#noise control techniques | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 1 month ago

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Jujutsu? Gnarly.

Synopsis. Control his jujutsu powers when he first puts it in? Impossible.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Kashimo x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, when it’s so good he loses control, ínnapropríate use of jujutsu, GOJO’S POWERS, rough s, matíng presses, Geto’s tentacIe curse, true form Sukuna, dp, cervíx kíssing, marathons, ratio technique, unlimited void, creampíes, cúmplay, chokíng, FÉRAL men, dúmbifícation, exhíbitíonism (Higuruma), pet names, swéaring.

A/N. KASHIMO MADE THE CUT YEAHHH-

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - P*SSY KlLLER?!

“Please- ngh, Toji—” You can’t help but trill at the sloppy movements of Toji’s tongue, swipin’ and slurping it’s way carnally between your slick, dribbling folds.

The slimy end of his muscle curves in just right past your entrance and you find yourself sobbing, gushing out the creamy remnants that Toji had pumped you oh-so-full with just mere minutes prior. And he’s parched.

Smacking his scarred, puckered lips whilst they stick with his seed like a white gloss, watching you only grow wetter and he’s gasping—“Oh.”

Mossy eyes drooping, swollen length spent n’ still aching.

Just about the only guttural noise he can make, the only thing he can even register before creeping two calloused hands underneath your boneless thighs. “A-again.” Toji pants out, hypnotized. Manhandling - barely even realizing the superhuman strength he’s using to pliably bend your knees up, up, up to your heaving chest.

“B-but Toji–” You’re nervously eying the poor, sagging bedframe. “You broke the bed-”

“And?”

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s stretching out your walls to the extreme with his red, hard cock, how many times he’ll be eagerly eating your dripping pussy out with all his cum - Toji Fushiguro will always want more.

Will always feel the crowned tips of his digits twitching with need already, digging a few blossoming bruises along your cute inner thighs. Letting out a sultry breath of ‘fuck’ before in a split-second you’re reeling with the whiplash of being shoved down onto your hardwood floors.

Off the bed, at his mercy.

With Toji’s big, beefy biceps cushioning the impact to your body, he’s pinning your squirming hips down with his v-line and snarling- “Here-” The curvaceous tip of his shaft so scorching hot and wet where he’s rubbin’ straight down your slit in impatient gyrations, “Again. Right here.”

“O-on the hngh- floor–?”

“Bed’s broken, doll.” All the explanation that Toji’s granting you with, hovering so tall and proud between your legs.

If he needed only half of his heavenly restriction to shatter your mahogany bed, then he didn’t even need a fraction of that to nudge your jittery legs apart. Coating your outer pussy with an opaque glaze of pre, Toji spanks the bulbous underside of his cockhead and grins at the puddle he’s smearing down your thighs.

And just that first, squelching smooch from the top of his strawberry shaft to your teary orifice makes the hulking man shiver. Makes him pant.

Makes him slouch until you were caged by his meaty chest, draaaagging his caramel-salted lips across your own, “But I’m not.”

And then he’s easing in.

“Sh-shit.” Your numbing legs can’t even thrash, can’t even move with the full weight of him pressing into you. The stretch of his utterly fat, bulging cock was so much that your spine’s pushing you up against his every ridged ab, gripping onto Toji’s muscular back for dear life.

Easing and easing- more like rummaging. Rough, forceful ruts of his bulging crown that’s swabbing right ‘round your hole. He’s so thick that even the softest, sweetest clench makes Toji throw his perspired head back and hiss with sensitivity.

SLAM!

“Oh.” The surface beneath you thunders dangerously with the vibrato of his left hand striking down on the floor. Grunting, “Don’t tap out-”

Roaming one of his thick thumbs between your legs, Toji’s further prying apart your sappy folds with a drawn-out sluuuurp to stretch your cunt. Making sure you gulp down each single, barreling inch. “Don’t run.”

And that groaned warning was targeted at the way your jittery legs had started to plant down on the floor and push.

Unsure of whether to run or swerve your hips back for more, more, more.

You’re sobbing, the prettiest hitch in your voice that makes his heavy cock jolt. Feeling a fresh few dewdrops of precum sprinkle all the way near your throat. “It’s just s-shooo big, Tooooji–”

Toji’s hooded eyes dilate until he’s looking feral, such a vulgar grin plastering across his lips once he’s giving you a wild buck at your cries. “Ohhhh– come- hah! come back here, mama.”

