#in front of a round mirror

[commaiscomma]

shot on zenit 12xp with fuji 400 film. intentionally double exposed by re-winding and re-shooting the film.

first 2 are from a backpacking trip @ ozette triangle in olympic national park!!! :DDD

more 2 parse through and post but :'3!!! for now. These

SOME CRAZY ASS DOUBLE EXPOSURES I JUST GOT BACK GOOOOOODD DAMN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[nebulaedaniel]

ready to get terribly influenced!!!! in like 11 hours

[annyeongo-o]

Mid-sized mid-century modern entryway design with white walls and a medium wood front door, beige floor, exposed beams, and light wood paneling.

Michael Shahandeh

[latinokaeya]

i try to avoid thinking abt my appearance too much on principle just bc it’s pretty difficult to be positive abt my body (i don’t wanna talk about it) but you know what’s it’s kind of a shame bc i do actually think i have a very cute face

[screampied]

PARTITION! g. satoru

ৎ୭ sum. your sugar daddy, satoru’s worst fear happened. he fears you’re too much of a spoiled rotten brat. screw riding in his expensive private limousine—you wanted to ride something else instead. (him, duh)

wc. 7.3k

warnings. fem! reader, sugar daddy gojo! au, age gap (early twenties + thirties), car sęx, bratty reader, unprotected, getting eaten out the window, tít job, reverse cowgirl, doggy, cunnīlingus, nanami cameo, slight alcohol consumption, size kink, cęrvix kissing, possessive themes (wearing waist beads w his initials), implied multiple rounds, he’s sooo whipped, bręeding.

➤ sd! gojo masterlist

“meet my baby here, sweets. charlotte.”

“satoru, what.”

as satoru had an arm slinked around your waist, brushing a thumb across the jewels that stuck against of of the many designer blouses he’s bought you within the past week, he hums. the two of you were staring straight at a limousine. it was icy blue like his eyes with a plethora of dark-tinted windows. to even top it off, it had ‘G.S limousine service, inc.’ carved into the side of one of the doors in bright, blue cursive.

you huffed, smearing your glossed lips together. “you named your limousine?”

“heh, well she’s yours now,” he hums, guiding you toward the slid open doors. “c’mon, there’s a club i wanna take you to. if we leave now, we can beat the press.” and satoru takes a peek at his gleaming, pricey watch. he helps lifts the back of your long skirt from touching the ground before you step in. immediately, you’re hit with flashing lights inside the luxurious car and its plush red seats.

“where to, sir.” a blond chauffeur adjusts his mirror with a sigh, taking a short glance at you.

satoru throws an arm around you, tugging lightly on his tie that’s tucked neatly in his suit. “ah, kento, meet my girl. and please—drive us to my private lounge,” satoru kisses your cheek as you sit, whispering in an impish, low tone. “buckle up, sweetheart. ‘s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

the seats were oh-so-soft, a violent hot color of maroon as the entire limo was lit up with nothing but dim flashing, flashing lights.

it was bright, the size alone was probably bigger than a simple normal bathroom. satoru saw you taking in the luxurious life like you always did, craning your head from left to right before peering at the empty wine glasses in front of you both.

“it’s so pretty,” you hummed, your head resting against his shoulder.

once you’re laid against him, you’re smacked with his signature loud cologne scent. it was always a scent you’d never forget, nor could you get used to.

it’s strong, making you take the citrusy manly aroma in silence every time.

with a raised brow, you look up at the white-haired man before timidly murmuring, “wait- what do you mean this is mine? like.. the whole thing?”

“yeah, silly girl,” satoru brushes a thumb around the center of your forehead in invisible circles.

you’ve grown to get weak with his tender touch every time. cerulean-iced eyes lock against you lovingly, and that’s when that cunning grin spreads at each side of his crooked lips. “think of it as an uh- surprise gift for the new year.”

with a pout, you open your mouth to complain. “satoru- last week, you just bought me-”

“a convertible, and i’d do it again in a heartbeat,” satoru whispers, planting another kiss near your temple.

your incoming words come to an abrupt pause, and the cute speechless look you gave him always made him hum in amusement.

one of the many things satoru liked- no loved about you, was that you were always so humble.

you were forever grateful, but you couldn’t help but be hesitant sometimes at how much he’d constantly spend for you. satoru continued to shower you with compliment though—constantly reassuring you that he wanted to splurge his money on you.

you were living the dream - literally.

embodying the life of a rich girl, a type of rich girl where you’d usually see in cheesy movies or sung in iconic songs by artists like gwen stefani.

even though it’s been a full-blown year, you’ve started to grow accustomed to the sweet luxury of being a sugar baby.

satoru gojo’s sugar baby.

but he wasn’t starting to see you as just his pretty ‘lil sugar baby though, that much was apparent.

satoru didn’t expect you to not only take his money but his heart too.

and he never minded.

he couldn’t put a price on that anyway.

“besides,” he grabs a clear, empty glass and an unopened bottle from underneath the fuzzy, red seat. with a flick, satoru removes the cork that is plugged near the top with just his thumb and middle finger. as he pours a small portion of wine inside, the velvet-colored liquid stains against all sides of the glass.

“what’s mine is yours, baby,” he takes a sip before sighing at the cassis flavor hits against his tastebuds, “ ‘s what my sweet thing deserves.”

as you’re still pouting, the limo continues to drive.

the windows were tinted, but it was clear as day when you looked through them to take a quick peel. as usual, the roads were quite busy with rush hour but it was a smooth ride nonetheless.

however though, you had to admit, you were getting a bit… bored.

satoru sat man spread, both of his wide legs taking so much unnecessary space before he contemptibly sighed again. with one of his arms still wrapped around you, you took a moment to take in his suave, handsome appearance.

he always was draped in nothing but tuxedos—

after all, without the whole sugar daddy side thing, you sometimes forget how satoru was a literal well-known businessman.

he never really went into the specifics of his work, but you knew he was the CEO of some private company.

satoru was a very powerful man, a man with a big net worth … but an even bigger heart.

the shoes that satoru wore were dress shoes of his own brand, of course. in the luminous, glittery lights of the inside of the limousine—the shoes were visibly spit-shined from top to bottom. his suit’s dark black, and the handkerchief that stuck out of his front chest had the imprints of your lipstick on it.

of course he kept that.

his hair..

it’s messily ruffled but somewhat presentable, slicked back as usual with a faint side part. over time, you started to notice how he was growing facial hair too.

it’s subtle, and you’d have to squint but you saw it. you saw how specks of white hair were trying to form down near his chin.

it was attractive nonetheless, and the thought of satoru growing a stubble had you squeezing your thighs together in shame.

after all, he was in his early-thirties so he was bound to grow some facial hair at some point. he’s always been a well-shaved man, but the image forever plagued your mind.

“yeees, sweets.” he snaps you out of your little fantasm, the near-empty wine glass still in his hand. he sits the expensive bottle of ‘screaming eagle’ near the limo’s bar that was covered with dozens of tiny, pretty rhinestones.

“h.. huh?” you stammer, blinking thrice.

shit.

the way you stared at him was like a deer in headlights. caught red-handed!

that same wry grin that stretched so slyly pried at both cracks of his lips before satoru tilted his head. “you’re starin’ y’know,” and you felt his hand placed on your thigh. “is my baby bored?”

“a little,” you admitted, hearing the loud screeching of tire wheels and screaming horns of other cars in the background.

only satoru could make you feel like you were the only girl in the world..

slowly, satoru dragged his pink tongue over his upper lip which was a bit damp from the scarlet-colored wine.

you sucked in a raucous breath - your thoughts turning more ‘n more filthy by the second.

his lips.. they were so perfect, naturally glossed, and forevermore had a plump downward curve. you could stare at them all day, and your eyes widened once a drip of wine started to trickle down the right side of his lip.

“ooh- excuse me. guess ‘m a bit messy today,” he throatily chuckles, feeling the coldness of the red droplet race down his skin. “would you be a doll ‘n lick that up for me, sweetheart?”

“okay-” you comply right away, positioning yourself on his lap.

satoru titters, cocking his head lazily toward the left as you get comfortable. cute, he thinks.

he could already tell how eager you were. also, he didn’t tell you the duration of the ride but it was probably about a good hour.

like hell could you even wait that long.

it felt like time was so cruel - standing still as you inched closer and closer toward his face. satoru laid man spread the entire time, eyeing you closely with his gaze never leaving yours.

he paws a big hand near your waist, hearing your pretty airy breaths pick up.

“stop looking at me like that-”

“aw, is it a crime to stare at my gi-”

satoru’s fatally silenced with a kiss.

it’s a rough one, and you couldn’t wait to run your tongue across the remnants of cherry-flavored wine that now started to drip down his chin.

it tasted sweet - a spicy cherry flavor, and you moaned once his knee aligned itself between your thighs.

his thigh was so bulky too, even underneath the lanky, slender slacks he wore. satoru was a particularly ripped guy in general — you knew his workout routine like the back of your hand, and sometimes he’d even let you do sets with him.

(sets that mainly consisted of you sitting on his back while he did push-ups orrrr sitting on his abs while he used barbells in his private gym)

“mhm~” you moan against his lips, hearing the competitive sounds of teeth rudely smacking against each other in vigorous sync.

each tongue’s on a dangerous mission, desperately trying to dominate the other and you couldn’t help but melt.

your twisting, hot tongue started to wander, creating a slippery snail trail near the crack of his mouth before nibbling on his bottom lip. “sa- satoruu.” you’d breathe, one hand giving his tie a needy, impatient pull.

“heyyy, you know i don’t speak whine,” he whispers, breaking away from your lips for a second.

your lips were already swollen, slickly shining with saliva that could’ve been an easily replaceable substitute for lip gloss. “use those words, sweetheart,” and it was like the more he spoke, the deeper his voice seductively pitched.

the knee that still rested between your sprawled open legs didn’t make things easier either. “tell me what you want ‘n maybe i’ll give it to ya, hm?”

with a huff, you mumble a soft, “you-”

“well yeah, me silly! elaborate for me though.”

“i want- i want you.. i want all of you satoru. right now,” you go into more detail, leaning in to paint a slope of wet kisses down his neck. satoru’s collar was a bit unkempt—some exposed skin showed above his collar which you then brought upon yourself to attack with kisses. “pretty please.”

“hah- but.. you already have me,” he inhales, groaning once he feels you starting to grind against his lap.

satoru’s touch was pure static..

his fingers couldn’t help but mindlessly roam, tickling against your bare skin that protruded through the minuscule squares of your ripped fishnets.

the stare you two shared was just so intimate, and he could almost already smell your lusty, loud arousal..

“mhm- y’know, what i want too?” satoru huskily whispers against your ear, grunting as your hips slooooowly rubbed against his visible boner.

hugely, it stuck out through his jet-black slacks. leave it to you to always make him hard.

“tell me.” you reply with a chastened frown, sliding a hand up his loose button-up. your hand enters underneath his shirt and his skin is so warm that it feels like his entire body is on fire.

right away, your curious palm gets a taste of his hardened abs that were nearly akin to the texture of a damn brick.

rigid, flexing muscles of satoru’s relax at your touch before he grabs a nice chunk of your ass.

“oh, nothing! ‘m just a.. ‘lil thirsty, sweets..”

♡ ♡ ♡

“ohmygod-” you’d squeal, cupping a clammy palm over your mouth.

when satoru said he was thirsty, you surely didn’t expect him to have you hanging out the window with your ass perfectly perked out.

with a single hand, he pulled up your skirt, raising it to the brink of your waistline while dragging your pretty lace panties to the side with a single thumb.

you were partially hanging out the window - safely though, he’d never let you fall.

satoru had an arm wrapped around your waist, one hand sliding down your thigh. vehemently, his tongue swirled circles around your clit before giving it one looooong suck.

his lips puckered, and he could already feel your hips starting to stutter against his mouth.

“mng- ‘toru,” you’d heave, wriggling your ass around his face. the tip of his nose started to rub up and down your slit too, and he’s shamelessly getting a whiff of your candied mess.

he was always so nasty, proudly spitting on your pussy, lapping it up before it dripped onto the thousand-dollar seats.

“mhh- wiggle that ass a little more for me baby, dance with my.. haaah- tongue,” he whispers airily, thumbing a fat finger near your pulsing clit. satoru found it so cute how you’d pulse every time he’d smear slippery circles around your pussy.

you just couldn’t help it!

you’re sucking in each ‘n every breath, sinking the edges of your teeth into your bawled knuckle to suppress your moans.

a strong gust of wind strikes you as the car continues to move, and you’re just meekly smiling at the cars that pass by.

from their points of view… the drivers are just seeing some random girl slightly hanging out a halfway-lowered limousine window.

in reality though,

you were getting eaten out while dozens of cars speedily drove past you.

through your slightly blurred peripherals, you saw satoru’s chauffeur who you remember hearing him address as ‘kento’ earlier, giving you a peer through his side-view mirror. he had his hands firmly on his steering wheel, scoffing to himself with a head shake.

he mumbled something under his breath as he looked away, focusing his browned eyes on the talking GPS that read him the directions to the destination.

from your sweet, repetitive moans, you couldn’t exactly make out what he said but from a quick read of his lips, you’d probably guess it was something like:

“i don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

as you’re still hung out the window, your legs part a bit - causing your eyes to widen.

satoru’s slurping you clean, skipping frisky plump fingers down your thigh before cupping his plump lips around your pussy. his head, it moves back and forth, ferociously shifting side to side like a damn madman.

you probably looked soo stupid. your mouth stayed open the entire time with your jaw forever dropped—dangling like an earring.

“fuh- fuuuck,” your trembling voice pitches higher, and you claw a hand near the back of your ass.

tightly gripping at a piece of your ass, it fits around your hand entirely before you turn to look back at satoru.

already, his chin’s got a pretty coat of your juices pouring down his jaw. his tongue was just hungry, wanting far more than just a few sips of his expensive screaming eagle..

you were far sweeter than any beverage, and satoru continuously took big, big gulps.

he treated his lips like a straw, pursing them to suck before slurping every single drop of you clean until you could barely hold your legs open.

“mhm- look at alllll this pretty fuckin’ ass,” he groans, removing your hand that was gripped on your rear.

with a whack! he hits it, humming at the cute ‘lil jolt of your shimmying body.

your skin jiggles in his face instantly, and you feel his curving tongue precisely slow its frantic pace down by the second.

there….

the tip of his pointed tongue stretched itself so far out that it clicked itself against your precious g-spot. “mng- spread y’rself wider, baby. ‘m not done with my.. hah- drink.”

“suh- sssatoru,” you’d drag out your whiny, pathetic words.

your brows formed into a furrow as your hands grabbed onto the edges of the rolled-down window. sweaty, perspiring fingertips imprinted the fogged glass as he licked every wet orifice thoroughly.

thankfully, some music was blasting in the background—seemingly drowning out your constant, pleading whines and whimpers..

satoru’s designer tie even gets a bit wet - you’re drip drip dripping, tears of glossy slick pouring flawlessly from both sides of your legs. he brings a thumb toward your hole, feeling your cute wriggles before spitting down your pussy.

slowly, the webby string trails a straight, sloppy line down and he licks it up — removing his thumb and starting at your hole before lapping his tongue down the bottom part of your pussy.

he’s wholeheartedly feral - animalistic, working his tongue until your brain turns into mush.

eventually, you ended up crawling back into the spacious limousine and landed on your back.

with your legs still spread, satoru lifts your thighs, continuing his feast. “mmph- get back here, sweets. ‘m not haaah- done,” he’d jibe each time he’d squint to see your cute weak pulse up close.

you’re impatient - desperate for your release so much that you could almost taste it..

it tasted sweet with a bit of tang, and the more you fantasized about your inevitable orgasm— the more more more you were starting to blank out all on his tongue.

“mnh- attaaaaa girl, let ‘toru get a nice good sip.” he’s still slurping you, a few excess juices smearing against his cheek.

satoru’s long, white lashes flutter open and close as he relishes in your treacly taste.

you just couldn’t stay still though.

with the way your hips cutely tossed ‘n turned each time his tongue delved inside of your sopping cunt, he’d think your middle name was ‘squirmer.’

time drags by for a looong time, not as long as satoru’s tongue though.. not by a long shot..

it flicked its way through each spot, munching proudly against your clit before your tummy tucked inward. your brain haywires, and with your mouth wide open — the only sounds that escaped were small, labored breaths.

you’re cumming, and your lashes frantically blinked at so many blinks per second. your muscles that were once tense relaxed as you’re finally succumbing to pleasure.

you squealed out that final, harmonic battle cry before your head plopped into the edge of the limo’s seat.

“fuck- fuck, fuuuck,” you’re whimpering, repeating the same swear like a broken record as you feel him grab ahold of your writhing hips.

his tongue’s length curved its way everywhere, creating a path to remember as it made itself known at all tender areas of your pussy.

“uh huh- that’s it, good girl. ride it out, riiiide it out, i gotcha,” he groans, laying his tongue fully flat. it’s a rose-like pink, soddened tastebuds sizzling in contempt once you’re ‘quenching’ his thirst with your sweetened arousal.

buzzing sounds went in and out of your ears as you just released huff after puff through your lungs. satoru’s lips were glossed with nothing but your slick, even more than they already were.

he gives your poor, convulsing clit its last finally smooches before reluctantly breaking away.

“hah- never a dull moment with her,” he licks his lips from top to bottom, grabbing out his lipstick-stained handkerchief before patting underneath his chin. “you okay, sweetheart?”

“ ‘m okay,” you breathe, still feeling tingles surge through every one of your veins that ran down your wobbly, numb limbs. your legs had it the worse.

you barely felt anything, and satoru helped you back to your feet.

it was a limo, so it wasn’t like you could exactly stand but you sufficed by crouching just below the fuzzy-made hood.

satoru lies slouched back - giving his lap a few playful pats before tilting his head at you. “c’mere, sweet thing,” and his voice was dripping with erotic silk.

his ocean-strong eyes zero down at your body, trailing up up up before eventually stopping just about your waistline.

your skirt was now off — pulled to the floor and so were your panties. you only had your matching blouse on. you got an idea though, and satoru watched you get on your knees. “oh..?”

“ ‘toru,” you speak in shortened puffs, still trying to get over your recent teeth-shattering orgasm. every sensitive axon and nerve located in your body was screaming at you, aching for more stimulation as time passed.

as your hands casually spread his long legs wider across the cushioned seats, you hummed. “remember those waist beads you ordered me a few weeks back?”

“mhm,” he nods, eyes never darting away from your wriggling body for a second.

satoru wondered what your game was.

as he was trying to prevent himself from smiling, he was starting to realize that maybe, just maybe you were starting to get just a liiiiitle bit spoiled.

as his legs were fully sprawled apart, you brought your hands toward the hem of the designer blouse that stuck against your skin. you honestly lost count of just how many clothes satoru’s bought you within the past year.

he watches closely - zeroing down at your figure, nipping on his lip as he stares at you leisurely pulling the piece of clothing off of you.

satoru’s seen your skin countless times, but there was just something about your body that he just couldn’t get enough of.

couldn’t get enough of you..

if he was being honest, he could stare at you all day.

“look. it fits perfectly,” you speak in a sweet tone, your thighs stuck together as you were still dripping from the inner crevices. you could feel yourself throbbing, and it took everything in you to not let out a moan.

satoru tsks, kissing his teeth once he’s now exposed to your skin.

the damn beads,

they wrapped around your waist and indeed fit your entire torso. his eyes studied the gold that went around your raised hips, whistling once he saw those two crystallized initials - his initials.

‘G.S’

the small two letters hung on one waist bead that was drooped low near your naval and an extra twin pair near the charms behind your back. “fuuuck- know that’s right,” satoru huffs, his breathing starting to get a bit heavy.

“all mine, heh- looks so damn pretty on you,” and as his eyes continued to meander down your skin, satoru’s head rests back against the softly cushioned seat. “hm- how ‘bout you model for me? show off that gorgeous body a little more f’ me.”

“say ‘please’,” you’d get on his lap, wrapping your arms around him. satoru looks up at you with a mere pouting scowl, a hand instinctively attaching itself to your hip.

“pleaaase, oh-pleaseeee sweets. don’t tease me too bad, you’re bein’ a bit of a spoiled girl right now,” he whispers, bringing wet, cold lips toward the corner of your neck. you moaned, feeling satoru’s free hand strum a few fingers down your waist beads.

they clank clank clanked, creating pretty jingle sounds at each faint movement before you started to move your hips.

“goddamn-” he holds in a breath, practically wordless as his eyes continued to rove.

briskly, you slowly turned yourself around, teasingly popping your hips to the dropping beats of the song that played through the limo’s speakers.

satoru’s suddenly short of breath, circling a thumb around the left cheek of your ass. he’s so hard, and you could feel it the more you rubbed your ass right up against thaaat particular spot.

he sucks his teeth once more, grunting as he feels the cloth knead against your skin so good..

“woman, you’re bein’ such a bratty tease right now..” and he could taste that round, large lump forming near the very back of his throat.

satoru shivers as your hands place on the crown of his knees, and you’re starting to rock rock rock back ‘n forth his throbbing boner. “hmph. the things i let ‘cha get away with, lucky ‘m not.. haah- fuck, bending ya over my lap, baby.”

“you talk a lot for a guy with a boner this hard, ‘toru.” you shrug, continuing the sensual jerking of your hips.

he’s grunting at every swift turn of your body, hearing his heart loudly thump through his ears.

the limo’s speed picks up a few miles and you could hear the grumbling from underneath the vehicle as you stayed quiet for a few seconds.

“mmh- fine, since you said please.”

as you’re still facing the other way, you reach for his buckle with your fingers brushing near the cold straps. you couldn’t see, so he grabbed your hand—guiding you where to unbuckle his slacks.

“f.. fuck, hurry up. you rubbin’ against me isn’t helping matters at all, y’know,” he tries to laugh but it comes out very dry.

satoru just wanted to be inside you, making you remember your place with a few sloppy strokes.

you giggled, hearing his pants and boxers sliiiide down to his ankles with a thud before jostling your rear way back against his leaning cock. it hung so cutely, and its tip was swollen with veins protruding at a few girthy sides.

with satoru still having a hold of your hand, he makes you touch the leaking head. “ooh,” you hum, twirling a thumb around his tender frenulum.

as you do so, he moans out the sluttiest moan, pretty white lashes squeezing shut for about three seconds to savor this moment.

“heh.. little girl,” he gutturally prowls, aligning his dick in between the crack of your fleshy mounds. it’s very hard, and you hummed at the warmth he provided. “go on then.. ride me in reverse, sweets. this the ride you wanted all along, hm?”

“yeaah,” you played along, almost seeing the weary smirk unfurl across his lips as he spoke.

you couldn’t wait any longer either.

you were throbbing persistently, every fiber of your being longing for satoru to ease his way inside of your pretty, sobbing cunt.

he was so big that your hand could barely wrap around the entity of his length. instantly, your palms met with various veins as you raised your hips moderately.

his vermillion-shaded tip carefully hovered over your dripping hole, and satoru’s just heavily breathing at your stilled body.

“mngh-” you released a rough, jagged breath once you were slowly making your way down on his cock.

like usual, you’re presented with that loving tiiiiight stretch that lasts for about a good four seconds.

satoru’s tip alone was big, and it pummeled through your insides as his inches started to leisurely disappear.

it’s such a lewd scene - a scene he wouldn’t mind replaying over ‘n over again in his head..

your pussy sings out sloshes of wet high notes in harmony, trying to take in his weighty shaft.

your mouth opens up on its own, and you’re breathing out colorful swears of ‘ohhh fuuuck’ ‘s as you continue to sink your way down.

from the both of you, countless breathy breaths were drawn from both raspy lungs as the mouthwatering penetration continued.

it felt like a squeeze pinching near your insides, tickling around you from the inside before adding pounds of pressure pressure pressure..

your hands go back to being placed on his knees, whimpering as his slick cock eases its way inside of your pussy. spongy, clamping walls hugged around him like a vice and your teeth were starting to feel that familiar chatter.

“god- always s- so fuckin’ big, ‘toru,” you moan, your bratty ‘lil façade shortly faltering once he’s finally buried balls fuckin’ deep.

the pit of your tummy was constantly heaving, cowardly sucking itself in and out at the sheer weight of his size before you eventually relaxed.

“perfect fit for my perfect… hah- girl.” he grunts, taking a quick peer down at your unbalanced thighs that struggled to move at first.

gradually, your hips started to move and greeted satoru’s lap with a sharp, rude slam. once you started to adapt to a rhythm, your hips rolled and rolled.

“agh- that’s i.. iiiiit,” he choked on his saliva, playing with the waist beads that danced against your torso as you moved.

satoru moans, feeling his fat base smush its way against your ass once you sat down. your hips were reeling, winding back into his pelvis like a wind-up toy.

with parched, hot skin amongst skin - the sounds echoed against the limo, nearly sounding over the music that played in the background.

satoru’s watching as you plop straight back into him before you sprightly wriggle your hips in a seductive circle.

“my, ain’t you a naughty girl..” he tosses his head back in overwhelming rapture, feeling his dick twitch inside you as the sloppy sounds continue.

it was hard not to hear - if it was anything satoru knew about your pussy, he knew that it was always, always vocal with him..

you’re slamming back against his lap every time, squeezing your palms against the crowns of his knees with your body twirling and falling back into his inviting lap.

if you kept riding him like that, he’d really be head over heels.

“ugh- yeah, girl. ride it, ride this dick like it’s yours because it fuckin’ is,” satoru grunts, feeling your cunt tighten for a second at his exact words. “heh- did my messy girl like that? like hearin’ that ‘m yours, sweetheart?”

“mhm,” you’d nod with your lips clamped shut.

he’s just so big, stretching through your insides with such ease. the once slow and steady beats of your heart were now thump thump thumping!

satoru’s bulbous-shaped tip had a hooked upturning curve, and fuck did you feel every sloping curve as you bounced up ‘n down on his cock.

it’s so good that your mouth’s pathetically watering from the inside, and you’re already starting to feel that burning sensation electrify through your aching, stretched muscles.

