as her throbbing grows more insistent. You need to stop, to slow down, but the idea of stopping her pleasure for even a second hurts you.

Continuing while you still can, “You’re going to use me like I’m a toy that only exists to please you. Can you do that, baby?”

“Fuck, yes.”

It’s a miracle she’s held herself back this long; given how tormented she’s been all evening. But she won’t be tormented any longer. No—she is driving herself into you at a punishing clip, so deep it hurts in just the way you crave.

She’s snarling in your ear like an animal, and your eyes roll back in your head. This won’t take long if she’s descended to this level of pleasure.

A few moments pass in which she says nothing. There’s the smacking of joining flesh and her ragged breath. Her hips begin to falter in rhythm as she fights your hold on her wrists.

“‘Wanna fuck a baby into you,” she pants, “make it stick this time.”

Your toes curl at the thought, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wanna make you a Mama again.”

Grabbing her by the hair and dragging her into a kiss, your hips frantic, Agnes shudders. She’s almost there. You are too.

“Fill me,” you breathe against her lips, “I want it all. Want the world to see that you own me. Want you to make a baby in me.”

Agnes freezes and snarls in your ear, “Fucking take it.”

She spills herself inside you in forceful spurts. And you shudder, your walls squeezing as you come, milking her for all you’re worth.

As you feel your orgasm fade, you wait, sitting still as Agnes’ continues. You’re so warm that you can’t tell if she’s still shooting, but you can feel the weakening throbs. With the extra assistance still in her system you gather it may be a minute. But you don’t mind.

“You’re so perfect.” You murmur against her skin, “So beautiful.”

Agnes only grunts in acknowledgment.

You press little kisses wherever you can reach, but don’t say much else, letting her come down from the high. Her breathing slows, heartbeat no longer fluttering.

One hand begins to rub circles on your back.

“Thank you.” She whispers.

Chuckling, “It was my pleasure. Literally.”

“Not for that.”

You soften. Brushing a few sweat-soaked pieces of hair from her face, you take in every inch of her; reveling in the feeling of skin on skin.

“I’ve got you, baby. Always.”

Agnes joins the two of you in a slow kiss. You sigh, utterly content, even if the two of you are tangled in the backseat of the car—because you have her, the woman others could only dream of.

You shift to get closer and Agnes releases a pained noise; you had forgotten she was still inside you.

“Is it safe to go home, or will we have to make another stop?” You ask.

“I think I’ve hit my quota for the night.”

“Aw.”

She chuckles, “Greedy.”

“Guilty.” You grin, “Take me away, detective.”

She does. She finishes the drive home with a hand on your thigh, smirking everytime you fidget; more of her leaking out of you each minute. The jerk.

Somewhere along the way you fall asleep. And when she glances over every now and again to check up, she can’t help but grin.

Maybe those pills aren’t so terrible after all.

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