Calloused, mean fingertips curl over your gulping throat to haaaul you all the way back down the floor. Swatting your ass against the messily tufted darkness of his happy trail, veins popping up down his arms. He looked so unfairly hot with pearls of sweat twinkling down his temple, greedy gaze half-hidden through his bangs. ��No runnin’.”

You couldn’t run away even if you tried.

He had you pushed into the sloppiest mating press, scooped up in his arms until all you could feel was his bullying, fattened cock.

“Mmm— hngh! Toji, you’re in so d-deep!” And Toji’s giving a thorough push that has his puckered pink tip lodging all the way into your cervix, the texture of his zig-zagging veins making your knees weak. “S-so full.”

“Riiiight? Again- again.”

And it wasn’t just his full cock splitting your insides, you’re hiccuping after each syrupy splosh of his cum pooled within you. Slick strands of seed leaking out of your slit and gluing your thighs together like adhesive-

“Need it all inside.” Or, at least, it would’ve if it wasn’t for the way that Toji’s hand lifts briefly off of your throat to smear over that overspilling mess. Drenching the pads of his fingers with a frothing of white he shovels between your gasping maw– “Again. Need to…”

Dazed. He trails off, glassy green eyes drifting down to concentrate on your tummy - your womb. Like he could see something you didn’t.

Moaning, Toji’s rugged cadence shifts like lightning to precisely strike your quivering g-spot. Looking down at you with the most lecherous pussydrunken grin whilst you tremble, “-breed you, doll.”

Ah- there.

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- think you already hngh- have–!” You’re whining, flinching at the sudden sizzling somewhere above your head.

“Not enough.”

And it’s only then that you realize that Toji’s simply hoisted his other hand off of the wooden ground to reveal a burning handprint. A crater. “Heh- broke the ngh- floor, too.”

That very same powerful palm clinging on instantly to the side of your hips once Toji curves your gyratin’ tempo to directly match his. Lifting you nearly into midair, he’s using you like some cute, glorified doll to plant hit after hit on your bruising g-spot.

Over n’ over, no one’s ever treated your pussy like this before - like his own personal dartboard, and he was hitting every bullseye. “Fuck- i-it’s so much–”

Slide-slide-sliiiiding the ridge of his mushroomy tip down that splotchy area you loved so much, “Not enough-” And you’re feeling a shockwave run down your spine at the way big, bad Toji Fushiguro sounded on the verge of tears. Breath hitched, tone octaves higher. “More need- more.”

“P-please-” You’re strangling out the same set of syllables again and again into his scorched red ear, tangling your fingers across the flexing knots of his deltoids-

And Toji, oh- Toji’s letting goosebumps line the middle of his broad back at the touch. Immediately snatching your hands with his sap-soaked one, “Like haaa- feelin’ me, huh?”

You could feel the power radiating underneath, could feel his rapid, rabbity heartbeat as he gropes your hands all over him. “F-feel me then. This body.” Punctuated with thrust by thrust, your eyes roll backwards as you feel his spherical circumference bruise deep against your womb. “This cock.”

From every strong tendon, to his tensed ladder-like abs, to the valley of his shuddering pecs— your mouth waters at the feeling of his muscles.

Even more so when he lazily wraps your fingers around his throat- “Choke me, mama.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 7:3 Fuck-nique

“R-rough…?”

And it takes everything in Nanami Kento’s strong, battle-worn body to keep his voice steady for you, feeling the raw swipe of his blushing tip past your pussylips and already hissing.

Parched Adam’s apple bobbing with a few strangled coughs, “My wife wants it–” His half-lidded gaze locks on your face, your spit-glossed mouth already dropping into a pretty, cockdrunken ‘oh’ as you nod over your shoulder. “-rough.”

In lewd response, your soppy cunt only squelches out a few dollops of glazing slick. Slipping down the sides of Nanami’s swollen shaft and making his puffy veins glisten in the dim lighting, “You’re probably stressed after that hah- jujutsu mission today, Ken–” Your fingers start caressing a soft massage into his tense forearms, “You can take it out on- ngh…me.”

Oh.

If he hadn’t lost his sanity before then he sure has now.