“mngh- look at this body, s… so damn-” and he pauses, clenching his jaw at the sloppy wet feeling of your barriers bear-hugging around his cock.

you’re just working your hips like it’s a full-time job, throwing them around in a circle so fast that even satoru could barely keep up.

with thighs upon thighs upon thighs, your skin sticks against his like glue. a trail of colorless slick smears down satoru’s leg and he moans at the loud slaps of zealous, clapping skin.

you’re sticky still, and he’s moaning louder once the speed of your hips quickens.

“yeah? yeah, better- fuckin’-ride-me,” and even though his voice faintly cracks, satoru still manages a sort of poised, cocky persona.

multiple ‘encouraging’ swats hit against the cheeks of your ass and you’re whining, putting your all into the movements of your jerking body. satoru’s snowy brows contort before he gives your waist beads a soft tug.

“do it, fuck me, baby. ‘n while you’re at it..” and as you’re still moving your hips, you feel a bit of paper rain down your back that’s starting to perspire with sweat.

“fuck-” satoru grunts smokily, staring as hundred dollar bills fall down your bare spine. “forgot ‘ta give you your allowance, might as well give it to you now.”

“hngh- satoruuu,” you whined, his cock hitting its way through every spot. it french-kisses near your clit before passionately making out with your cervix.

it located both spots easily, and the feeling had your toes curling inside of your four-inch heels.

satoru ended up tossing those same bills down your back, staring as it prettily fell down your body before landing on his lap and the limo’s cottony carpet.

“ ‘m gonna cum i think,” you moaned, slowing your turning hips in hypnotic, carnal arcs. satoru’s hands were brought to your waist with two thumbs pressed at each side of your hips. “ ‘m cummin’ satoru.”

“me too, s.. sweets,” he swallows, hissing silently at the unsteady bucking of your bouncing ass.

your rear jiggled at each slamming thrust, ricocheting against his thighs and it was just so mesmerizing to watch.

satoru’s feeling the scorching tip of his cock grow hot, and he’s starting to feel all types of contractions arise within his muscles. “god- tell me where to tell me where.”

“inside,” you moaned, bringing your hands toward your chest to cup to bouncing tits. you squeezed them, smearing a thumb around your hardened nipples before making yourself even more aroused.

it’s just so much to process.

your rutting hips, the loud squelches of your pussy, satoru’s dick driving through you repeatedly.. oh, you were in a daze.

“f- fuuuuck. be a… hah- good girl ‘n take it all then.” he groans, elated euphoria swelling within him.

you stuck against his lap so good, slickly sliding your ass back before going forward, then back into his pelvis again.

your movements alone left such a good taste in his mouth, and once he feels himself about to burst - he fuckin’ bursts.

a massive load spurts out of satoru, shooting deeply into your fluttering womb as your hips come to a freezing still.

you’re cumming too - whimpering as you’re gushing down on his cock while being absolutely filled.

wads ‘n wads of milky, gooey cum floods inside of you, plugging you to the fullest. you’re both moaning lowly, rocking against each other in rushed unison before you arch forward.

your ass was fully bent over, and satoru stared openly as he was still shooting such deep, frothy amounts inside of you.

you looked so pretty like this that he couldn’t help but mentally take a picture, widely peering at the foamy droplets of cum that started to trickle their way down his overwhelmed base—creating a sparkling white ring.

it’s still as thick - still as veiny, and satoru makes you raise your hips ever-so-slightly.

doing so, he stares at your soddened pussy that’s lewdly spitting out a few heaps of cum before hearing that cute wet ‘plop!’

“fuckin’ dirty girl..” he huffs, one hand softly caressing your waist beads. he takes a glance at the ‘G.S.’ initials that were engraved near the back side of the many other charms, and he sighs.

right as you’re pulled up to where his creamy tip was juuuust about to slide away from your soused opening, satoru gives your stuffed pussy a soft pat.

“don’t know who’s dirtier…. herrrr,” he mumbles, swabbing a thumb around your cum-covered hole before bringing it up to his mouth.

with a wet smacking ‘ccht’ of satoru’s lips coming together—he licks his thumb clean, cooing silently at the taste of himself like the filthy, filthy man he was. “or you.”

♡ ♡ ♡

after many, many positions, you found yourself losing multiple rounds with your shallow breath as if even breathing was a mere contest. he’s had you in position after position, folding you like a freshly baked pretzel. it’s almost like the two of you weren’t literally in a limousine.

you hoped his chauffeur nanami didn’t hear. that would’ve been well, embarrassing.

the drive felt like forever.. but, you honestly didn’t want it.. this to end.

you’re a mess, stuffed to the uttermost fullest with ribbons of satoru’s freshly hot cum messily tearing down every slick crevice of your thighs.

currently, satoru had you in one of his favorite positions.

doggy.

part of the reason why he loved it so much was mainly because of the perfect, jiggling view.

your ass - he loved seeing how it would react from each rude smack, swatting his palm over and over again at your cute, tender skin. the pads of your hands pressed firmly into the limo’s seats as he’s just giving you the pound of a damn lifetime.

“mngh!” you’d whine out, drooling from the sides of your jittery, spit-slick lips that refused to stay shut.

he’s effortlessly reaching all the right areas, swiftly pumping his way past that cute taut ring of your entrance that he’s grown to love.

that brief tight stretch nearly makes him lose his mind, and satoru then brings his hands toward your waist. “right there, right fuckin’ th— mmph!”

“shhh, you’re gonna.. hah- miss the best part, sweets,” the white-haired man cups a hand over your mouth.

slow strokes - deeper thrusts..

your eyes rolled ‘n rolled back, gasping against his palm once he sneaks a hand in between your wet thighs. with your waist beads tickling against his wrist, satoru gives your pussy a soft smack.

your wetness ‘splashes’ against the center of his hand, and it even pops out a cute sound too.

“uuugh- ‘m gonna… cum agaiiin,” you’d raise your ass in the air just a bit more, your voice turning more whiny within seconds.

your words were still a bit muffled with his hand covering your mouth, but he still made out your whiny, inaudible words—just barely. .

the sounds of fierce, sharp hips brutally clashing against skin every time made him groan. it’s a booming resounding ‘pop!’ or ‘pap!’ noise every time that makes your entire body ring instead of just your ears.

his cock’s searching through your wet, gripping walls as if it had some sort of life purpose.

“hah- me t.. too, sweetheart,” and fuck, satoru’s drowning in his sweat. “phew-” satoru brings the back of his wrist to wipe some from his forehead. glancing down, he stares at your jouncing ass before giving you one, snappingly deep thrust.

“pussy’s a fuckin’ workout- oh shiiiiit.” and satoru’s feeling you clamp clamp clamp down on him, giving his dick the work of its life.

you could feel the individual staticky pulses of your clit signaling messages to you that you’re just so close and you’re nearly salivating inside of your mouth.

soooo good.. for a moment you forgot the two of you were still in the back of a limousine.

he’s fucking you so good that you could barely think straight.

satoru’s still playing with your pussy, giving it spanks in between his robust thrusts.

his rotund tip beat red, an oxblood blush of red as he continued to ram a heart-shaped sloppy kiss toward your clit.

at that moment, your legs cutely retreated and your chest collapsed forward. “feels s.. sooo good satoru, ngh- ‘toruuu!”

as your body spasmed at the onslaught of his reckless, sloppy thrusts - your hips were all the way raised against his lap.

you’re losing track of thoughts as you’re harshly creaming down his shaft, murmuring out cute little babbles of ‘ooohs’ once you feel his angle deepen.

satoru brings a hand down your fleshy back, staring at your skin that was wetly decorated with sweat while studying the goosebumps that ran down your spine.

“ ‘m gonna.. hah- cum,” he groans, a few stubby fingers thrumming down the gold waist beads that wrapped around your waist.

he brings his thumb toward the tiny ‘G.S.’ initials before pressing his honed-shaped pelvis wholly into you with just a single, barbaric thrust.

“all mine, my pretty… hah- wife.”

wife?

you heard that — you definitely heard it, but part of you wondered if maybe satoru was just overly pussy drunk as usual.

but the thought alone - the thought of actually being his wife of satoru gojo, your sugar daddy, didn’t seem too bad.

as the image of you walking down the aisle crossed your mind, your throbbing brought you straight back into orgasmic reality.

“wait.. hnng- pull out,” you’d moan, another idea popping into your head. instead of satoru usually finishing inside, you had a better idea.

“haah- ‘kay,” he pants, his snapping hips working overtime as they continually mercilessly plunge deep into your heated core.

his rhythm was far slower, but his thrusts were always in such a hurried frenzy.

he’s close - so so close.

you’re still covered with his cum from before from the legs down, and it paints such a pretty canvas on you.

a lewd, erotic canvas maybe..

quickly, satoru ends up pulling out with a hand wrapped around his cock that painfully throbbed. it scrunched up a bit at the sudden coldness, already missing your clingy warmth before you flip over.

“h.. hm?”

“ ‘toru, put ‘em between here.” you spoke in a hushed tone, sinking your knees into the limo’s velveteen-made seats.

he hungrily stares at you with nothing but lust surrounding the entirety of his rounded, dilated pupils. at your sweet, breathy word of ‘here,’ you brought two hands up to your breasts.

“naughty… temptress,” satoru clicks his tongue. aligning his swollen dick in between the crack of your sweat-dripping chest, it easily sliiiiiides its way through.

he watches intently as you squeeze your tits together, glancing up at him with those pretty, siren eyes of yours that were starting to droop.

“mmh,” and as his tip disappears between the slot of your chest, you hang your head down, flicking your tongue across the tender slit of his shaft.

“f- fuck, ‘m gonna cum. can’t- hold it anymore, sweets,” satoru groans, his words so guttural ‘n low that they sounded almost like a growl.

he knew he wasn’t gonna last much longer, not when you were on your knees—stuffing his dick right between your perked tits.

he’s sloppily starting to thrust his cock in and out between the valley of your breasts and felt himself throb at each cute jounce they created amongst each other.

so …. soft.

satoru’s achy tip was forming into an angry shade of bloodshot red, and the entirety of his shaft was smoldering from the stimulation. after a few long milliseconds though—he finds himself shooting white blanks again.

he’s fucking between your tits as you held them together, spraying a nice sum of his load onto your chest. you gasp, a bit landing on your lip and you lick it.

satoru’s moaning - no, grunting as he’s finishing against your breasts. he drags a shaky hand through his tousled, white hair before letting off a deep, heavy sigh.

“ohhh… fuck,” he grumbles, the tips of his ears burning a fiery pink.

his limp cock now remains idle, still buried between your tits before you slide your tongue across the leaking creamed tip.

it’s so glossy, dribbling from all sides with his pasty mess plastered on the upper part of your chest. “didn’t know i had.. such a dirty sweethe- fuck.”

satoru pauses for theatrics — holding his breath, thinking he was still cumming, but he wasn’t.

his mind was simply playing tricks, and his jaw clenched once you lapped up the remnants of bittersweet tasting cum that splattered on you. you used your thumb to reach the spots your tongue couldn’t, and once you were finished, satoru bent down to pull you into a fervent, deep kiss.

you moaned against his lips as the limousine still created miles upon miles. you lost track of time, but you’d guess it’s probably been well over an hour's drive.

“mng-” satoru grunts into your lips, feeling your arms wrap around him. he still had his button-up shirt on the entire time along with his suit just above his torso. he’s tasting himself on your lips, grunting once he felt your hand tug on his ruffled black tie.

your tongue was sticky, swirling a circular pattern around the inside of his mouth before you sucked on his.

satoru allowed you to make him get underneath you, and he felt your legs crawling on top of him.

as you’re both still deeply making out — fighting each other with sharp slaps of teeth smacking against each other, you gingerly pull away.

“i’m your wife now?”

“h.. hm?”

“earlier,” you lick near the corner of his lip. “you said ‘m your pretty wife.”

satoru gives you a sleazy lopsided grin. he looked so pussy drunk that he almost forgot about that tiny piece of dialogue that spouted from his lips.

“ah, i did call you my wife, didn’t i, sweets?” and as a thumb caresses around your cheek, he hoarsely whispers. “well, do you want to be?”

bringing a wet, torrid kiss toward his bottom crooked lip, you hummed. “i do.”

“wish you would’ve told me sooner though,” he sheepishly says, giving his tie a few meek pulls. “i could’ve proposed the right way but.. this is fine too, i gues-.”

“shhh-” you silence him with yet another barrage of kisses, cupping his face.

satoru grunts, hearing the little jangles of your waist brands yet again as your hips laboriously swayed against him.

your forehead is pressed against his and its hit with a bunch of sweat from satoru.

satoru moans from your ardent, vehement kisses, his lips being left all plump, reddened, and not to mention swollen all because of you.

his dick twitches—a prominent vein striking near the left side as you steadily moved your dripping pussy against it in slow, ravishing rocks. “lie back,” you whispered, playfully pushing him back against the seat.

satoru reclines back with a ‘hmph’ and he raises a silvery brow at your audacity. “lie back ‘n let your fiancé ride you again.”

“heh.. yes, mrs. gojo.”

[no-face-no-shame]

At this point they design front cameras in phones to make you looks as ugly as possible

[goyardgoyangi]

planting evidence in street racer! sukuna's car

Sukuna’s car has always been untouchable—immaculate, brutal, fast. The kind of machine that mirrors him: sharp edges, no softness, no room for anyone else.

Until you.

Now there’s lip gloss in the cupholder and a scrunchie looped around his gear shift like some kind of silk flag staked in his territory. You started leaving little things behind, quietly, like you were planting evidence. Gum wrappers, a clip from your hair, even your iced coffee straw one day—left right in the side door pocket.

You expected him to toss it all back at you. Maybe with a grunt. Maybe with an eye roll and a muttered “keep your shit out of my car.”

But he didn’t.

He kept them there. Because you and Sukuna… you weren’t dating. No one had asked. There was no talk, no label. Just a long night that turned into a few more, then a pattern.

You, on the other hand, are more strategic. Conniving, even.

You don’t ask to be his girl. You don’t cling. You just leave marks. Subtle things. Things a hookup wouldn’t ever have time to leave behind. So that maybe—just maybe—if someone else ever got in the passenger seat, they’d know instantly: they’re not the first, and they’re definitely not the only one who rides here.

But no one else has. Sukuna hasn’t touched another girl since the first night he had you spread out across his sheets—back arched, lips parted, absolutely wrecked from round four. You were limp and glowing in the aftermath, falling asleep on his chest like you belonged there. And maybe you did.

He hadn’t cared to look at anyone else since.

That car used to be built for speed, for control, for the kind of thrill that made his blood rush. It was never about comfort.

But now? It’s starting to literally feel like a second bedroom. Like an extension of you—your perfume clinging to the seatbelt, a receipt from your favorite café crumpled in the passenger door, your earrings slipped into the little tray under the dash.

The backseat holds the imprint of your body, the curve of your hips pressed into the leather, a reminder of all the times he’s fucked you in his car—your legs spread wide as he drove you to the edge with each brutal, deep thrust.

Even the front, where your hand wraps around his arm as his fingers make you come undone, hitting a spot that drives you wild in ways only he knows, still carries the unmistakable mark that this seat—this car—belongs to someone else.

So when Sukuna rolls into the garage late one night—hair still damp from a shower, muscles loose from hours tangled up inside you, still half hard just remembering how you moaned his name—his fellow mechanics clock it instantly.

“Yo,” Mahito says, glancing up from under the hood of a stripped RX-7. “You have a girlfriend or somethin’? Your car smells like vanilla.”

Sukuna just grunts, shoving his keys in his pocket.

He leans against the hood, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s not thinking about you sleeping in his bed right now, curled up under his sheets in that oversized tee you always steal from him.

They take his silence as confirmation.

“You hear that, Suguru?” Mahito continues to instigate, smirking. “Sukuna’s got gloss on the gearshift.”

Suguru raises a brow from where he’s cataloging parts. “Damn. Didn’t think anyone could turn Sukuna into a personal Uber.”

That earns a laugh from the group. Sukuna doesn’t say anything, just lazily flicks his middle finger their way. But he doesn't deny it either.

“No wonder you leave work early so often,” another mechanic mutters, elbowing Uraume. “He used to hang around, talk engines, grab beers.”

They shrug. “Guess he’s got better company these days.”

Sukuna barely hears his coworkers gossip over the echo of your moans still ringing in his head. Because they’re not wrong—he has been slipping out early, ditching post-race drinks just to pick you up from work. Just to get you back in his car, where your legs fold up sweet and tight in the passenger seat and your hand always finds his without a word.

It’s routine now—his hand on your thigh the second the engine starts. He doesn’t even think about it. Just needs it. Needs the feel of you under his fingers, to squeeze the thighs he’s bruised a dozen times with his mouth.

And when you finally fall asleep, innocent and warm, lips parted just slightly?

He drives slower than he ever has in his life. Because the longer he keeps you next to him like this, the longer he gets to pretend you’re already his girl.

And he knows—he knows—you’re testing him with the things you leave behind. Waiting to see if he’ll clean them out. Waiting to see if he’ll hand you your lip gloss and tell you to stop marking your territory.

But he won’t.

Not when the vanilla scent lingers in the air. Not when the other mechanics glance at the cupholder and trade knowing looks because even they can see it—

The car’s not just his anymore.

[humanjarvis]

wasting your honor

synopsis: at akso hospital’s charity gala, you realize how smart zayne is. how much smarter he is than you.

tags: fluff to angst to fluff/comfort, reader is insecure about their intelligence, reader thinks zayne deserves better, references to socioeconomic differences, potentially inaccurate references to medical terminology and protocore stuff, misunderstanding, reader ghosts zayne for a week, he comes to find her, reader tears up, love confessions, happy ending pairing: zayne x fem!reader (referred to as “she” one time), reader doesn't have to be mc word count: 2.4k

a/n: i’m rly rly proud of this it may be my favorite thing i’ve written so far please read it

“Are you sure I should be going to this?” you ask, the hesitation clear in your voice. 

“Why shouldn’t you? Plenty of other attendees will be bringing their partners as plus-ones,” Zayne says matter-of-factly. “Of course, if you’re feeling unwell, it’s best to stay behind and rest. I'm sure I'll be able to manage on my own.”

“No, no, I feel fine,” you reply, chewing your bottom lip nervously. “It’s just…I've never been surrounded by so many highly educated people. I’m afraid I'll slip up, or say something wrong, or embarrass you, or…”

Before you can ramble on, he walks up to you and squishes your cheeks between his large scarred hands. “Darling,” he begins, a soft smile on his face, “none of that matters. Just be yourself, and I’m sure you’ll be the most refined person there by a mile.” 

Akso Hospital’s annual charity gala was the topic of his impromptu pep talk. Each year, the event made front-page news from drawing in hundreds of world-renowned physicians to support a pressing medical cause. Tonight’s gala would be hosted by a team of legendary neurologists, and the venue—a prestigious museum of anthropology—was equally celebrated.

Zayne, who usually struggled at such events, had invited you as his plus-one with youthful hope in his hazel eyes, and there was no way you could have rejected his offer. At first, you’d been thrilled at the prospect of making an official outing together—you rarely got the chance due to his busy schedule—but as the days passed by, the anxiety of being average in a room of geniuses had caught up to you.

So as you pace back and forth before the full-length mirror, fidgeting with your dress at every turn, you can only hope that he’s right.

As Zayne puts the car in park, your stomach lurches with dread.

In the few seconds you have to panic to yourself while he walks around to open your door, the way your mind formulates last-minute escape plans would put a supercomputer to shame. Maybe you could fake sick—no, you’d told him you felt fine—or maybe with enough pressure you could lightly sprain your ankle in your hee—

The door swings open. 

Fuck.

He takes your hand and guides you out of the car, and as you walk toward the museum entrance, you’re too focused on trying not to trip over your flowing gown to take in the scenery. The lights twinkling in the foggy night, the verdant plants lining the entryway in carefully arranged rows, the opulent fountain flowing over small hills of bronze coins. It’s a lovely setup, really. If only your brain would allow you to enjoy it. 

After passing through the lavish front hall, decorated with colorful displays of ancient artifacts, you’re greeted by a grand ballroom layout. Round banquet tables with crystal centerpieces are scattered throughout the space, and the upscale alcohol behind the bar could probably bankrupt you with one sip. 

All around you, people clad in gold watches and diamond necklaces mingle with thinly veiled scrutiny, and you silently bless Zayne for personally sponsoring your event attire. 

As you head further into the room, a striking brunette woman in her 40s saunters up to you. “Zayne!” she gushes, “It’s so nice to see you could make it! With how antisocial you are, I was afraid you’d find a reason not to come. Oh, and who’s this?” she asks, eyes passing over you dismissively. “I’ve never seen you working with Zayne before—perhaps you’re in nephrology or gastroenterology?” 

You have no idea what either of those words mean.

Luckily, like always, Zayne saves the day. “Actually, this is my partner. She’s accompanying me tonight.”

“Partner,” the woman repeats, her voice raising an octave in disbelief. “…What a surprise! I didn’t realize the aloof Dr. Zayne was seeing someone. How lucky you are to have him,” she finishes with a stiff smile. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then. Enjoy your evening!” she calls as she flags down a waiter and scoops up two glasses of wine. 

“That was our chief of staff,” Zayne says flatly. “Surely you can understand how she scored the position with such a charming personality.” 

You chat with—or Zayne chats with, while you stand off awkwardly to the side—a few more guests before the main portion of the event begins.

Dr. Greyson had roped him into a conversation about a thrilling surgery from the day before, and an intern who’d somehow managed to get on the invite list had bombarded him with questions while you watched with a blank smile.

When the lights gradually dim and you’re directed to your seats, you let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a moment to breathe, you think. 

The hours pass. Speech after speech travels in and out of your ear, the jargon too advanced for you to process before the next utterly alien word comes along. 

Flipping open your program in restlessness, you realize you’ve reached the final segment of the gala just as the next speaker takes the stage. 

“Again, thank you all so much for your attendance tonight,” he starts. “I’m proud to announce that we’ve raised a record-breaking amount for medical research involving Protocores—what a historic feat. Each of you should be immensely proud of your contributions.”

Your claps seem too loud in the polite applause. Shifting your gaze to the guests around you, you match their enthusiasm—or lack thereof—with an inward grimace. 

“Now, before the night ends, we do have one more achievement to celebrate. Dr. Zayne Li, who I believe is here with us tonight, has recently passed an extraordinary milestone—in his time with Akso, our chief cardiac surgeon has successfully completed over 800 surgeries. To show our gratitude, we’d like to present him with the Medical Impact Award. Dr. Li, if you’re in the audience, won’t you come up and celebrate this accomplishment?” 

This time, you don’t hold back your applause. As Zayne rises from his seat, an endearing look of bewilderment on his face, your heart swells with admiration. Lucky, was what that woman had called you earlier. You suppose she’d been right.

As Zayne climbs up the steps, the presenter hands him a polished wooden plaque. Saying a brief thanks, he struts to the mic, a practiced look of confidence on his face now that the surprise has worn off.

“Thank you for this honor,” he begins steadily. “It’s with immense privilege that I can stand here before you today, but I’d like to take this time to commend our fundraising efforts tonight. The millions of dollars we’ve raised will be dedicated to investigating the nature of pathological conditions that originate in Protocore exposure. This will allow hundreds of medical personnel in and outside of Linkon to treat previously unsolvable cases. In regards to my own work, I’m particularly grateful—with the generosity you’ve all shown tonight, you’ve made me incredibly optimistic for the future of treating Cardiac Protocore Syndrome. I’ll keep that in mind every day—so the next 800 surgeries can go smoothly and with quick recoveries.”

As his speech ends, your look of admiration melts into a resigned, defeated smile. 

For the first time that night, the room breaks out into thunderous applause. And for the hundredth time that night, you feel like you don’t deserve to stand by his side.

You’d hope that he’d chalked up your silence on the ride home to sleepiness. When he’d walked you to your apartment door and leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you’d merely stood there in indecision, afraid to taint his brilliance with your mediocrity. And then, with a strained smile, you’d shut the door in his face.

That was the last time you’d seen him for the rest of the week. And for half of the next. 

For six days, you’d been completely ghosting him, too wrapped up in your insecurities to respond to his numerous messages. 

Thank you for accompanying me last night. I had a wonderful time, he’d texted on the first day. 

One of the nurses came up to me and gushed over your dress. She asked where you bought it from, but I told her we got it custom-ordered, he’d said on the second. 

The fourth day. Would you like to join me for a meal later? We’ve had to reschedule a surgery. I’ll be getting home earlier than usual tonight.

Last night. Please respond to me when you get a chance.

And no matter how badly you wanted to, each time your fingers hovered over the keyboard, they froze in paralyzing shame. 

You’d passed the time like you had before you met him—hiding from the sun, rewatching comfort movies, and wallowing in bed with gloomy ballads in the background.

But on the seventh day, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it’s the package of pastries you’d ordered from the bakery near Zayne’s house—you always got a box when you were sad—you hastily swing open the door.

And then fight the urge to shut it right back. 

Because standing on your doorstep is a tired-looking Zayne, frowning in hurt and confusion. 

“Hello. Is your phone broken?” he asks worriedly, checking your body for signs of illness. 

“Um…no,” you mutter, suddenly fixated on your navy blue slippers. “Why don’t you come in? If you want to.”

With an infinitesimal squint, he crosses the threshold of your apartment. All things considered, it’s a good thing he’s here, given the way your heart is beating out of your chest.

“You haven’t been responding to my calls or messages since the gala,” he begins carefully. “I was afraid something was wrong. There were so many people present—maybe you’d caught a virus. But,” he continues, taking in your disheveled yet healthy appearance, “it seems I was incorrect.”

The guilt that’s been eating at you for days suddenly devours your insides whole, and your emotional dam bursts open. 

“I-I’m glad you got to go, and that you got your award—your speech was great, by the way,” you sniffle. “But while we were there, the whole time I was thinking how much more successful you are than me. How much more intelligent. I mean, that lady asked me if I was an entomologist, or whatever, and I didn’t even know what she meant! At the end of it I just…thought you’d be better off without me. That you deserve better. Smarter. That’s why I’ve been quiet the last few days,” you finish, eyes downcast.

His puzzled frown deepens at your revelation.

“Why would I expect you to possess medical knowledge when that’s not your field of study?”

Oh.

Oh.

You really were stupid, weren’t you.

“You…don’t think I’m too…average for you?”