And Nanami’s thick, ravenous fingertips brush your thighs and twitch with primal strength. It only takes a split second - barely even a nanosecond - for him to pick your jittery limbs up and push push push down.

To fold you into the world’s meanest doggy style while you whine. “My pretty wife wants it rough…”

The only thing sweeter than his cooing, deep tone was the saccharine kiss he’s planting down on your entrance with his cherry-red tip. “-then you’re gonna get it-” The single nicest thing Nanami gifts before mercilessly pinning your hips down with his weight and siiiiinking in with a primal noise. “-rough, my love.”

“Fuck-” Your eyes roll back at the sudden stretch, the pryin’ intrusion of his barreling girth sticking against your walls like a second skin. Stretching n’ stretching. “Oh my– mmm, Kento!”

Nanami swears he’s trying to hold back, he swears he’s trying to keep himself under control when he first puts it in.

But the tiniest glide of his sensitive pink slit across your glossy insides and he’s gnawing down on the inside of his cheek, letting out a sharp gasp. “Oh.” Before shoving your arched spine down and rutting-

“Oh fuck-” You’re yelping, feeling the bullying push of his crowned tip brush near your fucking lungs. His bulging shaft swabbing every tiny crevice to mush, “You’re in so- you’re- hck! Kentoooo–!”

And the only thing you can say is Nanami’s damn name.

The only thing stringing together in the heaping mess of what used to be your brain as he reaches over with his towering frame. Thighs against shaky thighs, fat cock against your sloped pussy.

Pushing and pushing with a few vulgar strokes until you hear faint pops! of your joints. Using his inhuman strength, your husband’s cradling your hips- the only thing holding you up whilst he hauls over one of his meaty thighs n’ presses down on your lower spine with his knee.

Bending you, stretching you.

“Shit- shit, m’sorry, darling.” Puffs out his sweltering gust of a gasp against the back of your neck, Nanami’s grip on you bruising while he tries to steady himself. His sanity.

You’re so soft n’ warm- it feels like heaven, and he’s trying to ease his bulbous tip back for your pussy to get used to. Spraying out a fountain of pre as he pulls out– and then gyrates down a slow, sensual thrust all the way from his reddened mushroom tip down to about halfway, sweetly. “Hate to knock you around- fuck. I can’t have you hurt, my love. Forget going rough, relax f’me and I’ll- I’ll…”

But you don’t relax.

You do the exact opposite - you clench.

And oh- oh, Nanami’s shattered.

He can’t even think, can’t even remember to breathe before there’s a sudden surge of tightness in the heady air. Your irises blinking at the millisecond of flashing black and red light- before disappearing all the way into the depths of your skull once Nanami twitches.

Like a madman, he’s bashing your poor g-spot dead-on - and the sheer force of it is so strong that you’re feeling your toes curl, vision blurring.

His plump, puckered tip wedges right into that sweet spot in your walls, hard enough that it leaves your cunt stinging with a bruise the size of his fat circumference. Once. And then again, in a rough, ragged drill of his toned hips.

A bullseye- thrice. A hatrick.

“Oh- right- there- mmm–” You don’t even need to say it, because Nanami’s striking three direct hits each second, his cadence sloppy. Fast. Hard.

“Look at thaaaat–” Croons out a scratchy bass from above, and it takes you a few blinks of your wet lashes to realize that the one talking was your husband. He’s never sounded this raspy, this ruined. “-you’ve got me a-all worked up n’ now…”

Comically, your pupils are swirlin’ in circles inside of your eyes with each whack! whack! whack!

Spittle dangling out like he’d just opened a floodgate the moment there’s another flash, and then a sizzling drag of his split-ended crown weepily pressing on your g-spot, precisely.

Your bleary gaze adjusts to the flickering bedroom lights as Nanami carries out his sultry pace, gasping. “W-wait did you just- fuck!” And again, the air pressurizes against your skin as he’s drilling into you animalistically. Filthy half-thrusts that leave your g-spot aching, your ass scratched with his tawny happy trail. “Kento, did you just use- ngh- black flash?”

“Hmmm–?”

Mewling, “Thrice?”

“Oh.” He’s so damn pussydrunk he didn’t even realize, didn’t even register the cursed energy zapping from the ends of his fingers and down to your restless body.

Dazed, Nanami experimentally creeps down his fingertips to give your perky clit a squeeze– and watches in awe once you’re writhing n’ singing out the cutest whines at the vibrations of jujutsu.

Thrice, huh? Without even knowing - just using his powers to reach your most favorite spot like he knew you wanted.

Your husband pushes up the drooping metal frames of his glasses and almost wishes he didn’t- the sultry sight of your pussy too much for him. All bulging and quivering to oh-so-desperately take his entire barreling size, he can’t help but give you a rewarding little smooch of his curvaceous cockhead.

Letting the slick syrup of his pre dribble allll out of your folds at the sheer volume, “B-black flash…so I did, my love.” That ratio technique coming in way too fucking handy to measure out where your g-spot was, Nanami lays his knee down deeper at the base of your back n’ lets your boneless body sag. “And she liked it.”

Deep down into the mattress he was fucking you into, deep down into where he was letting his powers spark with another flash.

“Oh- I’m–” Your mouth gapes haplessly back n’ forth, no sound dragging out because Nanami’s pounding every ounce of breath from your lungs with a single more thrash into your tenderest area.

A fourth black flash - his record.

The black and red light dotting behind your eyelids once his strawberry divot comes hammering against your g-spot and pushing - a slip n’ slide that drags his ridged, veiny shaft down your walls and hitting your spongy cervix with a thwack!

Reeling you straight over the edge before you’ve even realized what’s happening.

Eyes clenched, body shiver, maw hanging open upon the torrents of spittle- You’re throwing your head back and sobbing in carnal bliss as Nanami shifts his body closer.

Jujutsu crackling out of him in oodles, it twitches out of his touch and leaves your swollen lips stinging once Nanami cranes over to lap away your goblets of drool with his tongue.

“F-four.” He grumbles, low. Almost in disbelief. Almost gone. Letting the slimy curve of his tip probe thoroughly into your exact bundle of nerves, “Let’s break my record, darling.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Tentacular.

“Keh– so damn messy.” Geto whispers, feeling the soggy wetness of your cunt open ‘round his bulbous tip. That cherry pink curve piercing its way just past your clamping entrance, “This is what you wanted- right, gorgeous? This…”

And he doesn’t finish the tail end of his sentence - he doesn’t have to.

Because you’re feeling it, instead. That sudden, slimy tendril slipping over your slick-glossed inner thighs. Kissing just the puffy outer edge of your pussy as Geto sinks in-

“Oh- oh!” You’re gurgling back a moan at the reddish coil of your boyfriend’s tentacle curse, one he’d summoned hours ago and was teasing you with ever since.

Letting the pointed tip of one tendril slip n’ slide playfully down your stuffed slit as he stays torturously still, edging you with flicks of pleasure that have you keening. Squirming endlessly, “Puh-please! Wan’ more- Suguru, more.”

“Ah ah, gorgeous–” And fuck- Geto Suguru has the audacity to bring the biggest, fattest one of the eight cursed tentacle meanly spanking down on your drivelling slope. Letting a wet thwack! sing out into the heady air while you sob out– “You can’t be heh- whining like that. Use your big girl words.”

“But- but-”

But you couldn’t - not when Geto was prying you open like this.

Not only was his hard, reddened cock massively big, letting his plump girth roam around your glazed insides- he’d managed to slip in one of those cloyingly sticky tentacles, too.

Just the first few inches of its curly tress, spreadin’ your folds apart until Geto could let his girthy cock sink allll the way in. His size was just so damn staggering that you’re finding your head dizzy, the sheer stretch having you tumbling your sweaty scalp back into the futon-

“Manners manners.”

For only a split-second, before he’s crawling himself forwards, two of those dextrous tentacles following you to lift your head up. “Look at me when I ngh- put it in.” Hazed amethyst peripheries locked on you, “And tell me- haaaa- tell me what you want.”

Mewling each time his rock-hard length and a singular tendril bully inside to push the button of your g-spot. Rubbing it sensually, crowning it with a sleek frosting of buttery pre, “I— hck! Sugu, I– mmm, right there.”

“Awww, my poor girl can’t even speak.” Geto’s cooing down at you, tone ragged. It’s not like he was doing any better- fuck, he really wasn’t.

He was just shivering at the warm gushing of your wet cunt, so soft and blissful that he can’t even put it in at first without losing control of his powers.

The tentacle curse was unplanned. You and that sweet pussy liking it was even more unplanned.