“No, have I ever indicated that I do? If so, I apologize for making you feel that way. It’s the complete opposite of how I view you,” he reveals, stepping closer. “I’m also terribly sorry I didn’t notice you were so uncomfortab—”

“No,” you interrupt him shakily. “I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Zayne gives you a sympathetic grin before starting over. “Regardless, I regret not being able to take care of you like I should have. And as much as I wish you hadn’t, I understand why you took the time to process your feelings. But to make one thing clear,” he asserts, voice deepening in emphasis. “I’m the one who’s lucky to have you.”

As you look up at him through glassy eyes, your breath hitches. “What?” you croak, voice hoarse from built-up tears.

“Darling,” he begins gently. “Did you ever consider whether I like socializing with those types of people?”

Mouth parting in a small ‘o,’ you shake your head meekly. 

He smiles wryly. “After every previous one of those events, I’ve gone home with an ear-splitting headache. Last week was the first time I’ve ever enjoyed going,” he chuckles. “Not because of that award—which was flattering but unnecessary considering I was only doing my job,” he quips, “but because you were there beside me.” 

“No amount of medical knowledge can compare to the peace you make me feel. The comfort. I asked you to be my plus-one for one reason only: the person I love makes me happy.”

At the confession, your battered heart soars and your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll melt off. Timidly, you inch closer to him, instinctually unsure if he’ll welcome you back into his arms. 

He answers your unvoiced question almost immediately, pulling you to him by the waist before he speaks again. “Although,” he pauses, giving you a concerned once-over, “if you were truly in so much distress over attending, you could have just refused. At the expense of my own happiness, I would’ve preferred you had.”

“But you seemed so excited to go,” you groan, laying your head against his chest. You shiver at the contact—you must’ve missed him more than you realized. “I guess I was wrong.” 

“Not entirely. I was excited to go with you.”

At his response, you bury yourself impossibly further into him, and he strokes your back tenderly. “Well, that was one reason I agreed—you looked so cute when you asked, I just couldn’t say no,” you grumble, lightly pinching his waist. “But the other part was…with all the hours you spend at the hospital—800 surgeries and all—we never really get to go to big events as a couple. I just wanted to take the opportunity, I guess. I thought it would feel nice.”

Zayne sighs deeply and presses a light kiss to your hair. “And it felt bad instead,” he surmises. “How can I make it up to you? I’ll ask Greyson to trade shifts with me if I need to, just say the word.”

“Well,” you start, peering up at him shyly. “There is an office party next week that I’ve been dreading going to. All alone,” you pout. “If he comes with me, the illustrious Dr. Zayne will get to see how we regular people socialize.” 

Chuckling softly, he kisses your forehead. “He wouldn’t dare miss out on that. He’ll be there,” he promises, squeezing your hip in confirmation. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe the bakery van just dropped something off at your door. Shall we open it?”

In an instant, you peel yourself off of him and sprint for the door before freezing in your tracks. You were forgetting something. 

“Wait!” you exclaim, turning back around to face him. With a nervous gulp, you say the words you think you’ve known for a long time.

“I asked you to come with me, Zayne,” you breathe, “because the person I love makes me happy, too.”

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC My Brother in the Mirror

Damian doesn't like mirrors.

He never mentioned the fact to other members of the family, but they are detectives and vigilantes, it's their job to be observant. Which, after so many years, becomes a habit.

Damian doesn't actively avoid the mirrors - he has a mirror in his bathroom, he didn't express any discomfort over going into a mirror labyrinth at some carnival they've attended (he expressed disgust over taking part in something so stupid, in his words, but that's a whole another story), and he actually spent a few minutes in front of the funhouse mirrors when no one was looking, watching his own reflection distort in various ways. He also has no problems with his self-image - he doesn't mind pictures of him taken at any time (unless it's Tim, but that's, again, a whole another story), he's drawn a few self-portraits that were rather accurate and he liked them.

He just doesn't like mirrors. For some reason.

His family, both close and extended, never questioned it. They did some gentle research to see if the dislike was caused by some kind of problem Damian was experiencing without telling anyone, but when they found no proof of that, they've just decided it was some quirk of his. Everyone has quirks. Dick doesn't like eating cereal like a normal person, Tim despises sleep, Steph is at war with any color other than purple.

That is, until one day, Tim witnesses Damian sitting in front of a mirror.

He is not even aware of it - the whole family is having a game night, and through some arguments and rearrangements on the couch, Damian ends up sitting on the left side of it, where his back is turned to one of the three mirrors in the room. Tim, who's lost the last round, is slumping in an armchair nearby, pointedly looking away from the screen where Damian and Jason are enthusiastically competing over the first place in Mario Cart. Of course, Tim can't just not watch it since he needs to know their strategies. But turning back around would also be admitting defeat.

The solution? Easy, watch the screen through the mirror.

Which is when he notices it.

Damian in the mirror doesn't act the same as Damian in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Tim can see the real Damian moving around, shoving Jason with his elbow, fully concentrated on the game, and yelling something. Damian-in-the-mirror is sitting unnaturally still, the back of his head over the couch unmoving.

Tim forgets all about the game when Damian's reflection starts to turn around. Slowly and carefully, eerie in the way the horror movies are, the boy in the mirror turns his head around like an owl, his neck twisting inhumanely.

His eyes are green. Green like the toxic waste, like Jason's madness, like acid in cartoons, like the Waters of Lazarus.

Damian in the mirror smiles, his unblinking, gliwing eyes fixed on Tim, and his teeth are sharp and pointy, and there are too many of them, humans can't smile this wide.

"-im? Tim!" A hand nudges him in the shoulder, and Tim looks away from the mirror, finding Dick standing over him. The noise of the game room returns all at once, and, wait, when did it become quiet for Tim?.. He must have a strange expression on his face because Dick's easy smile falls slightly, and he frowns, "Is everything okay?"

Tim looks back to the mirror, but the green-eyed boy in the mirror is gone, and the mirror only reflects Damian as he is: sitting on the couch.

"Yeah," Tim shakes his head and forces a smile on his lips, "I just zoned out."

"Okay," Dick pats him on the shoulder and gives him the controller, "It's your turn now."

Tim takes the controller and turns around, facing the screen. Tim throws a quick glance at Damian, who had slid down on the couch so his head would not be in the reflection anymore. Tim sees the cold, warning hint to his eye, a clear do not speak of it message.

Tim doesn't like that the mirror is now behind him.

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ❞

❝ SATORU GOJO IS THE HONORED ONE - AND HE'S MORE THAN HONORED TO BREED YOU ! ❞

✧ pairing: gojo satoru x sorcerer!reader

✧ summary: it's your duty as the wife of the clan head to help your husband get dressed -- even for battle. but that didn't mean he couldn't spend some time undressing you. aka fucking gojo in his shinjuku showdown outfit

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, canon compliant, feral gojo, Ijichi featured, dom!gojo, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral (f), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), mirror sex, clothed sex, creampie, implied multiple rounds, multiple positions, swearing,

✧ w/c: 7,946

✧ now playing: feature one of sab's kinktober

“Perfect,” 

The word slips from your lips without a second thought as you slip the haori over his shoulders, snow locks against the coal colored silk, slick as steel and light as a feather, yet carrying the heft of expense. 

Just as your husband did. 

Little words could describe Satoru Gojo — the most common being the strongest — unmatched strength that matched his flawless appearance and even more unsullied skill set. Curses would sooner exorcise themselves rather than face him, and those who didn’t, well, they did not have long to linger on their mistake. 

But you didn’t think of him as the strongest. No, your husband was so much more than that. A teacher. A mentor. A friend. An idiot (but he would insist that he was your idiot, and he very much was). And he was perfect. 

A remark you knew many would balk at,  and even now — as you dressed your husband, at his insistence, fingers helping him pull the fabric over his body, before smoothing it over his muscle and the word fell from you without a second thought — you caught glimpse of a grimace on Ijichi’s face in the mirror. 

“Ijichi, you should go before I slap the shit out of you for your expression,” Ijichi squeaks in horror before slipping from the room, quiet click of the door welcoming silence, only for a moment, “what was that again, sweetheart?” 

You roll your eyes, “should I really indulge you in making your ego any bigger? You may defeat Sukuna with just the sheer size and weight of it,” you tease, fingers smoothing and adjusting his haori. 

“Think that would be a victory either way, sweetheart,” his fingers find yours, weaving with your own — miraculously soft even with bearing the weight of the world in his hands alone, “but I don’t want to win in such a boring way, especially to Sukuna,” 

“And why’s that?” His lips curl. 

“Because I have to look cool in front of my precious students, don’t I?” you see a hint of sadness linger in his gaze — and you hear the unspoken words, especially Megumi, but the smile slides back on as usual,  “I can’t have myself embarrassing myself can I? You’d never let me live it down,” 

“Oh, no I wouldn’t,” your fingers slide up to cup his cheek, “but you’d expect nothing less from your wife, now would you?” 

And he grins, just as he did the day he had proposed to you, at the classroom at Jujutsu Tech where you first met, deep reds and oranges flooding the wood paneled room, painting it as it only could in the evenings, but even the sun paled in comparison to Satoru on his knee, lips curled in your favorite smile — the very one he gave you every day. 

“My wife,” he hums, and you have to stop yourself from biting your lip and tense your muscles so you didn’t jump him then and there. 

“What about it?” he runs the back of his fingers over your cheek. 

“Just glad I convinced you to let us get married early,” not that it took much convincing at all — only a single look after he was unsealed and several minutes of making out later, and he had gotten Ijichi to get the registration and paperwork for him — the very papers Satoru had prepared before Shibuya, “because now you’re stuck with me, wifey,” 

You chuckle, your fingers finding his as they brushed your cheek, turning your head to kiss his fingers, “I’ve been stuck with you from the moment we met,” 

And you had been — you hadn’t known peace since he had thrown that Jujutsu Tech classroom door open all those years ago, with a welcome party prepared for you and the other first years, microphone in hand as he introduced each of you. And it wasn’t his strength or his skill or even his stupidity that charmed you — but the goddamn smile on his lips. 

Funny, how everyone was so preoccupied with his eyes, when every inch of his was just as captivating— 

“Think you’re going to lose me now, Toru?” You rub your thumb across the length of his cheek, “don’t know if I could ever live without you,” 

“Oh yeah?” he wraps his arms around your waist, his warm form enveloping you, “no regrets?” 

“Only one,” and he tilts his head, blues gleaming with the low light of the room, catching like sunlight against waves, as your fingers traced down to the smooth silk of his clothes, “that we never got married in a formal ceremony,” 

“If I recall, you were in just as much of a rush as me,” his lips graze your jaw, threads of heat slipping up and down every inch of your body, a kiss pressed to the soft skin behind your ear, “you barely wanted to even have the small ceremony we did,” 

“That’s because someone kept touching me while I got ready,” and he did, as you changed into a dress you selected for the small ceremony — or rather you tried, as his warm palms slid up your body, his mouth covering your soft gasps and protests, “or do you forget that you nearly fucked me against the wall right outside the room we were going to marry?” 

“It’s not my fault my wife is so tempting, they say my technique is deadly, but you yourself are far more dangerous,” he hummed, another kiss against your cheek, as his thumb and forefinger cups your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror,  “why the want a formal ceremony anyway? If I remember, you said formal ceremonies were only for the attendees rather than the couple,” 

“Well, maybe I saw something that changed my mind,” or someone in something—

“Oh? And what could change my incredibly stubborn wife’s mind?” 

You hate him — hate the teasing glint in his gaze because he knows exactly why, as he noses the hollow of your neck, lips grazing your flushed skin, “You know why,” and he does, he sees it in the way your gaze lingers across his body, the way you shiver when his palm slips down your hip only to squeeze, and in the soft sound that leaves your lips when his fingers trace down your chin to the valley of your chest. 

“I’d like to hear you say it, sweetheart,” he presses himself flush to your back, heat seeping through the fabric, just as his breath warmed your skin, “don’t tell me you forgot how to use your words,” 

“You’re the worst,” and his chuckle reverberates against you, sending a shiver up your body, his hands sliding down the front of your shirt until he reaches the hem, fingers toying with the fabric. 

“And what does that make you since you married me?” 

“A fool,” your lips curl, his eyes meeting yours, “but a very smart one,” and he clicks his tongue. 

“So smart and yet she can’t answer a simple question,” you sigh, and his fingers, finally, slide underneath against your bare stomach. 

“You just want me to stroke your ego,” and he grins at you in the mirror, robes nearly engulfing your form now. 

“Oh, that’s not all I want you to stroke,” your snort is cut off by a gasp as his palms slide under your bra, “I’ll just keep teasing you until you break,” and his fingers tease your pert nipples, a wave of heat headed straight for your cunt, “and y’know I can, wifey.” 

~~~

“Hngh, Toru, please—” 

Satoru doesn’t know what he loves more — the sound of his name on your lips, desperation on your tongue, the same tongue that he had tasted again and again or the sight of you below him, spread out on his desk, papers and books long crumpled and pushed onto the floor — but he doesn’t need to choose a favorite thing when it comes to you. 

Because every single thing is his favorite. 

“If you want me to stop, you can try, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to your thigh, teeth grazing the soft flesh, another mark blooming among the rest, a field of reds and purples he could spend hours exploring, “don’t know how far you’d get,” 

His fingers press your thighs further apart, with the barest hint of strength, and you’re still utterly restrained under his touch �� a lovely butterfly pinned for his viewing — and what a view it was. 

“Fucker,” you pout at him half-heartedly, your kiss ruined lips and fucked out gaze doing nothing to help your case, “we were supposed to be getting you dressed for—“ 

“Then there’s no problem,” his fingers tug your blouse over your head, your bra askew from his eager fingers, and his hand reaches around to undo the clasp. But he doesn’t pull it away with his fingers, but instead bends down to  away the intruding garment, “because you’re the only one getting undressed, sweets,” 

There was something about the thought — and the sight — of you completely bare for him, at his mercy naked and vulnerable, while he stood clad in the clothes meant for battle. His cock twitched, he supposed this was a battle of kind — as he pushed his sleeves up — a battle of how many times he could cum inside you. 

“Satoru—“ you squeal as he nearly rips away your panties, leaving you bare for him, your thighs closing on reflex, only for him to press them back apart, “fuck—“ 

“That’s what I’m trying to do, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue, bringing your soaked panties to his nose to smell, before pocketing them, a grin on his lips, “a good luck charm,” 

You gape at him, half horrified and half amused at the thought of the Gojo elders somehow finding out that the Gojo clan head’s clothes had been defiled by your underwear — though you were sure they expected nothing less from Satoru Gojo.  

But even so, you can’t bring yourself to complain, “You don’t need luck to win,” and he scoffs lightly, his warm palm sliding up your thigh, lips pressing hot kisses up your shin, right to your knee, “you just need to know I’ll kick your ass if you don’t make it back in one piece to me,” your fingers run through his soft locks, before tracing over his cheek. 

“I know, and the thought of you waiting for me is all I need,” he turns to your hand, lips pressing a kiss against the cool metal of your wedding ring, “and it wasn’t for that,” and he’s shifting, settling fully between your thighs, lips inches from your sopping pussy, “it’s for making sure I can breed you right,” 

His fingers brush against your fluttering walls, index finger tracing the outer walls with the very tip, pulling and tugging until you were spread out completely, messy pussy on display just for him. You couldn’t squirm under his the wet squelch making your cheeks burn, “S-stop teasing, just—“ 

You moan as he sinks a thick finger into you, knuckle deep and fast, “So needy for someone who was whining a second ago about stopping,” it doesn’t take long for a second finger to join, stretching out your perfect pussy, warm walls pulling him deeper each time he pulled out, his wrist and palm drenched in your juices, “but y’know I can’t stop, wifey, it’s our duty, right? Duty to produce an heir, but more importantly,” And a third finger sinks inside, as he peers up at you, lips parted in a sweet moan that makes his cock throb, ready to bust without a single touch, because he doesn’t need touch — not when it’s you under him, “my duty to fuck and yours to be fucked,” 

And your cunt squeezes his fingers at his vulgar words, a coil growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, heat building, as you can’t help moan his name, “and how will we fulfill our duty if I don’t prepare you, huh? Gotta make sure you’re ready, hm?” 

His thumb rubs over your aching clit, the lewd noises of your slick nearly white noise to your ears as pleasure builds, every muscle taut underneath his touch. He’s pumping faster and harder, nails dragging over your walls, until his fingers find that spot you love — the one he knows how to hit again and again, and he does. 

Your head lolls back against the desk, pleasure ripping up your spine, “I’m—“ 

And that’s the only warning you give before you cum, name on your lips as your back arches, as he fingerfucks you through your orgasm, working you down from your high. You're panting, chest heaving as he slowly eases his fingers from you, the emptiness making you whine. 

Your eyes flutter open to the sight of him licking his fingers clean of your cum, tongue darting across his lips, a glint in his eyes.

“You’re so sweet I can never get enough of you,” and he lifts a finger to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his digit, obediently closing your mouth around it, until he’s dragging it out, pulling at your bottom lip, “you’re dripping from both lips aren’t you?” 

“That’s your fault,” god, you’re too fucking cute, thighs twitching as he leaned down to your soaked cunt, a pretty flushed pink, “you made a mess,” and his tongue licks a stripe up your leaking walls, sparks blooming from the hot muscle flicking against your hard clit. 

“Then I guess it’s my responsibility to clean you up,” 

Satoru Gojo is always too much — it’s too much the way his tongue drags over the seam of your cunt, it’s too much when his nose bumps against your clit when he buries his face in your pussy, your fingers curling in his white locks, and it’s too much when you feel his grunts and moans resonate against your drenched folds. 

It was too much. 

“How are you so soft?” He mumbles, words whispered against your puffy clit before he kisses it, “you say I don’t play fair but you were unfair from the moment I met you,” he reaches down, palming at his erection, “and I knew you’d be mine,” Your eyes find his lips less than an inch from your pussy, chin and lips shiny with your cum and his spit, “you and this sweet pussy,” 

And he’s slurping every ounce of your essence you give him, greedily lapping at you as if he’d rather drown in your juices than breath real air, “fuck, Toru, slow down—“ toes curling as you 

He clicks his tongue, your head rolling back as your nails dig into his scalp, “You shouldn’t lie, sweets, not when this pretty girl is so honest,” the only sound being the wet squelch of your 

“Satoru Gojo!” A familiar voice rings out followed by several knocks, “how long do you expect to keep us waiting?” 

Fuck. And there was the reason you two were getting sresssd to begin with — a showing before Gakuganji and the Gojo clan before the battle with Sukuna. A showing Satoru agreed to undoubtedly to fuck with them — and you, now, for that matter, as he sucks at your clit again, your hand flying to cover your mouth. 

“Didn’t know you were waiting. Thought keeping you waiting would have sent you the right message,” Satoru replies, words said nearly against your wet cunt, breath warming your folds, a shiver working it’s way up your spine, “do you all need to see me in my clothes for battle that badly? I’ll have to start to suspect other motives — and while I’m flattered, with how flattered I can be from a bunch old geezers, I am a married man—“ 

“You insolent brat—“ his tirade falls on deaf ears as you try to urge Satoru off, but he doesn’t, only pinning your hips in place, hands locked under your knee, as he tugs you closer. 

And he only grins, “Don’t tell me you’ll let this old coot distract us, sweetheart? Gonna make me insecure, does my wife not like this as much as her pussy does?” He groans his fingers, spreading your walls apart, parting them to see your cum and pre leak, only for him to lap it up, “because you’ve gotten wetter, haven’t you?” 

“T-Toru, I swear to god, I’ll—“ you half whisper, half hiss, and he sinks two fingers inside your needy walls, his tongue and fingers doing nothing to keep quiet as the squelch of your folds only grows louder as he drags his fingers inside every inch of you, while his tongue busies itself with your clit. 

“You’ll what, wifey?” he hums, making you whimper, “leave? You know you don’t want that. We could make a show of it, should I open these doors and let everyone see how needy you are for me,” and you can’t help the gasp that parts your lips, walls clenching around his fingers, “maybe then those geezers will see why I chose you,” 

“Satoru! Are you even listening?” 

“You can say whatever you want to me here,” Satoru sinks a third finger inside, teasing your clit with chaste kisses, “I’m not leaving this room for the rest of the night,” 

Gakuganji pounds at the door, but you barely hear it, heart pounding in your ears, as you barely muffle your moans behind your clenched fist, “Disgraceful, do you think this is anyway to behave—“ you’re so close, too close, ready to cum as he pumps his fingers once, twice, three times — hitting your sweet spot again and again—you feel yourself reach that peak—

Only for him to stop. The whine that leaves your lips is a little too loud, just as his smirk is a little too wide. 

Fucking asshole. 

Satoru chuckles, teasing you open with his fingertips, just carding your folds barely open at all, pulling small gasps and moans muffled against clenched fingers, “Aw, c’mon, you don’t think being sealed up in that box taught me anything? You should know it only made me take what I want,” Satoru pulls his fingers from inside you, licking up the side of his digits,  “and what I want is right here,” he leans back down, “so tell me and leave,” 

“Even so, I need to speak to you alone,” 

“It’s only me and my wife. You can tell her anything you tell me, she’s the more responsible one after all,” he punctuates it by his teeth grazing your clit, making your hips jerk underneath him, his hand covering your mouth, your fingers curling over his. He grins down at you as he kisses your thigh, “My wife is indisposed at the moment,” 

You don’t hear what Gakuganji says as his fingers sink back inside all at once, fingers rough as they fucked you open in earnest, but you hear Satoru scoff nonetheless. 

“Get your mind out of the gutter, you old geezer — she’s just lying down,” and he adds with a whisper, curling his fingers just right, “and getting her brains fingerfucked out,” and your pretty eyes are full of tears, cries muffled against his fingers, spit soaked, as he feels your walls clamp around his fingers, “what do you think? Should I let him in, sweetheart? Let him see how you well you get fucked by me, hear you scream my name when you cum for me?” 

Nerves on fire from his touch, he’s just adding fuel to the fire, and you’re bucking into his fingers, wanting his fingers deeper even a little—

“No, I don’t think so,” his lips curl as he leans down, cerulean glinting in the low light, as your walls give that tell tale flutter, “because this pretty cunt is just for me,” and he sucks hard at your clit, just as he pulls his hand away, “cum.” 

And you do, pleasure ripping through every inch of you as your back arches upwards into his touch, as he holds you against his face, cumming against his fingers and lips. 

It’s heaven, buried in your sweet cunt as you cum, hot release against his tongue that he laps up greedily, the wet squelch of your pussy along with your lips crying out his name again and again. doing nothing to ease the throbbing between his thighs. 

And when he finally does pull away, licking his lips and chin clean of your release, he watches you coming down from your high — eyes fluttering open slowly as your chest heaves, pussy split open just for him, your cum staining parts of his pants shirt and haori. 

Fuck, he’ll have to see everyone off like this — your cum on his clothes — and his dick twitches, as he leans down to press kisses along your body, with you shivering as he does. And he wants nothing more than this moment to last, with you beneath him, the taste of you on his lips, and the sounds of your soft pants filling his ears. 

That is until, you flipped him, back hitting the plush of the mattress, “sweets—“ 

“Did you forget? It’s a wife’s duty to serve her husband,” and your fingers are as deft as they are possessed — grazing over the bulge in his pants, a hiss before pulling the drawstrings apart, “isn’t that right, husband?” 

Fuck, he bites his lip as he watches you tug his trousers down, his erection slaps his stomach, hard and leaking through the fabric of his boxers, a large dark stain of precum from his weeping tip. 

Fuck, your cunt ached at the sight of him — no matter how many times you saw his cock, you couldn’t get over just how long he was — it was a miracle you were able to take him without breaking your cunt, though he’d gotten far too close. 

“And I thought you said we couldn’t undress me,” his cock twitches as your fingers trace over the dripping slit through the drenched material. 

Your eyes don’t meet his, still fixed on his hard on, “if the clothes are on you, does it even count as undressing?” 

And your fingers dip into the elastic of his boxers before snapping it against his skin, making him jolt, “should I stop then, oh honored one?” You rub your thumb over his slit harshly, a gasp falling from his lips as his head lolls back, “maybe I should go get Gakuganji, let you have your meeting,” 

“Playing dirty doesn’t suit you, sweetheart—“ and you pull his boxers down, pooling around his knees just as his pants did, cold air hitting his cock making him hiss. 

“Like I said,” your palms slide up his body, from his waist, and under his shirt, to his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs, “should I stop?” 

He looks up at you, lungs filled with heat instead of air, lips hovering an inch from his leaking erection. 

“Fuck no.” 

~~~

You’d be the death of him. 

There was no mistake about it. 

Satoru Gojo only had one weakness—and you were sitting on top of him. Your hair disheveled with your fingers running through them, lips kiss bitten and ruined even as your teeth grazed your bottom lip, and your gaze molten and only for him — just for him. 

And you called him perfect. 

A groan leaves his chest as your tongue flicks against his slit, salty precum swallowed by eager lips. He’s hypnotized by you, fingers reaching for you, as his thumb drags down your puffy bottom lip, parting your mouth for him, tongue darting out to lick the pad of his finger. Fuck, your mouth is so sweet, but how is it so wicked all the same? 

“Fuck, sweets, how do you look so good on your knees f’me? S’not fair,” and your forefinger traces his pretty veins from base to tip, running over every curve and inch that would be buried in your tight cunt soon enough, his hips jumping against your touch, “g’nna make me cum before you even touch me,” 

“If you’re gonna cum anywhere, it better be on me,” your lips curl at the shiver that runs down his body, your fingers sliding up his thigh as your fingers slide the pre down his length, fingers slowly pumping him. 

“Fuuuuck, just like that, can’t wait to bury myself in your sweet pussy, wifey—“ your lips kiss his slit, sucking as your fingers toyed with his balls, feeling far too tight from your touch, a moan cutting off his words. 

“G’tta find a way to shut you up somehow, Toru,” you spit on his cock, pressing teasing kisses up and down his begging length, “or maybe we can find a gag,” 

You’ll kill him before he even gets a chance to fight Sukuna, and he’d die a happy man. 

His precum drips down your chin, painting your lips, tongue darting out to lick it off your skin, “s’fucking good for me,” the praise sending a wave of heat right to your cunt, hot cum slipping down your thighs — and you finally let his cock slip past your lips. 