And Geto lets his meaty thighs widen with an out-of-control pound that leaves your inner-thighs stinging, he’s holding back his hitched breath. Blinking away the lusty haze in his vision, swabbing your orifice with yet another rut after rut like a madman.

“Heh– and yer legs are s-sooo weak.”

You’re flinching once two more tentacles coil in rings around both of your jittery legs and leave them hanging over Geto’s broad shoulders, one kissin’ your ankles in place to keep them tightly held.

Lips gluing together with saccharine sweet spit, “Sh-shit you’re even deeper now.”

Groaning, “All you’re doing is ngh- drooling. How rude.” His raven lashes come fluttering down at the squelch! your slick cunt lets off once he skims a pale thumb down your middle. Flooding even there.

Leaving your teary slit open allll for him to admire while he fucks you like he’s angry. Like he’s trying to make you slobber out even more. “C’mon- hah.” Geto’s big, buff body shudders with something visceral at the bolt of cursed energy running down his spine, “C’mon, let’s show her some of our…ngh- manners.”

And it takes you one-two-three thrashes of Geto’s scorching hot tip entering your hole, impaling your pussy n’ hitting right against your g-spot for you to realize that he wasn’t talking to you.

Not at all.

He was talking to the greedy coils of tentacles wrapping further n’ further around your body like you were the cutest lil’ gift. Two toying over the nubs of your nipples with their sultry suction, two more tying your ankles together over Geto’s shoulders.

And, hell, Geto was even using one to curl around your pretty throat and help drag you past every recoil of his whacking hips. Just the slightest parting from your gummy cervix was way too much for him to handle, he needed you there to take it all - and he needed it now. Always.

But your sobbing cunt? That was all for him- “Dirty giiiirl—” for now, that is. The softened end of one tendril sneaks past your saturated pussylips and squeezes- bullies a singular inch through your entrance. “You want me or that? Tell me- tell me.”

“I- ngh- I want.” The only thing you can do is blubber stupidly as that fat muscle slithers in deep- scouring your dewy wet walls easily for your sweetest spots. Each one.

Pinching and rubbing your pulsating clit, letting his cock dig into your tenderest depths.

So much that you’re almost starting to crawl away—

“Where’re we goin’, gorgeous?” Geto snickers, an innocent blush spreading all over his handsome face at the adorable sight of you being dragged back down by his tentacles when you start to run.

He’s fucking you - with both. Hard, rough. And after bashing his ruby red tip against your g-spot, Geto’s heading straight for it again with his cursed technique.

Choking, hauling, Geto pushes one in between your spit-slippery lips and makes you keen. “Theeeere we go. Open that mouth-” Whining, you’re letting off the most primal splat! of puddled saliva as he grins. Wrenching your unfastened jaw open when you could only babble, “What cute hngh- noises. Speak f’me now, smart girl. My biiig fucking cock, or…”

Though, you felt anything but with the fuzzy feeling of your cockdrunk brain right now. Stupidly letting your maw sag to the side as he fills you up doubly, “Both-”

Geto leans in mockingly close, one of his palms cupping his ear to listen for your sweet sounds. Drawling, “What’s thaaat?”

“B-both, Suguru–!”

Oh- both.

And for just a second you think that Geto has stilled - you think that he’s stopped fucking breathing. Just a low, strangled few pants wrenching from the back of his throat-

Before he snaps his hips and strikes you with an ambushing whack of his bulging crown, followed up by the sluuurping snake of one of his tentacles pushing and pushing. Stretching your pussylips so wiiide with the circumference that you swear you see cartoonish stars floating above his head.

Only to realize that it’s cursed energy, something oh-so-carnal as Geto flicks the slick tip of his tendril in tempo with his sloppy dick. Drilling you double, drilling you until you see double.

“And now…” Geto coaxes you into a carnal embrace, sweetly pecking the top of your perspiration-covered head before he’s extending even longer. The thick veins decorating all over his shaft pressing into your sides, his cursed technique throbbing- just waiting.

Waiting for that perfect moment to grow even bigger inside of you. And the best bit was he wasn’t even fully in control anymore - too pussydrunk to, just by feeling you.

Geto grins at that soft gasping ‘oh!’ you let out once you realize, leaning down to darkly murmur. “Let’s count how many hah- inches before I…get even bigger, gorgeous.”

♡ KASHIMO HAJIME - ROSE (TOY)

Kashimo didn’t think he’d be here - four hundred years in the modern day and held hostage by your sweet, sweet pussy.

Fuck- he feels himself claw a powerful hand down the side of your smoothly gyrating hips, gliding your swollen pussy further down his cock and he’s bucking-

Greedy. Desperate.

His other hand trembles with the weight of your softly buzzing rose toy, lightning sparking between his fingers to make it vrrrrr louder between your legs. Electrified.

This was dangerous. He’s already feeling the cursed energy rush, already making up his mind to gently jostle you off for the greater good- but instead, he’s swiping his cherry-red tip between your folds and pushing.

“Fuck- fuck.” Words departing in seething hot pants, Kashimo can’t help but grit his teeth and reel his slender hips back. Only for the clamping wetness of your walls to make him dizzy, “You seriously feel like this?” Something high-pitched, in disbelief. “S’the hah! sweetest lil’ cunt in the world, blossom.”

“Ngh- nghhh fuck! Hajime…” You’re cutely mewling out, the feeling of his thick, bulging cock opening up your snug walls was so addictive. And that burning stretch already had your poor knees weakening along with your sultry bounces.

Pap after pap after pap- Kashimo counts each slam of your sexily restless ass cheeks against his pelvis.

Feeling his skin already start to redden, he’s grinning. Drinking up everything sloppy slurp ringing from below whenever he’s striking your dewy orifices, “Shhh sh sh, little one.” Boring down at you with half-lidded azure eyes so intense, “Let me hear- this fucking- pussy.”

And it’s the first time he’s feeling something like this, the first time he’s mazing his weepy cocktip to glue against the surface of your cervix and feel you squeeze.

“Fuh-fuck!” He bucks, he pants. Eyes flickering with lightning-

And Kashimo doesn’t know what’s louder - the crack of your nearby bedroom lamp shattering into a zillion pieces, or the way your rose toy notches up until its vibrations are damn near deafening.

His power out of control - all leveraged against you and that cute cunt.

Whimpering, you back arches oh-so-sinfully once he’s dragging the lecherously suctioning tip just across your clit. Teasing you with the soft suckling of your toy, “H-how hck! I thought the battery would be ngh- dead by now.”

“Oh, it is—” He’s crooning from below you, beryl strands of his bangs plastering to his sweaty forehead as he looks up at you. Kashimo’s grin is just so satisfied once he toys with your perky clit until you’re whining n’ sniffling, “Such cute lil’ things you hah- have these days…”

And you’re watching on in confusion when Kashimo keeps giving your teary pussy one kiss from your vibrating rose toy. Another. And another, a sleazy grin spreading all over his face at the way it makes your dewy cervix twitch with each clench.

Again n’ again.

“S’too bad that-” Before suddenly wrenching that hot pink toy away across your dampened sheets- immediately out of battery without his cursed energy. Unneeded now. And giving your awaiting cunt a good spank of his electrically buzzing fingerpads, “-I can do it even better.”

He’s right- fuck, he’s more than right.

In only a split-second, Kashimo has his probin’ cockhead buried deeply between your damp folds and his fingers pinching your swollen clit. The light jujutsu power on them making your head throw back with a moan– “O-ohhh fuck! Tha’s cheating, Hajime-”

“Shush- what did I ngh- say? Not you-” Purposefully, he’s rudely swatting your cunt more to let the sparks of lightning zap down your spine all the way from your drooling cunt. “Though, I do like when you heh- scream, blossom. But I wanna hear fuuuuck– her.”

His fingers were like living, moving vibrators - just making your sensitive slit quiver all over with your arousal.

You’re so wet that it’s formulating a cute puddle where you were riding him, thighs twitching when you’re slipping and sliding all down his hungry cock. Your stuffed hole repeatedly letting out the sexiest wet squelches-

“Oh? Oho? How chatty.” Kashimo snickers from between his clenched snarl, pearly whites spread in such a wiiide grin hearing your pussy this way. Nodding as if he was in conversation, “S’that sooo–”

You’re flinching once his sultry eyes target your own, flattening his feet on the ground to look right into your stare as he mazes his crowned mushroom tip along your walls. Hitting your cervix and making sure to leave a slightly bruised crater for you to feel afterwards, “Guess what this- hah! naughty fuckin’ girl just asked me, little one?”