A whine leaves his throat, his head lolls back, your pretty mouth wrapped around his dick, soaking his length, hips jerking against your mouth. Half muttered apologies, he couldn’t look away from the sight of you on your knees for him — mouth stuffed full of his cock with glassy eyes from the soreness of your jaw as you bobbed your head up and down his length. Just watching his dick go and in out of your pretty fucking lips, drenched in your spit and his pre, was enough to make him want to cum then and there. 

But he wasn’t the only one. 

Small whimpers and moans reverberate against his cock, tongue flicking against his veins, when his eyes flicker down, nails nearly digging into your scalp as he sees you two fingers deep in your cunt, the wet sounds of your pussy mixing with the squelches of his cock in your mouth. 

“Fuck, such a nasty girl I married, huh?” He runs his fingers through his hair, entranced by the sight of you fucking yourself open with your fingers, your mouth growing sloppily as you do, “does fucking my dick turn you on this much? You’ve soaked the sheets,” he chides, wide smirk undercutting any iota of scolding, while you meet his gaze with a glare, “Aw, what? Can’t take it—“ 

His words are cut off as you take him deep, too bumping against your throat, and his fingers curl in his locks. 

“Shit—“ Your fingers graze his balls again before squeezing, hard, he nearly busts them and there, but he can’t, not yet — his fingers weave into your locks to slowly pull you off, strings of spit and pre connecting your — not when he hasn’t fucked your pretty cunt yet. 

Your eyes are dilated, dark with pleasure as his gaze meets your own, a mix of his pre and your spit slipping from the corner of your mouth, “You haven't cum yet—“ and his fingers wrap around your wrist and pull your fingers from inside yourself. 

You yelp as he flips you over in an instant, hitting the mattress with a bounce, large palms sliding up your thighs, as he presses your knees to your chest. 

“The only place I’m cumming, sweetheart,” as he drags the swollen head of his cock against your needy folds, watching his precum smear against your twitching folds, before lifting your soaked fingers to his lips, “is inside your sweet cunt.” 

“Toru—please—“ and you’re so needy, just for him, your fingers finding the front of his scarf before tugging him close, a gasp chased away by a grin as he sees the pure desperation in your eyes, “I need you,” 

“I’m right here, sweets,” and he’s leaning down to dot sweet kisses down your body — against your neck, the bridge of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” 

“Fucker,” he laughs. 

“Now you’re getting closer,” and he does too, bumping the head of his weeping erection against your puffy clit, as your folds feel as if they’ll part for him in an instant, “this pretty girl is more honest than you are,” he’s parting your folds with his tip only to pull out. 

A whine turns to a scowl, as you tug him even closer by his scarf, “I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me, I’ll strangle you with this—“ and he sinks into you. 

Fuck, you swear you feel every goddamn inch, vein, and curve as he works himself into your tight cunt, walls fluttering as if beckoning him deeper—and he was only too happy to oblige. 

“Toru, s’too big,” your whining only makes his cock throb inside you as he bottoms out inside, “s’too much,” 

“Too much? No, sweets, this dick was made to fuck you,” he grunts, taking every iota of his self control not to thrust into you and bury his cum deep in your womb — no, he wanted this to last, “and this pussy was made for my cum,” he rolls his hips against you swallowly, his tip brushing against your cervix, as both of your heads roll back. 

“How are you so tight? Pleasure rips up your spine as he begins a steady pace of fucking you, sounds of skin smacking together ringing in your ears, “you’re fucking wet and yet you have me in a vice grip,” his clothes rub against you, your slick soaking through the fabric, “should I go meet with the elders like this? Let them see the Gojo clan’s haori soaked by your juices,” fingers pressing your legs apart wider and higher, divots in your flesh from his touch. 

Your walls squeeze at his words, mouth falling open wordlessly as he grunts, “F-fuck,” you can only manage to say, chest heaving as you grasp at the front of his haori, pulling him needlessly closer, “f-faster—“ and he grins. 

He was more than happy to oblige. 

He rails into you at a pace impossible for anyone but Satoru Gojo. And your gasp fades into a drawn out moan that makes him only want to fuck you harder and faster — he needed to bury himself in your cunt until all you remembered was how to moan his name. 

“You take me so well, so deep,” his hand laces with yours and guides it to the bulge in your stomach, “see how deep you take me? Good girl,” the praise makes you keen, sending another wave of pre to soak his dick, and he chuckles, “gonna fit my baby so well too,” 

Your mouth falls open as his dick ruts against you, bullying your pussy open, “W-what?” 

“Y’think we’re gonna leave this bed before I’ve filled you up?” And he punctuates his words with each roll of his hip, “nah, this cunt is all mine tonight,” his thumb drags down your lips, pressing against your tongue, spit leaking out as you groaned, “and so are you,” 

And you’re sucking at his thumb, teeth grazing it before brushing it away to lean up to meet his lips in a bruising, messy kiss — all spit and teeth and tongue, as your hips meet his thrusts, tip finally finding that sweet spot that has your back arching and your eyes rolling back. 

“Toru, fuck, I’m g’nna—“ and you’re cumming, hard, orgasm hitting every inch of your body at once, nerve endings shot with pleasure as he fucks you through it — fucking relentless (or should you say limitless?). Satoru grunts as your walls clamp down on him, the wet squelch of your pussy only growing louder among your pants and moans. He watches the white ring of cum wrap around the base of his cock as it split you open, and all he wanted to do was cum inside you. 

He needed to. 

But he’s pulling out suddenly, a gasp ripped from your lips at the emptiness, before he’s pulling you into his lap, your back pressed to his chest, an arm around you to keep you from squirming. 

“What are you—“ your sentence cuts off as he teases your far too sensitive entrance with the head of his cock, “T-toru,” 

And his other hand snakes around to cup your chin, forcing you to meet your own gaze in the mirror. 

You’re a mess — sweat slicked and naked, your skin littered with blooming red marks dotting up and down your body, your nipples pebbled and hard under his touch, and your cunt on full display, his fingers slipping down to spread them, as if to show you where he just was. 

And he was — hulking behind you, his whole form enveloping you as his cock pushed against your needy entrance. His haori disheveled and his hair askew from your fingers running through it, skin shiny with sweat, skin beautifully flushed, and his eyes filled with lust and his smile far too pleased with himself as he watched you squirm. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, “Don’t wanna be the only one to watch me cum inside you, you should enjoy the view too,” he’s finally sinking to you again, body falling back against him as he sheathed himself in you fully again, “look at how well you take me,” 

And his fingers are cupping your chin, spit slipping from your mouth, as he forced you to look again, see the bulge in your stomach as he slowly began to fuck you, his grunts and moans hot against your ear, “y’know, I’m beginning to really believe you were made for me, sweets, the only one for me,” and he’s emphasizing it with a thrust, “you’re the only one I can even imagine wanting, even just thinking of you is enough for me,” his words do nothing but make you grow tighter as he fucks upwards into you, as he spots your eyes shut again, “c’mon baby, watch me fuck you,”

So you do, watch as his cock slides in and out of your cunt, the wet noises and squelch almost too much for you to bear, the all too familiar knot in your stomach growing ready to snap. His fingers slide up your body to pinch and tease your sensitive nipples, already flushed from his attention. He’s murmuring sweet words, but you don’t hear any of them — you’re gone, lost in the pleasure, in the sweet stretch of your pussy around his cock, unable to look away as he fucks into you. 

“S’good for me, sweets, I’m close,” and he’s pulling you down flush against him, cock buried to the base as his tip brushes against your g-spot with every thrust, his lips pressing needy kisses to the side of your neck, “fuck, g’nna cum—” 

“Cum inside me, fill me up, Toru,” and he groans your name, turning your head to find your lips in a sloppy kiss, tongue wrapped around yours just as his cock hits the deepest part of your tight cunt and his fingers rub against your clit. 

And you’re squirting, gushing over his lap and cock, pulling your lips from him as you moan his name, as he rails into you through your orgasm, until he notches himself as deep as he can before he’s cumming too, hot release painting your walls as he fills you up. He’s fucking his cum into you. 

You both grow slack as he slows his movements, relaxing against his body, murmuring soft praises as he slowly pulls himself from inside, clicking his tongue, as he watches his cum slip out of you. 

“Sweetheart, how will you fulfill your duty if you let my cum slip out like that?” he kisses your cheek, before he’s gathering the cum on his fingers to stuff it back inside, drawing a gasp from your lips, “maybe I’ll just fill you up again, hm?” 

His softening cock twitches at the thought, as you lean into him, shifting as you feel just how wet you’ve gotten him…and his clothes. 

Fuck. 

“Toru, how are you going to fight in these clothes tomorrow?” you cover your burning cheeks, “it’s drenched,” 

“It’ll dry,” you snap your head to him to glare at him, and he pouts, “what? It’ll be like you’re fighting with me—” 

“I swear if I have to live with the knowledge you fought the king of curses with my cum all over you, I’ll kill you—” 

“And if I’m not alive—”

“I will bring you back to life, just to kill you,” and your palm slides against the slant of his cheek, “and you’re not going to die, I forbid it,” 

He chuckles, his lips leaning down to meet yours in a sweet kiss, “Then I better not now, huh?” 

~~~

“You’ll come home to me, won’t you?” 

It hadn’t been a question, not until now, now when you’re faced with the reality of the day pressed against you as day breaks over December 24th. Daylight seeped into the bedroom, his thumb tracing a lazy circle against the divot of your hip, a soft smile on his lips, with his arms wrapped around you. 

Atlas long having shifted the sky to your husband’s shoulders, from the second he existed in his world — but for a moment, you feel it too. Not like him — never like him, even when you tried to bear it with him. But you never could understand, no matter how you tried to.  

But you tried — his fingers lacing with yours, engulfing yours with his warmth, as he lifted your intertwined fingers to his lips. 

“Where else would I go, sweets?” And you didn’t want to think of the other possibilities, to say the words out loud and manifest them as some cruel jujutsu god’s intention. Because when were these gods ever kind? “I only belong in one place — two if you count the mochi place in Sendai,” 

But he doesn’t earn a smile out of you, frown still firmly fixed to your lips, “ouch, not even a pity half smile?” he tilts his head, “sweetheart—“ 

“You said it yourself that the ten shadows is the ultimate counter to infinity,” you hate the words that leave your lips, filling in your mouth like bile, unable to do anything but spit them out like acid, “that and Sukuna’s technique, I’m worried—“ 

“Worrying won’t change the outcome, baby, and I’m not planning on losing,” 

“If you aren’t, then why did you agree to give Yuta your body?” your words were quiet, his movements still, muscles tense as if he had already given up his autonomy to another, “and you didn’t tell me,”

He’s careful with his words, tiptoeing between buried mines— “I didn’t want you to worry about something that wouldn’t happen—“ but still managing to step on one all the same. 

“Bullshit. You thought it would be better for me to find out if push comes to shove?” you laugh, a bitter noise, but all the anger leaves your body, and only fear is left, “I can’t lose you, Toru,” 

“Baby—“ 

“I can’t. I won’t,” you’re being petulant, you know are, but he’s the one person you’re allowed to be childish about, just as he is with you. 

“You won’t, huh?” He wasn’t used to be treated like this — as fragile, as something that’s fleeting, that could slip from fingers as easily as everyone else did. Even as you touched his, fingers tracing the curve of his jaw with the most delicate of touches, as if he’d shatter under your touch, “I don’t think we get a say in that, sweets, unless you had secret meetings with a god I don’t know about,” 

“Satoru—“ 

“Don’t worry I won’t get too jealous—“ and you cover his mouth, yanking him close by his scarf, your forehead pressed to his shoulder. 

“I love you, you absolute idiot, you know that right?” And you feel his lips curl ever so slightly against your fingers, before he presses a soft kiss to your palm, easing it from his mouth, “I love you, I love you so much,” 

“I love you too,” he presses his forehead to yours, “I’ll come back to you, but even if I don’t…I’ll always be with you, you can’t get rid of me, even in death,” 

“Promise?” And he kisses you, soft and languid, thumb rubbing back and forth against your speak. 

“Promise.” 

And Satoru Gojo was never one to break his promises. 

~~~~

Except now. 

The slice cut through the silence of the battlefield with the wet squelch of flesh and blood, followed by two thumps, one soon after the other. 

No, no. This wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It wasn’t. 

It couldn’t be. 

He promised he would come back. He promised he’d live. He promised. 

He can’t leave like this. No, he can heal himself, he can save himself, couldn’t he? RCT like he did before with Toji. And for your eyes flickered around the room, no one could meet your gaze, none except Shoko, who saw the question in your eyes and only frowned before shaking her head, lit cigarette snapping in half as he held it too tight. 

“No, no—“ you didn’t even realize you said the words out loud before you felt everyone’s eyes on you suddenly, before you felt something, a flicker of his cursed energy and you snapped. 

“Ui ui, take me with you,” Kashimo was already on his way to the battlefield, a lightning flash to death’s door, with no fear. 

Yuta says your name softly, “I don’t know if that’s a good—“ your eyes snap to his hard. 

“You have your plans, Yuta, and I have my own, this isn’t a matter of discussion,” you step over to Ui Ui, seeing Yuta’s hands curl into fists, vision averted, “I’m not ready to give up on him,” 

And in a second, you’re in the middle of the battlefield, dust clearing as the distant noises of fighting rings in your ears, but you barely register it, no, not when wind rolls and you see him. 

“Satoru,” 

You’re at his side in an instant, your fingers running over his cheek, the heat leaving his body, cold creeping in, but as your fingers graze his, a quiet murmur of his name, and you see his eyes flutter. 

And it’s immediate. You look to Ui Ui, as your hands are placed on either side of his split body, palms spread against his body, “Take us to Shoko, he’s alive.” 

~~~~

Satoru Gojo was never one to lose. 

But he supposed if he had to lose to anyone, it might as well be the king of curses. But he knows he didn’t really loose, as he watches the snow fall above him, wondering if the cold against his skin was the snow or if it was something else entirely. 

Was this what it was like for Suguru? Is this what he saw? The winter sky, or was it him knelt beside him as his life left his body. 

Maybe he’ll ask him when he goes back, when he sees everyone again. 

And then he hears it — your voice, the quiet murmur of his name, and the brush of your hand against his.  

No, no, he can’t leave. Not if he can help it. Not when you’re here. 

He feels your cursed energy flood his body, the flow of cursed energy through every inch of him, as it keeps his heart beating and his brain alive — a gasp caught in his throat. 

If you want to start anew, head north. If you want to return to your old self, head south. 

There’s only one option. 

He had to head north — even if it meant — he closed his eyes — losing everything, but himself. 

But he’d have you — and that would be more than enough. 

~~~

“Are you enjoying the view?” 

Your lips curl as you stand in the doorway of your bedroom, leaning back against the doorframe, watching your husband dress himself. 

“Always do,” the floorboards creak lowly as you cross the bedroom to your husband’s side, “why do you think I married you?” 

He chuckles, “and here I thought it was because of my incredible personality,” and you snort, as your arms wrap around his middle, your fingers adjusting the obi belt around his waist, “feels like you laughed at that a little too hard, sweetheart,” 

“I just imagined how your students would react at that,” you laugh softly, as you finish adjusting his belt, only to grab his haori, a deep sky blue, as pretty as he is,  “pretty sure they’d disagree, especially after the stunt you pulled—“

And of course, the stunt you were referring to was him coercing you push a box out to his students, only for him to pop out. 

“How many chances would I have to do that? Plus, it was hilarious — did you see their faces?” And you scoff, shaking your head, “Plus, I figured it would be less shocking this way. Surprising them this way changes the focus from what happened to right now,” 

You helped him pull the haori on, guiding his arms in one sleeve and then another, “I think you just being alive was enough of a shock,” you kiss his palm, pressing it against your face. 

And his lips curl, “Well I made a promise didn’t I?” His other hand reaches for you, finding your waist and tugging you close, “and I never break a promise, especially when it comes to my beautiful wife,” 

“Can you call me that yet? We still haven’t had the ceremony yet,” he shakes his head. 

“This is only a formality, something to appease the elders and keep the idea of a clan war at bay,” he scoffs, shaking his head, before shrugging, “but it isn’t so bad,” 

“Why’s that?” And he smiles.  

“Because now we can have no regrets,” and your fingers trace upwards over his face, the scars from his battle bumpy as your fingers run over his soft skin, fingers reaching the blindfold over his left eye, before pushing it up — his cerulean blue eye now a milky white, “except maybe being able to marry you with both eyes,” 

“Like you said, we were already married,” your thumb runs over his shut eye gently, “this is just a formality,”

He leans into your touch, nuzzling your hand, before his arms pull you flush against him, “Then can we be late?” And his lips lean down to press a heated kiss to your neck, voice reverberating against your skin, “because I’d like to enjoy my wife before I have to share her with everyone else,” 

“Toru—“ a soft gasp cuts you off, as his hands slide down your sides to cup your ass, fingers squeezing, “we can’t—“ 

“Oh what will they do? Start without us?” And your resistance is waning as his lips start trailing kisses down your neck, tugging at your kimono if only to pull the fabric down your shoulders, “I promise I’ll be fast,” 

“Last time you promised that, we didn’t even make it out the door—“ and his fingers are already undoing your obi, before sliding up and underneath the silk material, thighs parting under his touch, “god—“ 

“You don’t have to call me ‘god,’ sweetheart,” and his fingers toy with your panties, “look at my wife,” and he’s tilting your gaze to make you look at yourself in the mirror again, “perfect,” 

“Just like my husband,” and his lips curl. 

“Even now?” And your fingers cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze — no longer the look of the strongest or the gaze of the six eyes — just the eyes of your husband, Satoru Gojo. The very gaze he’ll use to look to the future. 

“Especially now.”  

✧ a/n: welcome to the first kinktober fic!! sorry it took a bit T_T. i've been super busy with work and i keep getting sick in weird ways. last week i got hives and this week, my stomach is being a jerk. but i hope you guys enjoyed :) i think the next fic may be 'a cult classic' or 'scream (only for me)' so look forward to that!! thank you to @coffee-and-geto and @gaylatteart for betaing!

✧ taglist: @risuola , @riamallow , @montilyetron , @saccharinesatoru , @notgoodforlife , @aerithsthingss , @satorusmochis , @silvarys , @oracle014 , @jimabenamara , @seijakuu00 , @erwinawesomeness , @staryukis , @idiotgojo , @torubug , @theshylittleelfgirl , @mitsuristoleme , @forest-hashira , @aishies-stuff , @midnaamethyste , @fiannee , @paperstarsthings , @satosuguwifee , @kachntos @meow-satoru , @rowaelinsdaughter , @emonaculate , @hojoslutoru , @strawberry1042 , @fairiesthrum , @shoyosdoll , @gladiatorgladiator , @tojis-ball-sack , @astraecea-silversin , @sleazymac-n-cheesy , @wakashudou , @cstandsforchaos , @yuminako , @zetianzz , @dazailover1900 , @sunamatic , @euphorism , @satowooo , @hawkwithsocks

[buckyseternaldoll]

𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲

(i know this gif has no relation to this story and not even sexy, but let's say it's a hint of where i got the inspiration from 😭)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: After sparring leaves Bucky pinned and panting, you discover just how much he craves control being taken from him—how easily he’d fall apart for you, again and again. All he wants now? To worship you from his knees, breathless and bound.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, sub!bucky, soft dom!reader, breathplay (m receiving), restraint (hands tied), edging, cockwarming, mirror sex, face riding, praise kink, begging, overstimulation, spit & slick mention, aftercare

Word Count: 5.5k

Author's Note: Another sub!Bucky exploration, not a direct continuation to knife's edge.

You never thought your usual sparring session would end up like this.

Bucky, breathless beneath you.

Begging to be pinned.

It was supposed to be just another late Saturday morning—another round of sweaty training mats and mutual bruises. You and Bucky had a tradition of sparring together. No gear, no audience, just the two of you testing reflexes, trading smirks and smartass remarks between blows.

You’d shown up in your usual getup: a black cropped racerback tank top, clinging just enough to show the line of sweat along your spine. Your thighs were wrapped in dark grey workout shorts, snug at the hips with a skin-tight black compression layer underneath that hugged every curve. Breathable, flexible—meant for movement. Meant to fight.

Bucky was already stretching when you arrived, wearing that damn grey tank top—thin and fitted tight across his chest, the fabric straining slightly at the seams of his shoulders. His vibranium arm caught the light as he moved, and those black sweatpants hung low on his hips like a challenge, soft cotton doing nothing to hide what was underneath.

But there was a silent rule you always followed: you never restrained him.

Not fully. Not with real holds, not with the ones you knew could trigger something. You knew what that feeling could do to him. That cold, metal-locked part of his past that still haunted him some days. So you stayed clear. Always danced around the edge. Kept it safe.

But not today.

Today, he stood in front of you with that look in his eye—the one he gets when he’s about to do something reckless.

“No more soft hits,” he said, breath coming steady. “I want all of it. Full force. No holding back.”

You hesitated, brows drawing together. But then he pushed you—taunted, tested, fighting harder than usual like he wanted to provoke you.

And so, you snapped.

A quick parry. A fake left. You ducked low, legs twisting—and locked your thighs around his neck in one sharp, fluid movement. You hit the mat with him caught between them, back pressed to the floor as your thighs flexed tight around his jaw. The fabric of your shorts shifted against his stubble with every breath he took. You could feel the scrape of it—rough, bristled, a sharp burn of friction against your inner thigh with each shallow exhale. It made the hold feel more intimate, more raw. Like every twitch of his mouth against your skin was confession.You twisted just enough to keep pressure on his neck but not hurt him. Just enough to make him feel the helplessness. The submission.

And god—he squirmed.

Bucky Barnes. Enhanced, lethal, super soldier—struggling beneath someone half his size, his hands gripping your thighs like they were his last anchor.

But then… you felt it.

The shift.

Not in your hold—but in him.

The soft gasp. The tension in his core. And most telling of all—the tent in his sweatpants, unmistakable now, thick and straining against the fabric.

You blinked once. Then again. That was—real. That wasn’t a trick of the light or an accident. He was hard. From this. From you. From your thighs choking him out.

Your pulse kicked, heat rising between your legs so fast it almost scared you.

What the hell did that mean?

Your eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You immediately released him, your thighs unlocking from around his neck as you scrambled backward, breath caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief.

Your own core throbbed with something dangerously close to need. Jesus. You weren’t supposed to be this turned on either.

“You were… turned on?” you said, eyes wide.

Bucky sat up slowly, pushing himself up with one arm and dragging in a shaky breath. “I mean…” he grinned, shoulders rising in a light shrug. “In my defense… that was insanely hot.”

The two of you sat there on the training mat, breathing hard and sweat-slicked—Bucky still in his grey tank top, clinging to his chest, and black sweatpants stretched tightly around the very visible tent in his lap. You sat across from him, legs bent at the knees, your black cropped tank clinging to your ribcage, dark grey shorts riding up slightly from the scuffle, the compression layer beneath hugging every curve. The heat in the room wasn’t just from training anymore.

He looked at you with that crooked smirk—flushed, messed-up hair, lips a little parted.

“Since you’re so freaking dangerously hot,” he said, voice rough, hungry, “you wanna stop and make out for a while?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped past your lips. “I know it won’t be just making out.”

That was all the invitation he needed.

Before you could blink, Bucky lunged forward from his seated position, hands sliding over your waist as he pulled you into his lap, lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that was messy and deep and laced with fire. You felt his fingers dig into the waistband of your shorts like he needed to feel your skin underneath, like he wanted to pull you into his body and never let go.

But you were quick—quicker than he expected.

Instead of letting him take the lead, you shifted in his lap and slowly traced your palm up the curve of his throat. You kissed him again—once, softer—then broke it, letting your lips trail downward.

Hot, wet kisses down his jaw.

Along the side of his neck.

You lingered there, bit down lightly until he gasped, hips twitching under you.

Your fingers pressed firm under his jaw, thumb settling over his pulse.

You squeezed—not tight, but enough to control his next breath. Enough to make his pupils blow wide, mouth part in a gasp.

The little sound he made? Guttural. Like his soul left his body and came crawling to your feet.

A soft, broken whimper spilled from his lips as his eyes fluttered open, blown wide and dark. His hands stayed on your waist, but he didn’t fight you. Didn’t move. Just let you hold him like that.

“Holy shit,” you whispered, easing your grip, watching his pupils dilate. “You really like that, don’t you?”

He was panting now, sweat rolling down the line of his throat.

“I think I found God,” he rasped. “And she’s sitting on my lap in tight shorts and telling me what to do.”

You laughed, releasing his throat, and watched how he sagged slightly—boneless beneath you, like just your hand alone had melted his brain. The tent in his pants was aching now, nearly damp with how hard he was.

“You’re a mess already,” you teased, dragging your fingers along the waistband of his sweats. “That hard just from a little pressure?”

“Fuck, yes,” he moaned. “I want more. Please. Do it again—tie me down, ride me, I don’t care. Just don’t stop leading, baby. Don’t stop.”

His hips bucked lightly, almost involuntarily.

“I’ll be good. Just tell me how you want me.”

You tilted your head, studying the way he trembled beneath you.

“If we do this, I’m in charge.”

“God, yes,” he groaned. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

Your lips curled slowly, dangerously.

You leaned in close, lips just by his ear. “Good boy.”

His whole body shuddered like you’d short-circuited something in his spine.

—

Still beneath you, Bucky was panting—his chest rising fast, eyes fluttering. His breath caught in his throat like it didn’t know whether to come out as a moan or a prayer. You didn’t even have to squeeze again. The memory of your hand, of being caught between your thighs… it lingered in his body like want.

Your fingers dragged down his chest, nails lightly scraping over the damp grey fabric of his tank top. You felt the way his abs tensed beneath it—hard muscle twitching, struggling to stay still. He liked this. Not just the contact. The helplessness. The rush of blood and denial of air. The flutter of lightheadedness that made him feel pinned in more ways than just physically.

“Take this off,” you said, voice low but firm.

Not a suggestion.

He obeyed immediately—yanking the tank over his head with a grunt, breath shaky as he tossed it aside. You pushed him gently onto his back again, straddling him. His chest was bare now, sweat beading down the line of his collarbone, rising and falling in shallow bursts. Still catching up from earlier. Still winded. Still needing.