“Wh-what?” You yelp, voice cracking once he twists his thumb on top of your sensitive nub to draw a tiny lightning bolt.

“She wanted me…” Kashimo drawls out, trailing off as the side of his veiny shaft slaps your sweetest spots. Rendering you speechless and shivering at the lightning bolted texture, “-to go even harder.”

And oh, you knew that look on the incarnation’s face.

You knew it- that wild, wide-eyed look of absolute fucking madness before he lurched his hips off of the overworked bedsprings. Making your maw dangle with a shrilling gasp when he’s milking his swollen, red cock on your warm cunt.

Kashimo snickers, “Can- can you even imagine?” The prominent cuts of his v-line massaging up into your lower tummy, over n’ over punctuating each syllable. Each breath. “G-going harder.”

“O-oh, fuck–” You’re squirming restlessly at the way his fingers only seem to buzz even harder with lightning cursed energy. The way it was seeping out of him now, making your overhead lights flicker, making the air turn static.

“Well- I can only- listen to every fucking word she says.”

And maybe it’s the way that the flicks of his cursed energy jolt down your slit even needier, maybe it’s the way he’s roaming his knobbled thumb even further between them to draw a sweet, sweet heart. Plump, pink-colored tip giving your g-spot one of his countless mean hits- this time sending white-hot sparks skittering down your walls. Either sheer brute force or jujutsu - you don’t even know before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.

Eyes blearing with so many tears, voice wobbly as you call out– “I-inside.” Gazing down at Kashimo’s slightly wide-eyed, shocked pupils. “Cum inside, Hajime.”

And in all his over four hundred years of living, this might be the first time his powers had ever been so out of control.

Every single light in your house shatters, the power shuts, Kashimo’s long lashes streak with miniscule flickers of purple lightning as he finally finishes off. In the most unsteady, heavy way.

“Oh shit- shit shit shit- this s’all your fault.” He’s filling you up with so many weighty ropes of cum, letting the lecherous knots slick down your pussy channel and stick to your cervix like an adhesive. “All your fault all your- ngh!”

Swivellin’ over one of his slender fingertips where your hole was slobbering out in a milky sap, you yelp after each mindless rut of his body. Washboard abs massaging your front, thwacking each driveling ounce leaking out of him.

“D-don’t even think I can cum anymore.” He trails off, finally realizing the darkness in the room. The way he’d just left every ward in Tokyo without electricity.

Kashimo’s sapphire eyes glow as he pummels his sticky wads of seed deeper, buzzing fingers still twitching. Lips curling into a smile the more he toys, the more he makes a mess. Thrusting, “But that’s how losers think.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Blush blush blush

Choso was so good for you like this- he was so gone.

Just the first, most innocent peck of his glittery wet cocktip swipin’ down your slit and he’d found himself cumming. Pretty eyes clenched tight, face burning, rosy lips sagging with awe—

“I’m ngh- s-sorry, baby–” He’s babbling, the cutest wobble shivering his wet-sheened lips. With one set of his slender fingers wrapped ‘round his fat hilt, he’s pushing to let the raw entrance of your cunt swallow up his creamy wads ravenously.

Choso tumbles his head back and moans at the sinful sight, his own dry Adam’s apple bobbing with an overeager swallow. “Sorry- made such a mess.” Stirring the entrance of your drenched pussy with the crowned tip of his cockhead, “Gonna clean it all up- d-don’t you worry about a thing, baby.”

You’re cooing, running your dominant hand through his sweat-polished locks. “Aww– s’okay, Cho. It’s your hah- first time, after all. We can stop now if you-”

“No.”

And that wasn’t just a plea - it was a beg.

Before you know it, Choso’s pulling your boneless legs over his shoulders. And he’s so strong, dazed eyes boring into yours whilst he effortlessly folds you in half into a mating press that had your ass cheeks lifting off the bed.

Rippling deltoids pushing forwards, his twitching hand angrily pumping his red-hot hilt. “Nonono- no.” Choso whispers wetly, his heated breaths fanning your face. “I can do it again- ngh- watch me-”

“But, baby, if you can’t-”

“I will.” And you’ve never seen your sweet boyfriend sound so ragged, it’s as if his gentle baritone was holed with rasps and something primal. Choso’s dazed, mindlessly creeping over one of his other clammy hands to squeeeeze your cheeks rudely together and make you watch. “M’gonna get h-hard again for my baby. I will.”