You kissed his jaw, then leaned in to whisper.

“How’s your breathing, baby?”

“Fast,” he rasped.

“You like that?”

“God, yeah.”

You brushed a finger under his chin.

“Then let’s play with that.”

He groaned—already pliant.

You leaned to the side, reaching toward the pile of your gear at the edge of the mat. It was normal. You always brought towels and robes to shower after training. But today, your fingers curled around the soft cotton belt hanging from your robe—and it wasn’t going anywhere near your waist.

You shifted back over him, lips brushing his ear again.

“Hands behind your head.”

He laced his fingers together as instructed, arms flexing above his head. You wrapped the belt around his wrists—not tight, not enough to hurt, but firm enough to hold. Firm enough to remind him that he couldn’t move unless you let him.

You pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat. Felt the way his pulse jumped under your lips.

“You’re not going anywhere,” you murmured. “Not until I’ve bled every breath from your lungs.”

A sharp inhale. A groan. His cock twitched beneath you.

Your fingers slid down his chest, over the glistening trail of sweat beneath his pecs. You traced the V of his abs until you reached the waistband of his pants—and dipped your hand in.

Just your fingertips.

Just enough to tease the hot, throbbing length of him.

He gasped.

You wrapped your hand around him fully, stroking once—slow and tight, squeezing just enough to make him bite back a sound. Then again. Then harder.

“Fuck—” he hissed.

“You gonna come already?” you whispered. “That easy, baby?”

“N-No—”

“Didn’t think so.”

You dragged your hand out of his sweats and then—slowly, deliberately—peeled them down. His hips twitched, lifting just enough to help you. You tugged the fabric past his thighs and off completely, letting them fall somewhere on the mat behind you.

His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. Vulnerable. Needy.

You hummed in approval.

“There’s my good boy,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around him again. “So fucking eager to be used.”

You tightened your grip a fraction more. Your hand moved so slowly it was like punishment—each stroke heavy and torturously controlled. His cock twitched, leaking over your knuckles.

Then you stopped.

He let out a low, strangled whine.

“Tsk,” you murmured, brushing your lips across his ear. “You’re dripping like a slut and I’ve barely touched you. Naughty, naughty boy.”

You climbed off his lap slowly, heat dragging over his cock as you moved. He was breathless now, sweat shining down his abs, muscles tense under the strain of self-control. His hands twitched above his head—tied, compliant, wrecked.

You stood, peeled down your shorts and leggings together, slow and sensual, revealing inch by inch of bare skin. Then your panties—completely soaked. Translucent with arousal.

He groaned at the sight.

“Open.”

He obeyed. Of course he did.

You shoved the soaked panties into his mouth, holding them there with a slow, deliberate hand on his jaw.

“You don’t need your mouth to beg anymore,” you murmured. “Your cock does all the talking.”

You knelt again, nudging his legs wider.

Then licked a stripe up the underside of his cock—slow, firm, possessive.

His whole body twitched.

“God, you taste desperate,” you growled. “Every drop of you says please, mistress, use me.”

You climbed back onto his lap, deliberately grinding your slick cunt along his shaft, letting it slide through your folds. He bucked beneath you—barely—his hips stuttering with need.

But your hand shot to his throat.

You didn’t choke. Not fully. But your fingers pressed gently at the sides, just enough to hold him still, to remind him what you owned.

His moan was muffled around your panties, his eyes nearly rolling back.

You squeezed just a little more, then released.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you whispered. “Or I’ll tie your cock up instead and make you watch me come without ever letting you feel it.”

He whimpered. Squirmed. His cock throbbed beneath you.

You leaned back, letting your slick folds rub over him again, never letting him inside. Then you stopped. Watched his face twitch with denial.

“Beg,” you said. “Beg me to use you.”

He groaned around the panties, words distorted—but you heard it anyway.

“Mmm—mmph—use me—please—ride me—please—”

You yanked the panties from his mouth and tossed them aside.

“Tell me who owns this cock.”

“You. Fuck—you, baby—it’s yours, all yours—”

“You’ll wait.”

“Please—”

You finally sank down on him—slow. Inch by inch. His cock stretched you open so perfectly it stole your breath, and his back arched, every muscle flexing like you’d lit him on fire.

You bottomed out and held him there.

No motion.

Just heat.

Just breathlessness.

“You’ll sit there and take it,” you whispered, tightening your thighs around his hips. “You’ll let me ride you when I’m ready. And when I say come…”

You leaned closer.

“You better fall apart for me.”

—

His whole body shuddered like you’d short-circuited something in his spine.

Still beneath you, Bucky was panting—chest rising fast, lips parted. His breath caught in his throat like it didn’t know whether to come out as a moan or a prayer. You didn’t even have to squeeze him again. The memory of your thighs around his neck lingered in his body like electricity, like want.

You trailed your fingers down his sweat-slick chest, nails lightly dragging across bare skin, and felt how his abs tensed beneath it—coiled, twitching, like he was aching for more. Not just for touch—but for restraint. For that strange, dizzy, breathless sensation he wasn’t supposed to like. But craved anyway.

“You breathing okay, baby?” you murmured, voice low against his throat.

“Fast,” he rasped. “But so good.”

“Good,” you purred. “Let’s play with that.”

You crawled higher over him again—knees planting on either side of his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair to keep him still.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” you whispered, “while I put you back where you clearly want to be.”

You locked your thighs around his head—just like before—but this time, you were bare.

Your soaked cunt hovered just above his parted lips, flushed and dripping. Bucky’s eyes were already glassy as he looked up at you, chest rising faster beneath you.

You lowered yourself slowly, carefully, until your folds just barely dragged across his mouth.

Moan.

The sound that escaped him was pure sin—low, muffled, vibrating into your cunt. Slick smeared across his lips and chin as you rolled forward slightly, letting a single drop fall into his mouth. His tongue twitched.

You immediately stopped.

And smiled.

“Did I say you could taste?”

He whimpered beneath you, the sound desperate, pleading. You lifted your hips an inch and slapped the inside of his thigh—sharp, quick, close to his balls.

He gasped, hips jerking—but not from pain. No. That twitch was hunger. He liked it.

“Naughty,” you tsked, letting your voice fall into something calm and deadly sweet. “Trying to sneak a lick?”

You rewarded him with another slow grind—slick folds dragging wetly across his mouth and stubble. His face was slick with you now. His nose pressed right into your clit. He was gasping, lips open, unable to taste fully, unable to move.

Still under your control.

Still breathless.

Still starving.

“Look at you,” you murmured, tightening your grip in his hair. “Completely ruined. And I haven’t even let you come. Haven’t even let you taste.”

He whimpered again. You ground down, just once, slow and steady, enough to smear even more slick over his skin.

Then pulled away again.

He groaned helplessly, tongue wet and eager—but you gave him nothing.

“You don’t get to steal,” you said. “You want something?”

You dragged one finger through your folds, soaked and swollen, then tapped it gently against his lips.

“You ask.”

He moaned as your slick touched his tongue. His cock twitched, aching against his stomach.

“You want to taste me, soldier?”

“Yes—fuck, please—please, baby—I need it—I’ll be good—let me—please—”

You grabbed his hair again, holding him steady.

“No licking. No sucking. You just lie there,” you whispered, voice thick and slow. “And take it like the good little pillow prince you are.”

Then you ground down again.

This time slowly. Relentlessly.

You fucked his face in slow, teasing drags of your hips—your thighs flexing around his head, your slick dripping into his mouth with every pass. His tongue wasn’t allowed to move. You made sure of it.

He whimpered every time you pulled away. Every breath was shallow now. His lungs worked harder. His cock throbbed untouched.

“You like this?” you asked. “Being trapped between my thighs? Breathing in nothing but pussy?”

He twitched.

“So close to heaven,” you whispered, “and still not allowed to worship it.”

He tried to sneak a lick again.

You pulled away.

“I said still.”

He froze.

Didn’t twitch this time.

“Good boy.”

You hovered above him, thighs caging his flushed face, until you finally—finally—whispered low and molten:

“You’ve been good.”

“Please,” he rasped. “Please let me—I’ll be so good—need to taste you—”

You smiled.

And this time, when you sank down fully, there was no resistance. No teasing.

Just reward.

“Then go ahead,” you whispered. “Lick me. Show me what that perfect mouth can do.”

And god, he did.

Bucky groaned into you like your taste had saved him. His hands stayed where you left them—bound, obedient. He didn’t grab you. Didn’t flip you over. He obeyed.

His tongue moved with skill and reverence—flicking and curling, pressing deeper, desperate to make you come. The heat of his mouth was overwhelming, but it was the coarse scrape of his stubble that lit your nerves on fire.

The contrast—soft tongue, rough jawline—sent sparks straight through you.

Every drag of his mouth felt like being scorched and soothed all at once. His nose bumped your clit just right as your hips moved, slick covering his face. The more you rode, the deeper he moaned.

Your thighs were trembling now.

“Fuck—Bucky—just like that—don’t stop—”

You came hard—shaking, grinding into his mouth as your orgasm tore through you, your muscles clenching, your thighs squeezing tight around his head. You didn’t hold back. You gave him all of it. Your cries. Your slick. Your whole body.

When you came down, breathless and glowing, you rocked your hips back slightly, letting him breathe again. His face was soaked, lips swollen. His stubble was wet, glistening with you.

You looked down at him, completely wrecked, and laughed softly.

“Goddamn,” you breathed, brushing sweat-damp hair from your temple. “You really just let me do that to you…”

You leaned down, voice soft but teasing against his ear:

“Can’t believe you’re letting me stay in control today.”

Bucky—flat on his back, cock untouched, face drenched in you—smiled, dazed and devoted.

“For you?” he rasped. “I could take this for eternity.”

—

You shifted off his face slowly, dragging your soaked heat across his mouth one last time before settling beside him on the mat. Your thighs were still trembling. Chest still rising and falling. The scent of sex clung to the air.

Bucky didn’t move.

Face glistening. Cock flushed, twitching against his abs. Wrecked didn’t even begin to describe him.

You reached out, brushed the damp strands of hair off his forehead. His eyes fluttered open—barely.

“You’re such a good boy,” you whispered, letting the words sink into his ruined, obedient brain. “So good I might get addicted to you like this.”

His cock jerked. Hard.

You smirked.

“Come on,” you murmured, brushing your fingers down the center of his sweat-slick chest. “Let’s take this somewhere we can really see the damage.”

You reached for the tie and undid the knot slowly, trailing kisses down his chest as you helped him up.

He followed without question, still breathless, still dazed. You led him to the long padded bench near the mirrored wall of the sparring room—intended for cooldowns, but this afternoon? It was a throne. A stage. A place to be displayed.

“Sit back,” you said. “Arms behind you.”

He obeyed, dropping onto the bench. Shoulders against the angled padding. Legs spread. Cock hard, flushed, slicked with precum and the ghost of your mouth. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps as he positioned his wrists at the small of his back.

You reached for the same robe belt you’d used before and tied him off again—firm this time, low at his spine. A handcuffed restraint.

“You’re not grabbing me unless I say so,” you reminded, voice low against his ear.

“I know,” he panted. “I won’t. Promise.”

You climbed onto his lap—reverse—your back to his chest, your thighs straddling his, both of your bodies now reflected in the full-length mirror ahead.

You spread your legs a little wider. Let your soaked cunt hover just above his cock.

“Look,” you whispered. “Look at how fucked out you are. Face still wet from me.”

He moaned—soft, overwhelmed—and you reached between your legs to stroke his cock, teasing the flushed head through your folds.

“Please,” he whispered, broken already. “Please ride me.”

You paused. Let your cunt hover, slick just barely kissing the tip of him.

“You want to feel useful again?” you asked. “Wanna be good for me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed.

You turned your head slightly, catching the way his cheeks flushed deeper at the title.

“I remember how quiet you were with my panties shoved in your mouth,” you murmured. “All that strength, and you still let me silence you.”

A whimper escaped him—high, needful.

“I still have them, you know,” you added, reaching to the side where you’d carelessly tossed them earlier. They were crumpled now. Damp. Twisted and glistening from your slick.

You looked at him through the mirror.

“Open.”

He obeyed.

You shoved them back into his mouth—slow, sensual, like you were crowning him in devotion. The cotton disappeared between his lips.

“Now you can be good and quiet for me again.”

You finally sank down onto him.

Slow.

Tight.

Deliberate.

His cock filled you perfectly, forcing a moan from your throat as you seated yourself fully in his lap. Your reflection said it all—your spine arched, your slick glistening around the base of his cock, your thighs trembling slightly from overstimulation, and him?

Head tipped back. Arms straining behind him. Panties in his mouth. And his eyes locked on your body like he couldn’t look away if he tried.

You stayed still. Just like before.

“You want me to ride you, soldier?” you asked, voice honeyed. “Want me to use your cock like the good little fucktoy you are?”

He groaned behind the soaked fabric.

But then—you felt it.

His hips twitching, restrained. The slight pull at the knot behind his back. He was trembling again.

You turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

He was trying to speak.

So you tugged the panties gently out of his mouth, slick with spit and heat.

“Say it,” you murmured.

His voice cracked.

“Did I—did I do good?” he asked, almost whispering. “Please… I need to hear it. Need to know I was good for you. That I made you feel good. Please, ma’am.”

Oh, fuck.

Your cunt clenched tight around him. The desperation in his voice. The vulnerability. The fact that this super soldier—this goddamn wall of a man—was begging for praise from the woman who just rode his face into ruin.

You leaned back against his chest, fingers cradling his jaw gently as you made him look at the mirror.

“Look at you,” you whispered. “Face still covered in me. Body tied down. Cock aching. All because you let me have every inch of you.”

He moaned—soft, shattered.

“You were perfect, baby,” you said, hips starting to rock again, slow and firm. “You made me feel so fucking good. Let me take what I needed. You stayed right where I told you. You didn’t even try to flip us.”

His breath hitched.

“You’re such a good boy, James. You ruin me.”

A deep, trembling sound left his chest—almost a sob of relief.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, ma’am.”

And you smiled—because he meant it.

You started to ride in earnest now—hips moving smooth and slow, your slick pulling wet sounds from where your bodies met. His cock pulsed deeper inside you with every grind, and his voice was wrecked when he breathed:

“God, you look so good. So perfect taking me like this—please don’t stop—please use me—”

You locked eyes in the mirror.

“Keep talking, baby,” you whispered. “You praise me, I’ll keep fucking you.”

—

His breath stuttered behind you, chest heaving like his lungs were working overtime just to keep up. Your soaked cunt gripped him so tight, pulsing around every inch of his cock—and he couldn’t stop twitching inside you.

But you didn’t move.

You just sat there—perched on him like a throne—making him look in the mirror. Making him see you. The way your curves framed his lap. How your spine arched in perfect, devastating rhythm. The slick dripping down his thighs. His cock, buried so deep in your cunt it was obscene.

“I said,” you repeated, calm and low, “worship me.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered.

Then swallowed hard, voice cracking.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he rasped. “Look at you. Look how good you look on me, baby. I’ve never—never seen anything like it.”

“I love when you ride me. I love how you hold me down, like I’m yours. I love—fuck—I love how strong you are. How you make me feel like I’m nothing but yours to play with.”

“I never thought I’d like being restrained again. Thought it’d fuck me up forever. But this—” his breath shuddered again, eyes flicking to where your cunt was stretched around his cock. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else. I want it to be you. Always. Want to come for you, please—just you.”

You clenched around him.

Hard.

“That’s more like it,” you murmured. “Now shut up and take it.”

And then you moved.

You started slow—rolling your hips in wide, deliberate circles, letting every inch of your pussy stroke over his cock like velvet. The wet sounds echoed off the mirror. His head dropped back with a strangled groan, fists clenching behind him against the tie.

“You watching, baby?” you teased, grinding down harder. “See how pretty I look? Bouncing on your cock like it belongs to me?”

“Fuck—yes—ma’am,” he choked. “You’re so fucking gorgeous—I can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you snapped, slamming down harder. “You’ll take it like the good boy you are.”

Your rhythm sharpened—pace fast and punishing now, wet skin slapping loud against muscle as you bounced in his lap. His cock drove deep, again and again, dragging moans from both of you.

He pulled tight against the restraints—but didn’t fight them.

Didn’t even try.

You reached back, grabbed a fistful of his damp hair, and yanked his head upright.

“Eyes on me,” you growled. “Watch how I break you.”

He whimpered like it hurt to obey—and kept his eyes wide, locked on the mirror.

You fucked him harder.

Riding. Grinding. Letting your ass smack into his thighs with every thrust. His cock hit that perfect spot again and again, your own climax building fast as your slick poured down both of you.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please let me come—I can’t—I’m so close, I can’t hold it—baby, please—”

“Beg for it.”

“Please,” he sobbed. “Let me fill you—please let me come in your pussy—I need to—need to come inside you—fuck, I’ll be so good, just let me—please—”

You slammed down one final time and froze.

“Now.”

His scream tore out of him like a live wire. His body seized, twitching beneath you as his cock jerked and pulsed, thick spurts of cum filling you deep, so deep, like he’d been saving it for hours. His back arched, legs trembling under your thighs. He was shaking—completely fucked out.

And you were right behind him.

“Fuck—fuck—Bucky—” you moaned, body collapsing forward slightly as your own orgasm hit hard. Your cunt squeezed him so tight you felt every last pulse of him. Your vision blurred, hips trembling through the waves of pleasure until you collapsed against his chest, both of you breathless.

You stayed like that.

Panting.

Your heat still wrapped tight around his cock.

His forehead pressed against your back. Hair damp. Breathing ragged.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered hoarsely. “You… you ruined me.”

You turned your head, kissed the corner of his jaw, and smirked.p

“You begged me to.”

He let out a soft, delirious laugh.

“I did. I’d do it again. You—” his breath caught. “You made me feel so fucking safe.”

You reached behind, loosening the tie at his wrists gently, brushing his forearms as they slowly relaxed from the strain.

“You were perfect, baby,” you whispered. “Obedient. Beautiful. Ruined just the way I like you.”

His lips pressed to your shoulder, soft and warm. Then a quiet, cheeky hum.

“You think next time,” he murmured, “you’ll stuff those panties back in my mouth and fuck me even harder?”

You laughed, breathless.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you purred, glancing at your soaked reflection in the mirror.

“You haven’t seen hard yet.”

—

Your breath was still slowing as you leaned backward, fingers working gently at the robe tie knotted around Bucky’s wrists. The fabric had left soft red lines against his skin—proof of how tightly he’d held back for you.

He let his arms drop with a groan, slumping back like every muscle had given out.

You slipped off his lap, stretching your thighs with a quiet hiss, and bent to kiss the side of his head.

“Still breathing?”

“Barely,” he rasped. His voice was cracked, all gravel. “Pretty sure you broke my spine in five places.”

You grinned. “But did you die?”

That made him laugh—a soft, ruined sound that cracked open into something real and warm. His head lolled back against the bench, sweat dampening the strands of hair clinging to his neck. His chest rose and fell in slow waves. His cock, spent and glossy, gave a lazy twitch between his legs.

“I can’t believe I liked that,” he muttered to no one in particular. “All of it. Being tied up. Letting you do whatever you wanted. Being used.”

You turned your head, eyes soft.

“You didn’t just like it, Buck. You begged for it.”

A lazy smirk crept onto his lips. “Can you blame me?”

You leaned down and kissed him again—this time slower. Gentle. A kiss that tasted like sweat, slick, and trust. Your fingers found his jaw, tracing along the rough edge of his stubble, then drifted down to cup his throat—not tight, just resting there, tender.

“After everything you’ve been through,” you whispered against his lips, “you deserve to feel safe in someone’s hands.”

You kissed his neck.

“And baby… these hands?”

Another kiss, this one just below his ear.

“These hands made you come so hard, I think you blacked out.”

He groaned and threw both hands over his face like he was trying to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks. But he was smiling. Laughing, even.

“You’re the greatest damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I know,” you teased, nudging his thigh with your knee. “And now your slutty little cock knows it too.”

“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed.

“Say thank you.”

He peeked out from behind his hands, eyes sparkling, then grinned like a man who’d just sold his soul and had zero regrets.

“Thank you, my queen,” he said solemnly. “May your thighs crush me again sometime soon.”

You snorted, climbing up onto the bench and curling beside him. The two of you lay there tangled in sweat and afterglow, your head on his shoulder, his arm lazily wrapping around your back.

The silence was warm.

The stillness earned.

And then he murmured, lips brushing your hair:

“For the record? You can ruin me like that anytime.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed.

“I plan to.”

[hoondrop]

Gym Boyfriend! Sunghoon Headcanons

1. Post-Workout Tease

He knows the way his tank top clings to his body drives you wild. After a workout, he’s dripping with sweat, veins prominent, shirt practically transparent. He’ll stretch in front of you deliberately and slowly pulling the hem up, abs on full display.

You hate the little smirk he has on his lips as he stands in front of the mirror, knowing full well it makes you absolutely insane.

“Why are you looking at me like that, babe? You wanna cool me down… or work me up?”

2. Locker Room Sexcapades

Sometimes he pulls you into the empty locker room under the guise of 'helping him with cool down stretches.' But the second the door closes, it’s not his hamstrings he’s thinking about.

His warm body often pressing you up against the cool walls of the locker room, his hand slipping up your shirt to toy and circle your nipples.

“You’ve been staring since leg day started. What’s on your mind, baby? My form? Or the way I’ll ruin yours later?”

3. Workout or Foreplay?

He loves when you join him at the gym. Watching you squat or lift something heavy while panting? It flips a switch in him. The second you're back home (or even in the car), he’s all over you.

“That cute little gasp you make when the weights get heavy?" His voice hoarse, hand on your thigh, squeezing the flesh to ground himself.

"I want to hear that sound again. But under me.”

4. Hands-on Training

He'll correct your form from behind, his strong hands on your hips, pressing in a little too close. You can feel his breath on your neck. You already know he’s not really thinking about your posture anymore with how his bulge is grinding against your ass.

Sunghoon leans down, voice soft but firm.

“Back straight. Legs apart. Good girl.. just like I taught you."

5. Goes Full Sunghoon when Alone

He lives for post-workout skin-on-skin contact. Slick, flushed, breathless? Yeah, he has you in his lap while he’s still in his compression shirt, both of you sweaty and desperate? He may be a clean freak but nothing turns him on faster.

Sunghoon's breathy groan echoes around the empty gym, his hands gripping your waist as you bounce on his length, hands on his shoulder to anchor you as you savour the full warm feeling of his cock filling you up so good.

“You smell like me. You feel like mine. Ride me just like that, baby… make the whole gym know who you belong to.”

6. Possessive Gym Rat

You mention another guy helped you adjust your weights, and suddenly Sunghoon’s hovering by your station for the rest of the session. Every time he grips your waist to 'correct' your form, it’s way too tight, and his voice drops an octave.

His eyes are throwing daggers at the man who, minutes ago, was just striking up a friendly conversation; maybe he smiled a bit more than he was supposed to.. his eyes on him, but his voice whispering in your ear.

“If anyone touches you again, I’ll bench press them into the floor. You're mine. Don’t make me remind you in front of everyone.”

7. The Biggest Advocate for Conserving Water

You thought you’d shower separately? Not a chance. He follows you in, corners you under the stream, presses you against the cold tile and makes you breathless while whispering dirty filth into your neck, teeth nipping at the skin as his fingers busy themselves in making you squirt all over.

8. Gym Brat Tamer

You whine that he’s making you do one more rep, and he just leans in with a warning look and a very husky promise.

“You’re whining over five more squats now? but last night you were all for riding my dick for five more rounds, baby.."

[littlegochu]

hold me tight │ jjk 18+

"I never stopped loving you."

Trigger Warning: This story contains emotional and physical abuse. (Jungkook is not the abuser btw)

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: exes to lovers

rating: 18+, fluff w smut.

synopsis: Y/N is untouchable, his dare: "Make her fall in love with you."

Two years ago, Y/N was just a dare—a game Jungkook never meant to take seriously. But somewhere between the laughter, late nights, and whispered promises, he fell. Hard. Then the truth came out, and everything shattered.

Now, Y/N is a single mother trying to rebuild her life when fate throws Jungkook back into her world. He’s changed. Older. Steadier. But the past still burns between them. As secrets unravel and emotions resurface, they’re forced to face everything they tried to leave behind.

Some wounds run deep. But some loves never die.

-

“Maybe,” you start, voice light and sweet, “the reservation can wait.”

You round the corner into the bedroom, heels in hand, lips slightly parted at the sight in front of you.

Black dress shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough to show off the tattoos. Silver watch, subtle chain. Hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try.

He glances up from the mirror.

Smirks.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, walking over, eyeing your dress like he wants to ruin it.

You loop your arms around his neck lazily, standing on your toes. “You just look so good, baby. It feels wrong to let anyone else see you like this.”

Jungkook chuckles, low and rough, hands finding your hips like instinct.

“Pretty sure you’ve seen me look better.”

You pout. “Not recently.”

His brow lifts. “That right?”

Before you can answer, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing, setting you down on the kitchen counter with a grunt of satisfaction.

Your breath catches.

He steps between your legs, crowding your space, lips ghosting over yours.

“We have all day, baby,” he murmurs, voice a little rough. “I’m all yours.”

You fake a whine. “You’re teasing.”

He grins, kisses your cheek, your jaw, then finally your lips. “Maybe.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and whisper into his mouth: “Ten minutes.”

He pulls back just enough to grin. “Dinner first. Then I’ll give you all the time you want.”

-

The sunset hits just right — golden and warm, spilling over the skyline like it’s bending just for you. String lights sway gently above your heads, casting soft glows on silverware and champagne flutes. The city buzzes somewhere below, muffled by height and distance, replaced by the quiet clink of plates and the lull of soft jazz floating through the speakers.

Sitting in Le Morte— the restaurant his parents gave to him on his 21st birthday. The same restaurant where he asked you to be his girlfriend, the same tiny restaurant you both promised his parents to build up to success. Now, it's a beautiful restaurant sitting at the top of the tallest towers in South Korea.

You sit across from Jungkook, candlelight flickering between you, and he looks—

God. He looks unreal.

Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, collar loose. Gold chain sitting just at the base of his throat. One arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other lazily stirring the ice in his drink like he has all the time in the world.

But his eyes are locked on you.

The whole time.

Not just glancing. Not just admiring. Watching you like he’s soaking in every second. Like he’s trying to memorize the way your lip gloss catches the light, or how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you laugh too hard.

“Stop,” you murmur, cheeks warm from the wine. “You’re staring.”

His smile is crooked. Intimate. Like it’s just for you.

“Let me,” he says softly. “Might not get to do it like this again.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, fingers rubbing gently at the base of his glass. The sunset behind him catches the glint of something silver in his palm.

A small box.

Your breath stops.

You freeze.

He stands up.

“I was gonna wait until dessert,” he says, voice low but certain. “But I can’t. Not when you look like this. Not when I’ve been carrying this for months.”

The world quiets.

He drops to one knee.

Your heart stumbles.

“You’re it for me,” he says. “Even when I’m loud. Even when I’m wrong. Even when I piss you off and leave dishes in the sink. I want you. I want lazy mornings and midnight drives and grocery trips with a shared cart and matching house keys.”

Your eyes are already burning.

“So marry me. Let me wake up next to you for the rest of my life. Let me be yours, fully, finally, forever.”

He opens the box.

A silver ring. Simple. Elegant. Yours.

You cover your mouth, tears slipping before you can stop them. And your voice shakes as you whisper, “Yes.”

He lets out a breathy laugh like he was holding it in for hours.

You stand. He grabs your waist and pulls you into him — tight, full-body, arms around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

He kisses you.

Slow. Certain. Familiar.

And when you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you smiling through tears.

“Told you I’d give you forever,” he whispers.

-

You barely make it through the front door before he’s on you.

The ring is still snug on your finger, your heels are kicked off, and he’s kissing you like the air in his lungs depends on you.

Your back hits the wall. His hands are everywhere — one at your waist, one sliding up your thigh, slow and sure and possessive like he’s already memorized every inch.

But it’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s deliberate.

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You look so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the line of your lower lip.

You whisper, “You’re shaking.”

He swallows hard. Smiles, a little unsteady.

“I’m in love. Give me a break.”

You reach for him — fingertips curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

And he lets you.

Lets you tug him down. Onto the couch. Into you.

He kisses you like a prayer, like a secret, like a man terrified and overwhelmed and deeply, undeniably yours.

His hands are slow.

His mouth is reverent.

Every inch he touches feels claimed, branded, held.

“Say it again,” he whispers as his nose grazes your collarbone.

“What?”

“That you’re mine.”

Your voice breaks against his shoulder. “I’m yours.”

And he breathes out the quietest, most broken “Good.”

His lips press into the crook of your neck, soft at first, barely there — like he's grounding himself. Like he needs to feel you just to believe you're real. His breath is warm, shaky against your skin. You can feel the smile in it. The ache, too.

You exhale slowly, hand threading through the hair at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the undercut.

He kisses your collarbone. Then again. And again. Slower. Lower.

Your dress slips off one shoulder. His mouth follows the exposed skin like it’s his path home. His hands — warm, steady — trace your hips like he’s reminding himself you said yes.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the top of your chest. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You laugh softly, breath catching. “You already have me.”

He leans back just enough to look at you — really look — and the way he stares makes you forget how to breathe.

Like you’re the only thing he’s ever believed in.

His thumb grazes your jaw, then your bottom lip, slow and reverent.

“I know. That’s what scares me.”

Before you can ask what he means, his mouth is on yours again — deeper this time, hungry but restrained, like he’s savoring it. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open for him instinctively, your body already arching into him like it knows its place.

He lifts you without warning, hands gripping the backs of your thighs, walking you toward the bedroom like he’s done it a hundred times — but tonight it feels different.

Charged. Worshipful. Final, somehow.

He lays you down like you're made of glass.

Then he follows.

His weight settles between your legs, but it’s not heavy — it’s perfect. Warm. Familiar.

His kisses slow. Dragging. Like he wants to memorize how you taste.

You feel his hand slide down your side, slipping under your dress, skimming the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches.

You shake your head, voice breathy. “Don’t stop.”

“Yeah?” His eyes darken. “You want me to take my time with you?”

You nod.

And he does.

The dress comes off inch by inch — not rushed, not desperate. Like unwrapping something sacred. His eyes never leave you, like if he blinks, he’ll lose you.

Your back arches when his mouth moves lower, slow kisses across your chest, your ribs, the dip of your stomach. His hands are warm and sure, holding your waist, smoothing over your skin like he’s trying to learn every inch by feel.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, voice almost shaky. “You always have been.”

Your chest clenches. Because the way he says it—so full of awe, of devotion—it sounds like he’s been waiting his whole life just to tell you.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed. It’s slow. Deep. Everything.

You cling to him — arms around his shoulders, nails lightly digging into his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist — because it feels too good. Too full. Too much.

He moans into your neck, low and guttural, breath hot against your skin.

“This… you… this is it for me,” he murmurs, hips rolling deeper, like he can’t get close enough.

Your eyes blur. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You whisper his name like it’s a prayer.

Every stroke is steady. Intimate. The rhythm building slow, like he's not just trying to make you come—he’s trying to mark you. Remember you.

And when it finally crests—when you cry out and he groans your name like it’s carved into his lungs—he holds you through it.

Shaking. Pressing kisses to your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, his hand softly stroking your side.

“I love you, my wife.” he whispers.

-

“We’re done.”

You don’t yell. You don’t have to.

The silence between you and Jungkook splits open the second the words leave your mouth.

“We’re fucking done.”

He’s frozen where he stands — barefoot, sweatpants low on his hips, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He just got out of the shower. His hair’s still damp, clinging to his forehead. He looks… normal. Relaxed.

Like he’s not about to lose everything.

Like he has no fucking clue.

Your hand is trembling as you hold your phone out, the screen still glowing. His name is highlighted in the thread of messages, half-jokes and ego and the kind of careless boyish cruelty you never thought could come from him.

[Taehyung]: “Yo, you actually gonna do it?” [Jungkook]: “Already started. She’s cute. This’ll be easy.” [Namjoon]: “Bet you 200 she falls for you first.” [Jungkook]: “Watch me make her say I love you.”

Your voice trembles. “How long?”

He doesn’t answer.

You swallow, hard. “How long were they laughing at me?”

He takes a step forward and you step back, heart racing, breath caught.

“Y/N,” he says, quietly. “I can explain—”

“No. Don’t.” Your throat tightens so suddenly it almost chokes you. “You don’t get to look at me like that right now.”

He blinks like he’s been slapped.

“I wore your ring for two months,” you whisper. “Two months I’ve been waking up beside you, loving you, planning forever with you—while your friends texted you behind my back, congratulating you for playing me.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it?” The crack in your voice finally splits open. “What the fuck was I to you, Jungkook? Some prize? A challenge?”

He flinches like it physically hurts.

“It started as a dare, we were young,” he says, voice low, ashamed. “I was drunk. It was stupid. But the second I actually got to know you—”

“Stop.”

“—I fell so fucking hard, Y/N.”

“Stop.” Your eyes sting, but you refuse to cry in front of him. “Don’t stand there and feed me that now. Not when the only reason you ever spoke to me was because someone dared you to.”

He looks like he’s falling apart.

You wonder if he feels it the way you do—like the air’s been punched out of your lungs. Like your body’s full of splinters, breaking from the inside out.

“You were never a bet to me,” he says softly. “Not once I knew you.”

You almost laugh. It comes out broken.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

You take a shaky step back, the ring suddenly burning on your finger.

“You had so many chances, Jungkook. We dated for two fucking years, you proposed two months ago. You could’ve told me after our first date. After the first time we slept together. After the night you held me when I cried about my mom. You could’ve told me before you proposed.”

“I was scared,” he admits, voice breaking. “I knew I’d lose you.”

“Good.”

His eyes lift to yours—glassy, wounded.

You don’t care.

“I trusted you,” you whisper. “With everything. My body, my heart, my life. And you… you humiliated me.”

His breathing hitches. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. Can’t.

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I am,” he says quickly. “I am. You know me better than anyone—”

“No, Jungkook.” You shake your head, blinking back tears. “I knew the version of you you let me see. I never knew this.”

Silence stretches between you, unbearable and sharp.

You slide the ring off your finger. Slowly. Like peeling off a layer of skin.

His eyes drop to your hand.

“No,” he breathes. “Don’t—”

You step forward. Place the ring on the counter. Not thrown. Not dramatic. Just... final.

“I was going to marry you,” you whisper. “I wanted to build a life with you.”

Tears slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe them.

“I would’ve given you everything.”

Jungkook’s voice is raw when he speaks. “You still can.”

You shake your head once, then again. Firmer.

“I’ll never know what was real,” you say. “I’ll never know if you looked at me like that because you loved me—or because you knew you’d already won.”

He breaks then.

Takes a step forward like he can’t stay still anymore, his voice cracking open.

“You were never a game to me.”

“But I was a joke to you once,” you whisper. “And that’s enough.”

His face crumples. “Please don’t leave.”

“I already did.”

You grab your bag. Sling it over your shoulder.

His feet move before he can stop himself. “Y/N, please. Baby—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He freezes.

You reach for the doorknob with trembling hands.

And then—because you can’t help it—you turn back one last time.

He looks ruined.

Hands limp at his sides. Eyes red. Chest rising too fast like he’s barely breathing.

He whispers your name like it’s the last thing he has.

You whisper back, barely audible—

“Goodbye.”

Then you walk out.

And this time… he doesn’t follow. Because he knows he lost you the second he lied.

-

[2 years later]

It’s warm inside the café.

Not the cloying kind—just soft. Familiar. The kind that seeps into your bones and tells your chest to stop bracing so hard. The kind of warm that smells like cinnamon and vanilla, where the hum of espresso machines mixes with quiet music and the occasional clink of mugs.

You’re sitting at a window table, one hand wrapped around a latte, the other steadying Jiho as he bounces lightly in your lap. He’s sticky with syrup and joy, a piece of pancake still clutched in one tiny fist. His laughter bubbles up when your boyfriend leans in and makes a quiet, ridiculous face just for him.

And you laugh too. Soft. Full. Real.

Your boyfriend has been good to you. Patient, steady, kind. He doesn’t push. He never tried to fill shoes that weren’t his to wear. He just showed up and stayed. And when you finally let him in, he didn’t treat your past like baggage. He treated it like part of the road that led you here.

So yeah, mornings like this? They feel okay. Safe.

Until the bell above the door rings.

You hear it, but you don’t look up right away. You’re busy wiping syrup off Jiho’s chin with a napkin, murmuring a quiet, “Hold still, baby,” while he wriggles.

And then you feel it.

Not just a presence. A rupture.

Your breath catches before you even know why.

You glance up.

And everything stops.

Jungkook walks into the café like a memory you weren’t ready for.

He’s with Taehyung. Laughing at something he says. But the moment he sees you, his body goes still. His expression falls apart in real time. And then his eyes drop—to Jiho.

To your son.

His son.

You feel the air punch out of your lungs.

He looks older. Bulkier. His hair is longer now, a little curl tucked behind his ear. He wears a dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing familiar tattoos that used to trace your skin. He looks…

Ruined. But whole in a new way. A version of him you don’t recognize. One that never held your hand in the middle of the night or whispered promises against your spine.

“You okay?” your boyfriend asks, his voice cutting softly through the tension.

You don’t answer at first.

Jungkook is still staring. At Jiho. Then at you. And there’s something in his expression that’s not shock anymore.

It’s betrayal.

“He’s getting fussy,” you murmur, eyes still fixed on Jungkook. “Can you take him to the car? I’ll just run to the bathroom and meet you there.”

Your boyfriend nods without hesitation, presses a kiss to your temple, and lifts Jiho easily into his arms. Jiho yawns and rests his head on his shoulder, thumb slipping into his mouth.

You can feel Jungkook’s stare as they leave.

You rise. Walk past him without looking.

The bathroom is down a narrow hall, dimly lit. You lock the door behind you and grip the sink until your knuckles ache.

You breathe.

In.

Out.

You rinse your hands slowly, as if that could wash off the past year.

And when you open the door—he’s there.

"Cheater." Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“You were mad at me this whole time,” Jungkook says, low and cold, “but you were out here carrying some other guy’s fucking baby?”

Your heart twists.

He laughs, humorless. “That’s rich, Y/N. You didn’t want me, but you moved on just fine, didn’t you?”

You stare at him. Silent.

The hallway feels like it’s shrinking.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t think I deserved to know?”

“Did I deserve to be a bet?”

That shuts him up.

You shake your head, eyes burning.

“I was pregnant when I left,” you whisper. “I didn’t even know it yet. I found out alone. I stayed alone. I gave birth alone. I raised him—your son—alone.”

Jungkook goes pale.

He looks stunned. Pale. A man watching the earth split under his feet.

His mouth opens once. Then closes.

“Y/N…”

You step back.

“And yeah, I moved on,” you breathe. “Because I had to. Because loving you almost destroyed me. Because trusting you did destroy me.”

His hands shake. His chest rises like it hurts to breathe.

“I would’ve been there.”

“Would you?” you whisper. “You lied every day for months, Jungkook. I don’t know what part of you was ever real.”

He swallows, eyes desperate now. “All of it. I loved you. I still—”

You cut him off with a cold laugh. Final. Solid. Unforgiving.

“Then you should’ve fought harder.”

There’s silence. Dense. Trembling.

“His name is Jiho,” you say flatly. “He’s brilliant. He has a real dad now. Someone who shows up, every day, no matter what. Someone who didn’t need to be biologically connected to love him better than you ever could.”

Jungkook flinches.

You feel nothing.

You take a step closer, voice low and sharp.

“You want a role in his life?”

He nods slowly. Hope flickers behind his eyes.

You smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Too fucking bad.”

And then you walk.

You don’t look back.

Let him break.

Let him wonder.

Let him live with what he lost.

Because you have a son.

And a man who never made your love a game.

And a life you built from the ashes he left behind.

-

[jungkook pov]

Jungkook doesn’t remember how many shots it takes before the guilt finally numbs.

He doesn’t feel the booth beneath him or the sticky table under his forearms. Just the pressure in his throat—the kind that burns more than the liquor. The kind that doesn’t let go.

“She said his name is Jiho.”

His voice is rough. Slurred, but not from the alcohol. From everything else.

“He’s brilliant. Got a smart mouth. Big eyes. My fucking eyes.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything. He just watches him from across the table, jaw tight.

“She didn’t need to say it,” Jungkook mutters. “I knew the second I looked at him. That’s my kid.”

Yoongi leans back in his seat, arms crossed. Hoseok twirls his empty glass, saying nothing.

“She told me he has a real dad now.” Jungkook laughs, but it’s hollow. “Said he shows up. Loves him better than I ever could. Said he doesn’t need to be blood to be his father.”

The table goes quiet. No one meets his eyes.

“She meant it,” Jungkook breathes. “Every word.”

Taehyung finally speaks. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Anger. Screaming. Anything but that fucking smile she gave him.”

Jungkook rubs his hands over his face, then through his hair, like he’s trying to scrub the memory off his skin.

“She looked happy. Safe. Not because of me. In spite of me.”

“You hurt her,” Hoseok says, careful but blunt. “You don’t get to be surprised she moved on.”

“I’m not,” Jungkook snaps. “I’m not surprised. I’m—” He stops, breath catching.

“I’m destroyed.”

The word hangs there. Honest. Raw.

Yoongi taps a finger on the table. “You said you didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“I didn’t,” Jungkook growls. “I didn’t fucking know. If I did—God—do you think I would've let her go? Let her raise him alone?”

Taehyung’s voice is low. “Doesn’t change what you did before.”

Jungkook looks up slowly. “I never meant to fall in love with her.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters. “That’s kind of the problem.”

The silence turns heavier.

“She's a mom now,” Taehyung finally says. “And you? You’re the guy who made her a dare.”

Jungkook flinches.

“No mother worth a damn is gonna risk her child’s safety—or her own peace—on a man who turned her love into a joke.”

“I know,” Jungkook whispers.

“You say you want to be there for Jiho,” Hoseok says, “but you’re not the one who decides anymore. She does.”

“I’m not trying to take him,” Jungkook says hoarsely. “I just—I want to know him. I want him to know me.”

“He has a dad,” Taehyung says gently but firmly. “The one who stayed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply. His head drops into his hands.

“She said I couldn’t love him better. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t deserve the chance.”

No one replies.

“I just want to try.”

The words leave him in a whisper. Barely there. But the silence that follows feels deafening.

No one answers.

Taehyung just stares at him like he’s already bracing for impact.

And maybe Jungkook was hoping for something—anything—a crack of sympathy, a nod, a sign that someone still believed in him. That he wasn’t completely fucking ruined.

But there’s nothing.

Only the echo of his own voice, pathetic and hollow.

And that’s what finally makes him snap.

He shoves the chair back so hard it topples. Kicks it across the floor without thinking. Glass clinks and shatters as a bottle rolls off the table and explodes near the wall. Hoseok jolts up, trying to steady him, but Jungkook shoves him off with a harsh, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

His breathing turns ragged, chest heaving as he grips the edge of the booth like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“She didn’t even give me a chance,” he spits, venom coating every word. “She just looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was the fucking villain.”

“Jungkook—” Taehyung tries, but he’s not listening.

“She never even told me. She made that choice for me. Took him away from me before I even knew he existed.”

He pounds his fist into the table—once, twice—until his knuckles split open. Blood pools against the cracked wood. He doesn’t even flinch.

Yoongi stands up slowly. “You’re scaring people.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Jungkook growls. “I’m already a ghost in my own life. What’s one more mess?”

Taehyung’s voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not helping anyone like this. Least of all yourself.”

“I wasn’t trying to help myself!” Jungkook shouts, eyes wild. “I just wanted to try. I wanted to be something—to someone. To him.”

He sways slightly, blood dripping down his hand, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are glassy now, somewhere between fury and devastation.

“I didn’t ask to fall in love with her. I didn’t ask to lose her. But I did. And I lost him too.”

He finally sinks back into the booth, shoulders sagging like the fight’s drained out of him all at once.

“I’m not asking her to forgive me,” he whispers. “But she doesn’t get to erase me either. That’s my son.”

Nobody speaks.

The bar is quiet around them. Tense. Distant music playing beneath the weight of everything unspoken.

Taehyung finally breaks the silence.

“You’re bleeding.”

Jungkook looks down at his hand, broken skin and bruised knuckles.

He just laughs.

-

It’s almost midnight.

The apartment is still—blanketed in that soft kind of silence that only exists when the world’s asleep. Jiho is down for the night, his tiny breaths steady through the baby monitor on the table. The lights are low. My tea’s cold. Cassi’s face lights up the screen of my laptop, her voice a soothing constant in the quiet.

“So this girl—hand to God—she told her man, ‘If he wanted to, he would.’ And then this man shows up outside her job with a damn sign.”

I laugh into my cup. “A sign?”

“A literal cardboard sign. In public.”

“Okay, fine. That’s cute.”

"Hm, you have that look again."

"What look?"

“The one where you pretend you’re not thinking about him.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not.”

“Sure,” she drawls, then leans closer to the camera. “Bet he’s still hot. I wonder if he’s single.”

I laugh. “Wanna stalk him?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Her fingers are already moving. “What was his full @ again?”

I try to hide my grin. “You’re horrible.”

“Got him,” she says triumphantly. A second later, a notification pops up. Cassi’s just sent me his profile.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

Instead, I lean back, feeling the air shift. That weird, aching weight that creeps in when you let a memory hang too long.

Cassi notices. “Hey,” she says gently. “You okay?”

Before I can answer, the door opens.

The lock clicks.

I freeze. Cassi’s expression sharpens. “Is that him?”

I nod and quickly end the call. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The apartment door creaks open. Han steps inside—jacket askew, smelling like beer and sweat and the kind of cheap cologne that clings to your skin for hours. His smile is crooked, lazy. A little drunk.

“Baby,” he calls out, dropping his keys to the counter, “you’re still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He stumbles over and drops onto the couch beside me, pulling me into his lap without waiting. He’s clingy—hands all over me, breath hot against my neck.

“I missed you tonight,” he says, lips grazing my cheek. “Was thinking about you the whole time.”

“You smell like beer.”

“I had a few.”

His fingers start trailing down my side. I pull away.

“Han, Jiho’s sleeping.”

“Let him sleep. I want you.”

“I’m tired.”

He stills. Then pulls back slightly to glance at the screen I didn’t have time to close. The Google tab is open again.

His eyes narrow.

“What’s this?”

I move to shut the laptop, but he snatches it first. Reads the screen.

His voice sharpens. “You’re looking up his shit?”

“It was nothing.”

“You miss him?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.”

He stands abruptly, sending the laptop sliding off the couch.

“I go out for a few drinks and come home to this? You—still thinking about that fucker who left you?”

I rise to my feet. “Han, you’re drunk.”

He steps closer. “You want him again? That it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

“No, I’m not—”

He grabs my wrist hard.

“You were mine,” he growls. “I took care of you. Took care of your kid. And you’re still out here googling your ex like some pathetic little girl.”

“Han,” I whisper. “Let go.”

But he doesn’t. His grip tightens.

And then he slaps me.

Hard.

The sound cracks through the room.

My head jerks sideways. My cheek stings. My ears ring.

I freeze.

He doesn’t.

He lunges again, fists balled, grabbing my shoulders now, shaking me like I’m the problem. Like I’m the one who ruined him.

“You ungrateful bitch,” he snarls. “I fed him. I stayed. And you still look at me like I’m not good enough.”

I cry out as his knuckles graze my collarbone.

“Please—stop—”

But he won’t.

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

I shove him back with everything in me and sprint for Jiho’s room.

My heart is slamming in my chest.

I grab Jiho—still half asleep, clinging to my shirt—and the baby monitor. I don’t even grab shoes.

Han’s shouting behind me, but I don’t listen. I don’t stop.

I bolt.

Out the door.

Down the stairs.

Into the night.

It’s almost 2 a.m.

I’m sitting on a metal bench outside a shuttered pharmacy, cold biting through the thin fabric of Jiho’s blanket, my coat, my skin—everything.

He won’t stop crying.

His little hands keep clawing at my chest, his body trembling as I hold him tighter and tighter, whispering, “I know, baby, I know,” even though nothing I do is helping.

He’s cold.

I’m cold.

And everything is closed.

I tried every door. The gas station. The diner. Even knocked on the back entrance of a convenience store until my hands went numb.

No one answered.

I pull him tighter into my chest. Try to rub warmth into his back, over and over, like friction and desperation will be enough to make him stop shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, rocking him slightly, even though I know it’s not enough. “I didn’t mean to bring you out here. I didn’t mean for any of this—”

My voice cracks before I can finish.

Jiho’s sobs aren’t the loud kind. They’re tired, hoarse, hiccupping. The kind that gut you. The kind that sound like trust breaking down.

And I’m failing him.

I’m failing my baby.

I try not to cry. I really do. But my eyes are stinging so hard I can’t see, and my throat’s so tight I can’t breathe.

I press my lips to his forehead. He’s too cold. His skin is damp with sweat and tears.

“Please stop crying,” I whisper, like begging him will undo everything. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know where to go.

Everyone I thought I could call—Cassi, gone. My old neighbor, asleep. Family? Not an option. I burned that bridge when I chose Han. I told myself I could fix him. I told myself Jiho would never see the worst of him.

I lied.

I bounce Jiho lightly in my arms, trying to calm him down even though I’m shaking just as badly.

He coughs once. Shudders again.

Something cracks inside me.

I pull out my phone. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it. I scroll. Scroll again. I open every app like something magic might be waiting there—someone, anyone—who could help.

But there’s no one.

And then… I don’t know why I think of it. I just do.

That stupid restaurant name. Le Morte.

The place he made me promise we’d build together.

My thumb hovers over the browser.

I shouldn’t.

I swore I’d never give him another chance to hurt me.

But Jiho’s still crying. His whole body trembling against mine.

And I have nothing left.

I type the name.

The website loads. I don’t read it. I just find the number.

I hit “Call.”

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I almost hang up.

Then—

“Le Morte.”

His voice is deeper than I remember. Quieter. But still him. Still Jungkook.

I don’t say anything.

"Hello?" A pause. A faint inhale. Then again, softer this time— "...Hello?" The sound of his voice breaks something open.

My throat caves in on itself. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a choke—sharp, ugly, aching.

I press the phone tighter to my ear, like that could steady my hands, like that could hold me up.

Another gasp escapes me. “I… I don’t…”

“Y/N?” His voice shifts. Urgent. Gentle. “Is that you?”

"Bab—" He stops himself. Breathes out slow. Then, careful and quiet: “Y/N, I need you to breathe. Just breathe for me, okay? I can’t help if I can’t understand you. Please—just tell me where you are.”

I blink, but everything’s a blur—wet and trembling and spinning. Jiho’s still crying against me, his little sobs going straight through my chest like wire.

“I don’t know—” My voice breaks. “I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Hey. Hey, stop.”

His tone softens again, that low warmth I haven’t heard in two years, like balm against an open wound. “I’m glad you called me. It’s okay, I promise it’s okay. Just tell me where you are. Anything you see around you. Anything, Y/N.”

I look around wildly, heart clawing at my ribs. “Pharmacy. Near… near the intersection by the overpass, across from—there’s a bus stop. Metal bench. I—he’s so cold, Jungkook. He won’t stop crying and I didn’t mean to bring him out I just—”

“Okay. Okay, I know where that is. That’s enough. I’m coming. Right now. Don’t hang up, alright?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay.”

“I want you to hold Jiho just like you are. Keep your cheek against his. I’m getting in my car now. I’ll talk to you the whole way.”

His voice is quieter now. Thicker.

“I’ll be there soon. Just hold on for me. Please.”

And for the first time in hours—maybe longer—I let myself cry. Really cry. The kind that comes from somewhere deep. Not panic. Not frustration.

Just grief.

Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the betrayal, the years apart—I still remember what it felt like to be safe in his voice.

-

The headlights cut through the dark like a promise.

I hear the tires before I see them—skidding slightly on wet pavement as the car pulls up to the curb. The engine dies, and the world goes quiet again except for Jiho’s whimpers, quieter now, fading into hiccups against my chest.

The door swings open.

Footsteps.

He’s still in his suit.

The one from Le Morte. Midnight black, sleek lapels catching what little light bleeds from the streetlamp above. His tie’s undone. Hair slightly windblown like he ran the second he got my call.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

Just stands there for a beat, eyes scanning me—Jiho pressed into my chest, my tear-streaked face, the way I’m shaking like my whole body’s trying to hold back a scream.

Then he moves.

His steps are fast but careful, like he’s afraid if he startles me, I’ll vanish.

He shrugs off the suit jacket and drops to his knees in front of us.

He drapes the coat around Jiho’s small frame, then pulls it over my shoulders too, like he’s trying to shield both of us at once. His hands linger there for a moment. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

My body caves forward.

I don’t mean to. I don’t even think. I just fold into him, and he catches us like he never stopped being mine.

I sob into his shoulder. Gasping, messy, completely undone.

Jiho clings tighter to me, still crying, but quieter now—like he knows something’s shifted.

Jungkook wraps his arms around both of us.

He doesn’t ask anything.

He just holds on.

Tight.

One hand cups the back of my head, the other bracing Jiho’s trembling spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay now.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. That nothing’s okay. That I’m still broken, still afraid, still so angry.

But all I do is cry harder.

And he lets me.

His own breath stutters against my cheek, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t ask for answers.

He just holds me like he never wants to let go again.

-

I don’t know how long we stay like that. On the cold pavement. Wrapped in the scent of him—cologne and city air and something achingly familiar.

Jiho’s hiccups start to slow. His small hand curls into the front of Jungkook’s shirt, and for a second, Jungkook stops breathing altogether. His fingers twitch slightly against Jiho’s back, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to react.

But Jiho doesn’t let go.

So Jungkook exhales. Slowly. And wraps both arms around us again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” I whisper eventually. My voice is raw. Shaky. “I didn’t want to call you.”

“I know.”

He gives a small nod, like he’s scared saying anything will push me away. “But you remembered Le Morte.”

I pull back just enough to look at him. His face is shadowed, lit only by the flickering streetlamp, but I see it—every crack. Every line.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes are red. Not from the cold.

He’s hurting too.

“Why did you come?” I whisper. “You could’ve ignored it. You could’ve sent someone else. You could’ve—”

“I would’ve crawled through fire to get to you.”

I suck in a breath. My lip trembles.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, barely getting the words out. “I don’t know where to go. I don’t even know how I got here. I just—he hit me, Jungkook. He—he hit me and Jiho saw.”

His whole body tenses. His jaw ticks so hard I flinch, and he notices—immediately softening.

“I’m not him,” he says low. “I swear to God, I’m not him. But if you need me to leave after this, I will. I’ll go. Just tell me where you want to be, and I’ll get you there safe. That’s all I care about right now.”

I look down at Jiho. His head is resting on my shoulder again. One hand fisting the fabric of Jungkook’s coat. His cheeks are pink from the cold, but his eyes are fluttering shut. He’s exhausted.

“Can we go somewhere warm?” I ask. “Just…for tonight.”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah, baby.”

I freeze.

He sees it—hears it—and his voice softens again.

“I mean—Y/N. Yeah. Let’s get you warm.”

He rises carefully, lifting Jiho from my arms without waking him. He holds him so securely, like he’s done it a hundred times, and my chest twists.

I stand too, legs weak. Jungkook watches me closely, like he’s waiting for me to collapse again. He keeps an arm around me as we walk toward the car waiting by the curb.

He opens the back door, gently places Jiho in the seat, then looks back at me.

“You sit with him. I’ll drive.”

And just like that, I nod.

Because for the first time in a long time— I believe him. We’re safe.

-

He places Jiho in the backseat, his hands steady but his jaw locked so tight it looks like it might shatter.

When he closes the door and turns to me, I expect him to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not at first.

He just stares.

At me.

His eyes flick over my face, pausing on the bruises beneath my makeup, the swelling just below my eye. My cracked lip. My trembling fingers still clutching the edge of his coat.

His whole body shakes as he exhales through his nose.

And then he’s in front of me—closer than I can brace for.

His hands reach out, hesitating for a breath before they find my cheeks, the pads of his thumbs ghosting over my skin like I might disappear. His brows are drawn so tight, his mouth pressed in fury, but his touch… God.

His touch is gentle.

Too gentle.

He wipes under my eyes with trembling fingers.

He swallows hard, like the words taste like poison. His thumb keeps brushing under my eye, trying to clean away the tears that won’t stop falling. His forehead leans close, almost touching mine, his breath shaky.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low, “what it did to me to hear your voice like that.”

I blink up at him. My knees feel hollow.

“You were crying. And Jiho was crying. And I wasn’t there—again."

“Tell me where he is,” he whispers. “Just tell me where.”

“Jungkook—”

“No,” he says, voice still soft, but steel beneath. “You don’t get to show up shaking and scared, with bruises on your face and tears in your eyes, and expect me not to burn the fucking world down.”

His voice falters at the end. His hands drop, then fist at his sides.

“I didn’t come to fall into you again,” I say quietly. “I came because I had no one left. That doesn’t mean I—”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes closing for a second like he’s steadying himself. “But I’m not strong enough to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

Silence lingers.

The wind cuts past us, but he steps in again, cupping the back of my head, his palm warm against my scalp. His other arm wraps around me slowly—cautiously—like he’s waiting for me to pull away.

I don’t.

I can’t.

He holds me against his chest like I’m glass.

“I should’ve been there,” he whispers into my hair. “All along. Through everything.”

I cry harder.

Because despite everything I told myself— Despite the time, the pain, the silence—

A part of me never stopped wishing he had been.

-

The morning light slips through the blinds in pale streaks, soft and almost kind, like it doesn’t know how much pain this room has held overnight. I haven’t moved much. I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at the carpet, trying to pretend my stomach isn’t hollow, that my lungs aren’t tight, that the world hasn’t shifted underneath me again.

Jiho is asleep in the hotel crib across the room—warm, safe, breathing steady. Jungkook insisted we take the king bed, and he spent the night on the armchair, half-awake, shirt wrinkled, jaw locked. He left early this morning, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t coming back.

But the door opens.

My shoulders jump before I can stop them.

“It’s just me,” he says, voice low, careful. I don’t turn around. I just listen to the soft thud of his shoes as he steps inside.

“I brought breakfast.”

I hear the tray set down on the small table. Hear the lids lifting, the faint hiss of steam rising into the quiet. I don’t move. I can’t.

“You didn’t have to,” I murmur.

“I wanted to.”

His voice is closer now. I feel him looking at me, the silence stretching. I finally glance up.

He looks… tired. The same white button-down from last night, sleeves pushed up. No jacket. Dark slacks, black watch. His hair is messy, like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times since the sun came up.

I can’t hold his gaze.

He sits down slowly, arms resting on his knees. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t push. But his voice cuts through everything anyway.

“Why him?”

I freeze.

“Why Han?” he says again, quieter now. “What made you pick him? Stay with him? Let him around Jiho?”

I feel the sting in my eyes before I even try to speak.

“I thought I didn’t owe you that.”

“You don’t.” His voice catches. “But I need to know. Because last night you looked like you were breaking. And then you called me.”

I don’t answer.

“I thought you hated me,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. “I did.”

His breath catches.

“But I didn’t have anyone else.”

That admission burns worse than anything.

He doesn’t speak right away. And when he does, it’s so quiet I almost miss it.

“I’m glad you called me.”

I blink hard.

“And don’t look at me like that,” he says gently, like he can read every line of guilt on my face. “I know you feel guilty. I know you think you shouldn’t have. But Jiho’s my son. And you’re his mother.”

He stands, steps closer.

“I wanted to do this. I want to be here. Don’t be guilty.”

His voice cracks. Just barely.

“I wanted to protect you.”

The room feels too small. My throat feels too tight. I can’t breathe with all this silence pressing on me.

When he reaches for me, I let him. His hand touches my cheek, his thumb brushing beneath my eye—and I realize I’m crying again.

His palm is warm. Steady.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he says.

And I break.

I lean into him, and he catches me, arms wrapping around me like a shelter I never thought I’d need again. He holds me tight—tight like he doesn’t want to let go, tight like he’s afraid if he does, I’ll disappear again.

My hands clutch his shirt, and his lips brush my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine. “You don’t have to say that. Not right now.”

And before I can think—before guilt or pride can pull me back—I lift my face and kiss him.

It’s slow. Raw. Desperate. Like everything we’ve buried is clawing its way back to the surface.

His hand cradles the back of my neck, his breath shuddering.

He kisses me like he’s been waiting years for this.

And for once… I let him.

authors note: im ngl im tryna stay active by using my old stories, sooo they're lowkey unedited but again pls comment i love hearing ur opinions!!!

[suksatoru]

𝝑𝑒 katsuki finds out what you've been drawing in your sketchbook all the time...and to say he's surprised is an understatement.

"y/n."

"hmm?"

your boyfriend lets out a sharp growl, his hands practically itching to reach out and snatch the sketchbook out of your hands

"let me see."

you don't respond, brows pinched together in concentration as you alternate between looking at the charcoal in your hands to katsuki's adorable pout

"you need to wait a little longer...not my fault you're so pretty."

he lets out an embarrassed groan, dragging his calloused palm down his face as he flops face first onto your bed. you let out a whine in protest, slapping his arm

"ow!" you huff, silently scolding yourself for hitting the hard, packed muscle beneath his shirt. he smirks a little bit at your reaction, rolling onto his back and making a show of flexing his muscles as he stretches his arms with a loud yawn

"ya took forever. now, show me what you made." he demands, sitting up expectedly with narrowed eyes

katsuki had been dragged from the common room all the way up to your dorm in a matter of minutes. he'd gladly be dragged by you to the ends of the earth, but he was beyond confused when you ordered him to sit down on your bed and stay still. all until you pulled out your sketchbook.

the light bulb in his mind switched on, and with a quiet "ah", he complied, listening to you quietly chat about anything and everything that came to your mind as you scribbled away in your sketchbook

katsuki has seen you carrying it around a lot. you always kept it tucked under your arm even as you travelled from class to class—never apart. it had, simply put, become an extension to your body at this point

of course he's wanted to take a peak in there. and about a dozen times katsuki tried to—but each time ended with him getting beat with your pillows and plushies as you shoved him out of your dorm, slamming the door on him as he laid in the hall, rubbing his head and silently cursing himself for getting caught once again.

he had kept still and quiet for you while you drew because this was....out of the ordinary. you never really did open your sketchbook in front of him—but here you were now, fingers smudging the paper as you smile sheepishly

"promise you won't laugh?"

he rolls his eyes, trying to keep his usual facade up so you don't detect even a hint of the nervousness he felt

"course i won't. now, either you show me—or i'm taking that damned book from your hands and—"

he's cut off when you suddenly raise it from your lap. pages rustle together as you flip it towards him, hands gripping the edges of your most prized possession as you squeeze your eyes shut and await his reaction

katsuki, was for once, stunned into silence. his eyes trailed over the strokes and marks on the paper, your finger imprints pressed all over the paper from the charcoal—

but what you've drawn is undeniably him.

it's not what he'd expected at all. it's him but...it's not from katsuki's view. it's not the mean face he saw in the mirror everyday. the usual scowl that seemed to be a permanent resident on his face was replaced with a soft smile in your drawing

his eyes were lighter, softer. his cheeks were round and full of boyish youth as he smiled. it was beautiful. he was. he feels his heart stutter in his chest as he slowly takes the sketchbook from your hands, eyes glued to page

"hold on suki—"

he begins flipping. flipping and flipping and flipping and it's all him. katsuki sleeping, katsuki yelling and a frightened little izuku scribbled into the corner of the page—katsuki cooking, katsuki in his hero suit, katsuki—

you suddenly tackle him, and with a yelp—both of you tumble off of your bed and onto the floor. unfortunately, his grip on the book loosens for a mere instant, and you're able to snatch it out of his grip and throw it onto your bed from where the two of you laid on the floor

his lips are parted, but not a sound comes out. his eyes are like the drawing you had just made—soft and gentle and round as he stares up at you.

you're so embarrassed you can barely stand to look him in the eye, resorting to tucking your face into the space between his neck and shoulder with an embarrassed groan

"asshole...you weren't supposed to flip..." you murmur, and katsuki thinks you look pretty with your cheeks flushed and tinted like this. his chest falls and rises slowly, and he made no move to get up off the floor as you caged him there—refusing to let him get up.

"i....gah say something you jerk! you can't humiliate me like that and then get all quiet!" you whine, your voice embarrassed and pitched and katsuki can't even stop himself from grabbing hold of the back of your neck and crashing his lips into yours

he pulls your entire body against him, wrapping a single arm around your waist before he rolls the two of you over and flipping your positions—he hovers over you, pulling away from the kiss just to press another one onto your forehead

"you fucking dumbass...why'd you go and waste so many pages on me..." he mumbles, grabbing your charcoal covered hands as he presses a soft kiss onto your finger tips. you smile bashfully at the smeared streaks of color on his face

"you're my muse." you state simply

his eyes are lined with tears, and his grin is wide and toothy—you want to capture this moment in your pages, the shine in his eyes and the way his lips curled, all of it.

you decide you'll have to draw this particular katsuki later, because he's suddenly launching an attack on you—a flurry of kisses being pressed all over your face and neck and just about any bit of skin he could find as he laughs at the sound of your sweet squeals—music to his ears.

[bluukive]

!MDNI: JJK Men x Dad Bods

an - been thinking about this all day. Also not proofread idk why I rarely do that

ᡣ𐭩 G. Satoru

Still stupidly tall, but a few years of being spoiled by you and the stress of having a few kids have made him put on a bit of weight. He's also stopped kidding about going back to his more intense sessions at the gym so that he can lose a few pounds, knowing that the nasty sęx you both have is enough to keep him in shape.

Satoru's previously faint happy trail has grown noticeably thicker, and he makes sure you get a good eyeful of it as he stretches his strong arms up in the air with a purposefully pọrnographic moan. He shuts up real quick though when you straddle his thickened waist with two hands pawing at his plush pecs.

His stamina has changed slightly. Satoru can easily fụck you against the counter before breakfast. He can even hook his arm under your leg to hold it up as he rąils you against the shower wall. But Satoru's voice isn't as carefree as it used to be, no. He grunts with slight effort, sweat coating his beefy body as his fattened tip kisses every inch of you reaaal deep inside.

LOVES it when he can bounce you on his cọck in front of a mirror, his feet planted firmly on the ground as his hips fụck up into you. Your smaller body easily sinks into his larger frame, and you can feel the slight pudge of his stomach rub against your lower back. Honestly? It drives you crazy.

ᡣ𐭩 G. Suguru

I firmly believe this man has tattoos, and those have only stretched around his body after he gained weight. Suguru has settled down with you, and you've both made a little family. He's a complete slut, walking around shirtless when it's just the two of your around. He knows you get off to that shit and will happily fụck you dumb after seeing your thighs clench at the sight of his larger body.

Suguru continues to wear his robes in the bedroom, all sprawled out on the bed you both share with his large thighs out in the open. His arms are still jacked, but his stomach has rounded slightly. The open robe lets you cop a feel at the large expanse of skin he's happily given you access to, all whilst he's groaning into your mouth as you worship him.

During sẹx, he's gentle. Suguru adores slow missionary with you because that way, he can feel you stretch around every creamy inch of him. His stomach rubs against yours, deep exhales leaving his parted lips. He loves it when you whine about how big he is on top of you and how you can feel all of him fụcking you into the mattress. It certainly strokes his ego.

However, Suguru will happily fold both of your knees to your chest with ease and plant his foot beside your head. He'll use all of his strength to fụck his entire weight into you, long hair dishevelled and framing his angular face. You can see the slight movement of his stomach with every heavy thrust he delivers to that greedy pụssy of yours. Suguru relishes in the sensation of your smaller hands gripping onto his strong biceps throughout it all.

ᡣ𐭩 S. Ryomen

He's had centuries to hone his body into the perfect toy for you to ravish, and you're the only one he'd ever allow. But at one point during your relationship, the muscles melted slightly and he grew the most delicious dad bod. He blamed gluttony for the way his stomach has firmed and his pecs have softened further. But you're loving it.

His cọck has only grown fatter, tips flushed, and leaking whenever he's aroused by you. Easy access, he says, when you teasingly call out on the way he settles on the flimsiest of robes to wear around you. The word 'no' isn't in his vocabulary when you're hungry for him. He'll happily let his queen feast.

Sukuna doesn't expect you to worship him the way you like to do, tongue dragging down his entire body before you dare to attempt to take him into the warm heat of your mouth. He doesn't complain when you cling onto him and rut your drenched cụnt against every part of him. He scowls when you mouth at his plumped-up nipplẹs, but he can't hide the way his cọcks throb violently at the attention.

Sukuna's taking advantage of his strength even more than before. Seeing your thighs around his cọcks as he fụcks them until they're coated with thick cụm is one of his favourite things to do with you. It doesn't matter how slim or thick your thighs are; his dịcks will nudge against your pụssy as he fucks them like his own personal cọcksleeve.

ᡣ𐭩 N. Kento

Kento's big, almost like a bear. It's a result of pampering you and the kids for so long and indulging in your sweet treats. You feed him pieces of bread here and there, licking the frosting off his lips after giving him a slice of cake. He doesn't work out as much as he used to, but he likes keeping at least some of the muscle since he wants to be able to protect his dear family.

It's cute 'n all, but the additional weight has other effects, too. Kento doesn't even flinch when you straddle his lap when he works at his desk from home. His dịck is hard in his pants, nudging up against your dampening underwear as you try not to shift and disturb him. Eventually, you're bent over Kento's desk with his large hands massaging your ąss and spreading them wide. When he finally fucks you, you can feel him hunch over you from behind, stomach resting not-so-delicately on the arch of your back.

You like it when Kento fụcks you in his shirt. It starts off with him muttering some nonsense about losing weight when his buttons feel too tight around his arms and stomach. It ends with him panting above you, bed soiled as his shirt hangs off his sweaty frame and pants low enough for his member to be free. Your legs lock him in place as he rides out the aftermath of his ọrgasm, his heaving stomach glistening with your own release.

Coming home on days when you're the neediest are what your darling Ken looks forward to the most. He pretends not to notice when he strips himself off his clothing, deep hums leaving his lips as you simply sit there on the bed, pent up beyond relief. But he gives you the green light to look, to touch what's all yours. Kento coos knowingly when you bury your face into his chest and settle your arms around the thick curve of his waist, fingers dancing along the faint stretch marks there. He knows you've missed this.

ᡣ𐭩 T. Fushiguro

Saving my favourite for last. Time has done good on Toji's body. He's stronger now, not that he ever wasn't. Yeah, he doesn't have a gym membership, but that doesn't mean he can't carry you and the kids on both arms. He's the sort to effortlessly chop down firewood, fix your leaking pipes and go the extra mile by carrying all bags of shopping in one hand.

Toji knows you're staring every single time when he's scratching at his stomach absentmindedly. Honestly, he thinks. You're such a pervert. But he might be worse, especially since he likes referring to himself as 'daddy' now. He doesn't know why he bothers since you're not paying attention. You're too busy getting dumb off the way his fat cọck creates a visible bulge in your stomach.

Tell Toji about how good he looks while you side your hand down his body, and he'd practically cụm on the spot. He wants you to jerk him off, mainly because he feels smug after seeing how your fingers struggle to wrap around his pulsing dịck. But do it whilst you're behind him, where the size difference is more noticeable because you have to curl your arms around him and dip your hands past his prominent love handles.

Whilst he's so painfully delicious in the nụde, seeing him fist his cọck with his shirt rolled up to expose his midsection, has your knees buckling. You can see the prominent veins that lead down his pụbic bone. But that's not what you're focused on. It's obscene the way his flushed tịts bulge out under the shirt. They're fat and heavy, and they jiggle with every stroke of his dịck. You're staring, and he knows you want a squeeze.

an - may have repeated myself a million times but wtv I'm still kinda new to this ijbol

[abbotjack]

You Knocked, I Let You In

summary : You’re not from his world—you don’t speak in vitals, don’t flinch at blood, don’t belong to the people who call him “Abbot” like it’s both a sentence and a survival tactic. But when he texts—too late, too clipped, too careful—you go. Because Jack Abbot never asks for anything, not really. And tonight, for reasons he won’t say, he wants you. A cherry-red dress. A quiet reservation. A man built to hold pressure, not affection. He’s never been good with words. But he’s about to show you everything he means.

word count : 6,839

content/warnings : 18+ only MDNI, emotionally intense sex, aftercare, oral (f receiving), protected vaginal sex, depiction of PTSD and emotional repression, grief, mention of a patient death (child), emotionally guarded older male character (Jack is in his 40s), younger female character (mid 20s), emotionally soft Jack Abbot, grounded realism, possessive tenderness, trauma-informed characterization, anddddd a lot of smut with feelings.

a/n: this one’s been collecting dust in my google docs for a while—wasn’t sure if it was any good, but figured someone out there might need it as much as I did.

You shouldn’t be here.

That’s the first thing you think when the cab pulls to a stop at the corner of 15th and Vine—where the pavement turns to gravel just before the sidewalk ends and the streetlamp hums like it’s about to go out. There’s no front porch light, no house number you can see, just a dented mailbox with the paint scraped off and a storm door that sticks if you don’t lift it by the handle.

But you’ve been here before.

Not often. Not enough. Just enough to still feel it in your legs.

The house is red brick and slouched. Duplex, probably built in the fifties. One of those old Allegheny Valley homes too stubborn to die. It leans slightly to the right, like maybe the foundation gave up a long time ago but the rest kept going out of spite.

You step out into the drizzle, heels hitting the concrete with a hollow click, and the cold April air clings to your dress like a second skin. It’s too thin for this weather, but you wore it anyway—slippery and low-backed, cherry red and just barely long enough to keep from being indecent. You don’t wear red. You’re not the kind of girl who makes a scene. But tonight you needed him to see you.

You’re still not sure why he texted.

You’re still not sure why you came.

You’re not a fixture here—you’re a flicker. The kind of girl a man like Jack Abbot never plans around. Just thinks about too often. Just calls when it’s too late to be polite.

And maybe that’s what you like about it.

Because you don’t live in a world of routines and rotas and rounds. You’re not in medicine. You don’t know what a central line is or how to read an EKG. You work at the city’s adult literacy nonprofit, helping people who slipped through cracks in the system big enough to bury them. You teach night classes in a fluorescent basement on the North Side, surrounded by broken chairs and stained carpet and students with parole bracelets and kids who need dinner by six.

It’s good work. Quiet work. Important.

But it doesn’t leave much room for wanting things just for yourself.

And Jack Abbot has never once asked you to be small.

You step carefully up the cracked incline of his driveway, heels clicking softly against the uneven concrete. Jack’s truck is parked just slightly crooked, like always—angled enough that the passenger side catches the streetlight, the front end turned a little too close to the retaining wall, like he pulled in fast and didn’t bother correcting.

You slow as you pass it.

The passenger-side mirror is fogged at the edges, streaked faintly from rain, but you lean in anyway, breathing warm against the glass to clear a patch. Your reflection stares back—lipstick still intact, not too bright, not too desperate. You smooth a hand down the front of your dress. It clings a little from the damp.

You don’t touch the mirror. You don’t need to.

Instead, you straighten your spine, cross the last few feet, and raise your hand to knock.

Once. Then again. Knuckles on wood, sharp and clean.

There’s a pause.

Then the soft clatter of a lock, then another.

Then silence.

When the door opens, he doesn’t say anything.

Just stands there.

Jack Abbot isn’t tall enough to tower, but he doesn’t need to. There’s something in the way he carries himself—shoulders slightly hunched, stance uneven from the prosthetic—that makes people instinctively give him space. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. Like they know he’s walked through something hard and quiet and didn’t come out clean on the other side.

He’s still in his black scrubs, the collar rumpled. Underneath, the cuff of a white undershirt is visible—stained faintly at the edge, like he’d wiped his hand on it without realizing. Could be blood. Could be iodine. Could be coffee. He hasn’t shaved in days. There’s a cut healing at his jawline, a bruise blooming high on one forearm. And his eyes—that slow, searching stare that never stays still—carry the quiet of someone who’s watched too many people bleed out under fluorescent light and learned to keep his voice steady anyway.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching you like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll flinch first.

He looks like he just got off shift.

He looks like he never left it.

“Hi,” you say.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

His gaze drops. Tracks the fabric. The way it clings to your hips. The slit at your thigh. Then climbs again, slowly, until he’s looking at your mouth like he’s remembering something that never should’ve been said out loud.

“I’m not in the mood for small talk,” he says, voice rough and clipped, like it’s meant to keep you at a distance.

You arch a brow. “Relax. I wasn’t planning to ask how your day was. You texted me, remember?”

“That was an hour ago.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He looks at you, unmoving. “I typed it an hour ago. Hit send ten minutes ago.”

You snort—just barely. “Jesus. You ghost me for a month, then get pissy I didn’t teleport here?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. Like he’s trying to count all the ways this is going to be a bad idea.

You step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. You feel the heat of him—his restraint like a wall you could kick in if you wanted to.

“I’m not here to coddle whatever brooding thing you’ve got going on tonight,” you say, casting a glance back over your shoulder. “If you wanted silence, you could’ve kept the draft in your messages.”

Jack shifts—just enough that you notice. Eyes steady, weight shifted, like he’s tracking something under your skin.

“You wearing anything under that?”

You smile with your teeth. “You planning to find out or just stand there being weird about it?”

He exhales through his nose—short, sharp. Glances down once, then back up.

Then steps aside and pushes the door the rest of the way open.

“You’re still late,” he says.

“And you’re still full of shit,” you reply, walking in without waiting.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You shrug your coat off and let it hang on the crooked hook by the entryway. His silence follows you like steam—slow, clinging, heavy in the chest. You’re halfway into the living room before you realize he hasn’t moved—Jack is staring at you like he’s trying not to say the thing he’ll regret. Like he already knows how this ends and is still pretending he has a choice.

You turn.

You arch a brow. “You gonna hover all night, or…?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just moves—slowly—toward the coffee table. His movements are clipped, functional, like he’s still coming down from shift adrenaline.

“You hungry?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“I made a reservation.”

You snort. “At a place with silverware?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You—” you blink again, actually thrown for once, “—you made a reservation at a real-ass restaurant.”

“Look, I didn’t expect you to show.”

You tilt your head. “But you made the reservation anyway.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, not looking at you. “They had online booking. It wasn’t emotional.”

“So what? You were gonna eat coq au vin alone and pretend it was character development?”

He finally looks at you, deadpan. “I was gonna sit at the bar, drink overpriced scotch, and ignore the people having birthday dinners behind me. It’s practically therapy.”

You laugh. Actually laugh. And his eyes flick to your mouth like he forgot they do that.

“I thought we were walking,” you say.

“We are,” he says. “To my truck.”

“Oh, romantic.”

“You wanna walk through the Strip District in that dress?” he asks, not even looking at you. “I’m all for a dramatic entrance, but I’m not in the mood to commit a felony in public tonight.”

You smirk. “You think I need a bodyguard?”

“I think if anyone says the wrong thing to you,” Jack mutters, eyes flicking down the length of your dress again, “I’ll end up punching someone in the face—and I’m already covered in someone else’s blood.”

You go still for half a breath.

And he catches it. Like a pulse under your skin.

His jaw works once, then he exhales through his nose—tired, sharp.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.”

He disappears down the hallway, one boot clunking against the baseboard, prosthetic hissing faintly as it shifts with his stride. You don’t sit. You pace, slow and quiet, absorbing his house like it’s telling you something he won’t.

The walls are neutral. Medical journals stacked beside a box of ammo he hasn’t unpacked. Framed medals, yes—but not displayed. Tucked in a dusty cabinet beside an unopened bottle of whiskey and a Ziploc full of blood donation cards. There’s a water bottle on the counter with his name on the cap in someone else’s handwriting. There’s a sticky note on the fridge that says Don’t forget Friday—Robby.

You lean against the kitchen doorway.

There’s still a black bag by the door. Trauma pack. Half-zipped. Red tape on the handles. He’s always got one ready—even when he’s off.

When he comes back, he’s not dressed for candlelight.

He’s dressed like himself.

Black button-down, sleeves rolled halfway. Dark jeans. That same leather jacket you once saw him use to splint someone’s arm after a three-car pileup. His hair’s still wet, but pushed back now. He smells like cedar soap—something clean, sharp, bought on purpose—and something darker beneath it, like heat and metal and memory. Not cologne. Just him. The kind of scent that lingers even when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile when he sees you.

But he does stop. And look.

“You good?” he asks.

You grab your coat from the hook. “Better than you.”

“Doubt that,” he says, already at the door. “I’ve had three cups of hospital coffee and a fentanyl OD cough in my face. That’s called building resilience.”

“I think that’s called exposure therapy.”

“No, that’s what this is,” he mutters, opening the front door for you.

Outside, the rain softens everything—headlights, corners, voices. The kind of night that makes even the city feel like it's whispering.

Jack walks ahead, boots hitting the concrete with that uneven cadence you’ve learned by feel, not sound. You trail behind, pulling your coat tighter, watching his back, the broad line of his shoulders under the jacket. He doesn't glance back, but he doesn’t need to. He knows you're there.

He opens the passenger door to his truck. Holds it open without fanfare.

You hesitate, one foot still on the sidewalk.

“You really made a reservation?” you ask.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer. “So we actually have a table?”

He glances at you now, sharp and sure. “If I walk in with you in that dress, they’ll give us one.”

Then he shuts the door gently behind you, like he’s sealing something in.

The restaurant is warm and low-lit, the kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices and everyone talks like they’re trying not to wake a baby. A converted warehouse with exposed brick, matte silverware, and waitstaff in black aprons who glide, not walk.

You step in first, rain-slick and radiant under the vestibule light, and Jack follows just behind. His presence doesn’t just fill a room. It tilts it.

The hostess does a quick scan, eyes pausing on your dress, then on Jack’s face, then on the two of you together—like she knows better than to ask questions. She checks the list, but Jack cuts in, voice low.

“Abbot. Table for two.”

Her posture straightens. “Right this way.”

The table is small. Intimate. Tucked into a corner where the candlelight flickers just enough to make the shadows feel intentional. You slide into your seat across from him. The tablecloth brushes your thighs. Jack drops into the chair like he’s still trying to convince his body to sit still.

You watch him take in the room like a trauma bay—sizing up exits, memorizing sightlines, cataloguing who’s already drunk and who might start something. You’re not surprised. Jack doesn’t know how to be off-duty. Not really.

“I’ve never seen you eat anywhere with cloth napkins,” you murmur.

He lifts his eyes, deadpan. “I can evolve.”

You lean back. “Is that what this is? Personal growth?”

Jack unfolds his napkin like he’s done it a hundred times. “It’s carbs and a distraction.”

“And me?”

He looks at you for a long second. “A complication.”

You smirk. “Careful. I might put that on a dating profile.”

He doesn’t smile—but his eyes betray him. That flicker of something darker. Hunger, maybe. Or memory.

A waiter appears—tall, the kind of man who probably judges how you hold a fork. He hands you menus and starts his monologue, but you only half-hear it. Your eyes are on Jack. He hasn’t looked away from you once.

When the waiter leaves, Jack doesn’t reach for the menu.

You do.

“What?” you ask, without looking up. “You don’t read?”

“I already know what I want,” he says.

You freeze for half a second.

Then flip the page. “You always this forward in public?”

Jack shrugs. “Just forward enough.”

You glance up. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m trying not to,” he says quietly.

Silence folds in between you—soft, ambient, but charged. You can hear the clink of cutlery, low jazz humming from the ceiling speakers, the faint hiss of water being poured into someone else’s glass. Jack shifts in his seat—not restless, just recalibrating. You recognize that posture. He’s about to say something he’ll pretend didn’t matter.

“You look good,” he says finally.

You meet his eyes. “You already said that.”

“I didn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Thought you didn’t do compliments.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what’s this?”

Jack leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. His voice is quieter now, more grounded.

“This is me trying not to go home with your dress still in the seat crease of my truck.”

You’re warm now. Not from the wine. From him. From the way his gaze doesn’t drop, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t ask.

“I thought you wanted this to be civilized,” you say.

Jack exhales, slow and sharp. “I wanted it to be public. That’s not the same thing.”

You lean in, just enough that the candlelight touches your collarbone.

“So what happens after dessert?” you ask, sweetly.

Jack’s mouth curves—not into a smile. Something more dangerous.

“You think I’m gonna make it to dessert?”

Jack doesn’t touch his wine. Just traces the rim of the glass with the side of his thumb, like he’s giving his hands something to do besides reach for you.

You, on the other hand, sip yours slow. Watch him over the edge like you’re still deciding if you’re going to let this happen.

“You always this twitchy at dinner?” you ask, setting the glass down.

“I’m not twitchy,” he mutters.

You raise your brow.

“I’m alert.”

You grin. “You know what civilians call that?”

“Hypervigilance?”

“Therapy’s working.”

That gets him. Just a flicker—something behind the eyes, that half-breath pause he does when he’s almost about to smile. But he shakes his head like he’s brushing it off. Always brushing it off.

“You’re good at that,” he says.

“At what?”

“Getting under my skin.”

You blink—caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. He doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like it’s inevitable. Like it already happened.

“I’m not trying to,” you say, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Jack says, eyes locked on you. “That’s the problem.”

A beat. The waiter brings bread. You ignore it.

Jack leans back a little. Not relaxed—never relaxed—but more settled. Like whatever this is, he’s decided to let it stretch a little longer.

“You like what you do?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “That a real question or small talk?”

“Real,” he says, without missing a beat. “You do this thing where your shoulders drop when you talk about work. Even when you say it’s exhausting. I noticed.”

You go still.

Then—cautious: “You remember what I do?”

Jack meets your eyes, unwavering. “Adult literacy program. GED prep. Half your students can’t keep consistent hours because they work night shifts or care for their kids. One of them asked you to help fill out a DMV form last week and didn’t know how to sign their own name.”

You stare at him.

“I listen,” Jack says, voice steady. “Doesn’t mean I know what to say back.”

You look down for a moment. His words hit somewhere too soft, too unguarded. You weren’t expecting softness—not from him. But here it is, tucked under the barbed wire.

“I thought you were half-listening that night,” you say. “The one where you were icing your shoulder and bleeding into your scrub top.”

“I was bleeding into someone else’s scrub top,” he corrects, dry. “Mine was already ruined.”

You smile. “Still. I thought I was talking to the wall.”

“You were,” he says. Then softer: “But the wall has ears.”

You both fall quiet again—but not from discomfort. From weight.

Jack shifts forward slightly, elbows on the table now, posture subtly open in a way that would go unnoticed by anyone else. But you notice. Because you know how rare it is.

“You ever want to do something else?” he asks.

You shrug. “Sometimes. But I like that I get to be useful. And I like that it’s mine.”

He nods. Absorbs that.

“What about you?” you ask. “You ever think about walking away?”

His fingers tighten just slightly around the water glass.

“Every night,” he says. “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

Jack looks up at you then, sharp and tired and honest.

“Because the minute I stop showing up,” he says, “someone else has to hold the pressure. And I don’t trust most people to not fuck that up.”

You don’t reply right away.

Instead, you let your foot brush his under the table. Just barely. A whisper of contact.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back.

“You ever let anyone take care of you?” you ask.

He huffs a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You offering?”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“No,” Jack says, voice dropping a register. “You’re worse. You see through it.”

You look at him across the table.

Candlelight catches in the corner of his eye. He’s not looking at your mouth anymore. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing you in case this is the last time he gets to do it.

That scares you more than anything.

But you don’t look away.

“You want to get out of here?” you ask, voice low.

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not rushing.”

You swallow. “Why not?”

He leans in. Just slightly. His voice soft now. Barely a murmur.

“Because if I take you home right now,” he says, “I’m not letting you leave before sunrise. And I’m trying to be good.”

Your heart trips.

“But you’re not good,” you whisper.

Jack stares at you like you’ve already undone him.

“No,” he says. “But I want to be. With you, I want to be.”

Dinner’s done.

The plates are cleared. The wine is low in the glass. Whatever tension was humming earlier has now settled into something denser—gravity, almost. Like the weight of what neither of you is saying has taken up its own seat at the table.

You reach for your purse when the check comes.

Jack watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I’ll get it,” you say.

“No,” he says.

You blink. “Jack—”

He tilts his head—just enough to be a warning. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I invited you.”

“Since when do you play by date rules?”

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. The collar of his button-down is open just slightly now, sleeves pushed up. His forearms rest against the edge of the table—still, tense. You can see the cut healing along his knuckle, the way his jaw shifts like he’s chewing back a longer sentence.

Then he says, voice low and level:

“I had a kid code on me last night. No warning. Collapsed mid-handoff.”

You stop moving.

Jack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift.

“You ever do chest compressions on someone who still has their baby teeth?”

The air around you goes sharp. Quiet.

His voice doesn’t waver. “It’s been a long fucking month. And you—” he lifts his chin slightly, like pointing at you without pointing, “—are the first good thing to happen to me that I didn’t have to stitch shut or call time on.”

You don’t speak.

Not right away.

Jack exhales slowly. Not dramatic. Just tired.

“So please,” he finishes, softer now. “Let me pay for your damn meal.”

You sit back, lips parting—but the words don’t come.

He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t soften. He just looks at you like he needs you to let him have this.

So you nod. Once.

“Okay,” you murmur.

Jack signals the waiter with a tilt of his fingers and slides his card into the checkbook before the guy even finishes approaching.

When he turns back to you, his voice is lighter. Barely. “Thanks for not fighting me on it.”

“I figured you’d pull the dead kid card.”

“I didn’t,” he mutters. “I pulled the I care about you card. You just weren’t expecting it.”

You shake your head, smiling now. “I really wasn’t.”

Outside, the streets are still slick. Reflections of stoplights ripple in the puddles. You walk side by side in silence, coats tight, his hand resting near your lower back without ever quite touching. Not possessive. Just... present.

He unlocks the truck with a low beep. You slide in, silk sticking slightly to the seat.

Jack closes the door behind you, then rounds to his side. The interior smells like his jacket. Clean, worn-in, edged with cedar and something darker.

He starts the engine.

Doesn’t drive yet.

His hand rests on the steering wheel. The other on the gearshift.

You’re watching him. And you know he knows.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft now.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Just taps once on the steering wheel. Then again.

Then: “I haven’t had you in my house since Feburary.”

You tilt your head. “You keeping track?”

“I remember things that mess me up.”

You stare at him. “That what I do?”

Jack finally turns to look at you.

And it’s there—all of it. The restraint, the need, the fear, the ache. The thing in his chest he’s been keeping taped down with dry humor and trauma protocol.

“You make me feel like there’s a version of my life I don’t hate,” he says. “That counts for something.”

Your breath catches.

And that’s when he shifts into gear.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable. Just dense. His hand rests near yours on the console. The city passes by in wet blurs of neon and old brick and memory. And when you reach his street—familiar now, in that strange way trauma and attraction make things sacred—you realize you’re holding your breath.

He parks in the same crooked way he always does.

Then cuts the engine.

But doesn’t move to open the door.

You glance over. “You gonna make me sit here all night?”

He looks at you—long, measured.

Then says, “You sure you’re ready to come back inside?”

You don’t answer.

You just open your door.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the quiet feels thick. Like the space inside his house is closing around you both, absorbing what little restraint you walked in with. You’re in the same hallway you stood in earlier—same floorboards, same shadows, same air—but your pulse is different now. Everything is.

Jack tosses his keys into the bowl by the door. The clatter echoes.

He doesn’t turn around right away. Just stands there, head down slightly, like he’s bracing. Rain beads along his collar, catching in his jawline stubble. You can see the tension in the back of his neck, the way his hands flex once at his sides and then still.

You don’t wait for him to move.

You step up behind him slowly, the hem of your dress brushing your knees, heels soundless now on the rug.

“Jack,” you say quietly.

He turns.

And the way he looks at you—it’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s wrecked. Like you’ve been haunting him for weeks and now you’re finally standing here and he doesn’t know where to put the want.

“I think about you,” he says, voice low, raw. “Every fucking night.”

You stare at him. “Then why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because I knew I wouldn’t just want to hear your voice.”

That lands between you like weight.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other in the dark. And then, without warning, his hand finds your waist.

He pulls you toward him in one solid motion—not rough, just… inevitable. The kind of motion that’s been held back for too long.

Your bodies slot together like you remember each other. Like your hips already know where to rest against his. His hand stays at your waist, fingers firm but not possessive. The other lifts to your jaw, thumb skimming the edge of your cheekbone.

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He just looks at you.

And it’s too much.

“Say something,” you whisper.

Jack swallows hard. “I’m trying not to fuck this up.”

“Then don’t.”

His fingers tense. You feel it at your hip. In your pulse. In the way your breath catches when he finally closes the last inch of space and kisses you.

It’s slow at first.

Not sweet.

Just devouted.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste, like this is the last time and he wants to make sure it’s enough to live on. His hand slides up the back of your neck, into your hair, anchoring you there like he doesn't trust himself to stop.

You moan softly into him, and his breath catches.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Sure I do,” you breathe. “That’s why I wore the dress.”

He laughs once—low, ragged—but it dies quickly in his throat. The sound is swallowed by your mouth, by the feel of you pressing closer.

You walk him backward without thinking. Past the narrow hallway, past the living room. His hand is on your waist again. Your fingers find the buttons on his shirt but don’t undo them yet.

The house is quiet except for breathing. His and yours. Tangled.

You hit the doorframe of his bedroom.

But he doesn’t open it.

Not yet.

He rests his forehead against yours. He’s breathing hard now—like he’s keeping himself caged on purpose.

“I don’t want to rush it,” he says again. But this time it doesn’t sound like hesitation. It sounds like pain.

“You’re not.”

Jack pulls back half an inch to look at you. His eyes are blown wide. His mouth’s a little open. He looks—not undone—but stripped back.

“I can’t do this halfway,” he says. “Not with you.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you whisper. “That’s the whole point.”

He lets out a long, harsh breath.

And then—finally—he opens the door behind you and pulls you through it like he’s choosing to burn for it.

Jack’s bedroom is dark. Not in a neglectful way—just lived-in. A man’s space. Clean but uncurated. Worn boots under the chair. A folded sweatshirt on the dresser. An open book spine-down on the nightstand: Emergency Procedures & Field Triage. Pages marked in pencil. Of course.

He kicks the door shut behind you.

And for a moment, he just stands there. Breathing. Looking at you like you’re still some unsolvable thing he’s scared to touch wrong.

You move first.

Hands sliding up his chest, fingers finding the edge of his shirt, palms flattening over his heart.

“You sure?” you ask again—voice low, but steady.

Jack’s hands come to your waist, rough and warm. He leans in close, mouth hovering just above yours.

“I’ve been sure since the second you knocked on my door,” he says. Then lower—almost broken: “And I hate that I waited.”

The kiss this time is hungry.

Less control. More need. His tongue slides against yours like he’s chasing something deep, something he couldn’t name even if he tried. You press into him, gasp when his hand fists in the side of your dress, gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish mid-breath.

“Take this off,” he murmurs against your mouth. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, said like it’s been echoing in him for weeks.

You reach behind your back, unzip slowly—eyes locked to his the whole time.

Jack steps back half a foot. Watches.

The dress drops. Pools around your ankles.

You’re standing there in lace and nothing else.

He breathes in once, shallow.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You wore that for me.”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

His eyes rake down your body—every curve, every detail. His hand lifts. Hovers near your hip. Doesn’t touch yet.

“I don’t know what I did to get this,” he says.

“You survived,” you whisper. “That’s enough.”

He lets out a harsh breath—something close to a sound of grief. And then his hand lands on your bare waist. Heavy. Certain.

He kisses down your neck—slow, biting when you moan, tongue smoothing after like apology. His hands find your back, unclasping your bra in one practiced motion, sliding the straps down your arms like they’re made of silk. You shiver. Not from cold. From him.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You always run cold,” you whisper back, breath shaking.

Jack sinks to his knees.

You inhale sharply.

“Jack—”

“I need to feel you first,” he mutters. “Need to taste you. You don’t get it—I’ve been thinking about this for months.”

You look down—he’s already kissing the inside of your thigh, just above the lace. Soft at first. Then harder. Like he’s mapping something. Marking you.

You gasp when his teeth graze the edge of your panties.

He groans.

“You’re already shaking,” he says, voice full of that broken admiration he doesn’t know how to hide. “That for me?”

“All for you,” you whisper.

He slides the lace down your legs, slow. Watches you step out of them.

Then his hands grip behind your thighs and he pulls you against his mouth.

His tongue is everywhere. Slow circles, deep flicks, his mouth moving like he’s memorizing you from the inside out. One hand holds your thigh wide, the other digs into your ass. When your hand finds his hair, he groans against you—louder now, messier. You can feel how much he needs this in the way he licks like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“Jack—Jack,” you gasp, hips twitching, thighs trembling, “I—fuck—I’m close—”

“Good,” he growls. “You should be.”

When you come, you come with your fingers tight in his hair and your head thrown back, gasping his name like it’s a secret you weren’t supposed to tell. He keeps going. Slower. Gentler. Licking you through it with reverence, with dedication, with the kind of awe he’ll never say out loud.

When he stands again, his mouth is wet, jaw flushed, eyes glassy.

You’re breathing hard.

“You okay?” he asks. Quiet. Real.

“Need you to fuck me,” you say. “Now.”

Jack swears. Low and harsh.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“No,” you whisper, stepping into him again, naked and still shaking. “I’m gonna save you.”

Jack lifts you onto the bed like it’s instinct. His hands under your thighs, his body bracketed against yours—solid, tense, hot. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and you stretch out beneath him, bare and burning, chest rising and falling like your ribs don’t quite know how to contain the want.

You prop yourself on your elbows. “Take your pants off.”

He stares at you for a long beat. His chest rises.

Then—low, cracked: “Say it again.”

“Jack—” you whisper.

“No. Say it like you need it.”

Your breath stutters.

“I need to feel you,” you say, voice raw now. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

He swears under his breath. Voice frayed. “Fuck, okay.”

His jeans are gone fast—belt unclasped, zipper shoved down, cotton briefs pushed low. You watch the whole thing with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes dragging over the hard line of his stomach, the blunt, heavy length of him curved against his thigh. He’s thick. Flushed. And already leaking.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “You were hard the whole time?”

Jack climbs back over you, jaw clenched, one hand bracing beside your head. “Since you knocked on my door.”

You reach down between you, wrap your hand around him.

He groans—full-throated, wrecked—and drops his head to your shoulder like he’s just been shot through.

“Shit. Don’t tease me right now,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say. “I want you. Like this.”

He looks up at you. Eyes dark. Pupils blown wide.

“Condom’s in the drawer,” he says roughly. “Top left.”

You nod, stretch, grab it. Tear it open.

Your fingers brush his cock as you roll it on, slow and deliberate, and the hiss he lets out could bring a lesser man to his knees.

You look up at him, chest bare, thighs parted, breath gone.

“Jack. Now.”

He doesn’t tease.

He presses forward, one hand guiding himself to your entrance, the other gripping the back of your thigh to anchor you wide for him. You’re wet—already soaked—and the first push is hard enough to make your whole body arch.

“Fuck—” Jack grits. “You’re—shit, baby—you’re so tight.”

You grab his shoulder, nails digging into skin. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he growls.

He thrusts in fully, slow and deep, and your body takes him—inch by inch, stretch by stretch, until your hips are flush and his forehead is pressed to your collarbone.

Neither of you moves for a second. You just breathe.

And then he starts to fuck you.

It’s not soft. It’s hungry. Measured. Deep. Like he’s trying to get further inside than flesh will allow. Every snap of his hips pushes a breathless moan from your throat. His hand fists the sheet beside your head; his other arm cages you in. Your legs wrap high around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, like you don’t want a single inch of him wasted.

“You feel—” he grunts, “—so fucking good.”

You rake your nails down his back. “Harder.”

He obeys.

Each thrust now hits deeper, heavier, like he’s giving you every part of himself that the world hasn’t already taken. Your breath breaks. Your thighs tremble. His hand finally slips between you, two fingers finding your clit with brutal precision.

“Jack—Jack—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He’s panting now. Losing rhythm. But he doesn't let up.

“Come on,” he grits. “Let me feel you. Give it to me. Give it.”

You break.

You come hard—legs shaking, hands gripping, eyes squeezed shut, crying out his name like it’s the only one you’ve ever learned how to say.

He follows.

With a hoarse, broken moan, he buries himself deep and stays there—body locked tight against yours, pulse stuttering hard enough to feel in his throat, jaw pressed to your shoulder like the release ripped something loose he didn’t know was still held shut. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even shift. Just keeps his arms cinched around your waist like he’s bracing for impact that never came.

You thread your fingers through his hair—slow, grounding. He doesn't speak right away. When he does, it’s quiet. Raw.

“I don’t…” He swallows. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

You press a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Just don’t stop trying.”

Jack stays inside you, barely breathing, the tremor still in his chest. His weight settles over you—not heavy, not crushing. Just solid. Protective. One arm under your neck. The other spread wide across your ribs like he’s still counting them to make sure you didn’t break.

You let him stay there. Let him breathe. Let him feel it. Because you know Jack Abbot doesn’t get to feel often—he just responds. Just survives.

Eventually, he lifts his head. Barely.

You meet his eyes.

They’re a little bloodshot. A little dazed. And so fucking open it nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, slow. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Yeah. Just—fuck.”

You smile. “That’s articulate.”

“I’m not built for articulate,” Jack mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Especially not when I’m inside someone who just ruined me.”

You arch a brow. “Ruin’s a strong word.”

“You don’t see what I look like right now.”

“You look good.”

Jack huffs—half a laugh, half a sigh. “I feel like I ran a marathon with a collapsed lung.”

You trace your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He lets you.

“Didn’t peg you as a cuddler,” you murmur.

“I’m not.”

“You haven’t moved.”

“I will,” he says, but doesn’t. His hand flexes on your hip. “Eventually.”

He eases out of you a few minutes later, slowly, carefully—like he’s handling an injury he doesn’t want to aggravate. His fingers trail down your thigh, steady and warm, like he’s checking for damage. When your breath catches, he pauses.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head. “No. Just… full.”

Jack exhales, something quiet and wrecked. He bends, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not performative. Not playful. Just soft. Reflexive. Like his body doesn’t know how else to say I needed this.

Then he’s up. Moving efficiently. Still naked but somehow still Jack—controlled, composed, capable, even after being completely undone.

He comes back with a towel, a glass of water, and one of his black undershirts. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just kneels on the bed and gently wipes between your legs, slow and careful, like you’re something he’d bleed for again if it meant he could keep you whole.

You let him. Let him take care of you the way you knew he would if he ever let you close enough.

You sit back against the headboard once you’re clean, his shirt pulled over your head. Your legs are still shaky. Your breath still catching now and then in your chest.

Jack returns to the bed wordlessly.

He doesn’t sprawl. Doesn’t lean. He sits beside you like something important’s about to come loose in him if he doesn’t say it now.

You look over at him.

“You do this for everyone?” you ask, teasing—but it’s soft, not sharp.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t take the bait.

He looks at you.

And says, plainly: “I don’t have people over like this.”

That stills you.

He goes on, voice lower now, like it’s hard to say aloud. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You don’t reply right away.

Because you do know. You knew the first time he kissed you like he wasn’t supposed to. You knew the second time, when he didn’t say your name but held your hand under the table at a bar. You knew every time he pushed you away and still showed up when it mattered.

“I know,” you say. Quiet. Sure.

He looks at you again—really looks—and it’s all there. The weight of it. The risk. The want.

“I’m not fucking leaving,” Jack says finally. “And you’re not just here for the night. Not after that. I can’t—” He breaks off. Swallows. “I can’t pretend you’re just passing through. I don’t want to.”

You lean into him. Let your head rest on his shoulder. The shirt smells like him—soap, sweat, sex, something that lives deep in the cotton, like the way old homes hold heat.

His arm comes around you without hesitation. Holds you firm. Solid. One hand at the small of your back. Like if he doesn’t keep touching you, it won’t be real.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And he kisses your temple—slow, lingering.

Not like a man who needs sex.

Like a man who needed you.

Like a man who’s been surviving too long alone and finally, finally found something he’s willing to stay for.