And it’s only then that you’re seeing - properly seeing.

The way that Choso’s sexily slashing tattoos grow deeper over his nosebridge, the way his entire body flexes with cursed energy- oh.

He’s using his powers. And your eyes immediately snap to the way his right hand curls snugger over his bulky base and buzzes with blood manipulation technique.

Choso’s bulbous, red tip was so hard with every ounce of blood rushing between his legs that it’s twitching weepily. Slobbering ribbons of pre frothing over your pussylips and making your cunt gleam with sap.

“S-see?” He utters out, guttural. Broad pecs glittering with beads of sweat after every feverish heave, he was working himself overtime. Working himself for you. Spank goes the way that he’s swatting your slit with his veiny shaft, “You want it like this? Haaaah- got m’self all ngh- needy for you again.”

Your hips buck up impatiently, making Choso’s bawling divot bump directly against your sloppy hole and watching him whimper. “Cho– want it inside.” Mouth watering, he was just so hot. “Every inch, promise?”

“P-promise.” Oh, Choso would kneel at your feet and vow an oath if you showed even the slightest inkling that you wanted him to.

And his mouth saps over with a fresh bout of drool at the feeling of your dampened cunt letting him in, pushing past your dewy wet folds to give your walls a carnal scrape of his weepy orifice.

“Promise- promise, oh- I promise-” He’s babbling away, chestnut eyes glazing over with tears of primal bliss as he’s rocking his hips into yours. The slimy abrasions of his veins leaving your back arching- Choso wasn’t even fully finished with using his blood manipulation, yet.

Not even fully done- and yet, he’s just so addicted. Just so greedy with the notion of pounding your pretty pussy like it deserved. Still fisting the sensitive base of his cock, “Gonna m-make myself real hard. Gonna make you feel hngh- reeeeal good with my fucking cock, baby.”

“Cho- oh- fuck!” You’re mewling, your own salty tears hitting your lips at the sheer stretch. “Y-you’re so big.”

And really, Choso was just so big that his big, bulbous cockhead was pushing into your lungs. Making you feel every inch of his prolonged length inside your hidden nooks n’ crannies - and that lil’ power of his was only making him bigger.

Harder.

Oh-so-big that you were almost struggling to fit all of him-

Whining, “No- nonono it’ll fit, baby- promise it’ll fit.”

Fuck- had you said all that out loud? Choso’s hooded gaze was frenzied with a low look of panic, the tough lines of his hipbones bashing your inner thighs with his fervor. His ruts.

Gulping, “I need it to fit.” And yet, he was bulging and bulging so long and wide inside of you that every motion forwards made you shrill out. Blood manipulation going out of control, flaring his soaked slit up until he’s molding your soft walls to his each precise measurement. “Want it- need it a-aaaaaall the way up…”

Your mouth parches like the fucking Sahara as you watch Choso snakingly guide his free hand along your middle. Drawing a line straight up from the very top of your clit- up, up, up past your womb. Your tits, your collarbones, until he’s levelling his touch over the beginning of your throat. “-here.”

Chuckling to himself - oh, he was going to make that a reality.

And the sudden burst of cursed energy was telling you the same thing, “B-but you’re only getting even mmm– bigger, baby.”

“And you’re only getting s-soooo much fucking wetter.”

Pushing and pushing. He was fucking you as if he would pass out - as if he would die - if he wasn’t all shoveled all the way between your plump, puckered pussylips.

Choso’s touch was sizzling with power by now, every area of contact with your skin rubbing your flesh all raw and lewd. He didn’t even have to furiously jerk off his long shaft anymore, so engorged with lust that it almost hurt.

Out of control.

But it hurt him more to not be all the way inside of you- he puffs out. “T-take a deep breath, baby–”

Still reeling from that probin’ girth of his, your tit heaving tantalizingly as you gasp. “I-it’s fitting, Cho-”

“It’s fitting-” He’s echoing in utter disbelief, the glittery flaps of his mouth sagging into a perfect oh! when he’s straining to hear that squelch-squelch-squelch of each bloated inch being bullied inside of you. Growing even bigger with delight- and his lecherous cursed energy, Choso lets out a shocked ‘fuck’ once his rounded ballsack spanks your cunt with a thwack!

Struggling to clamp your glossy walls around his thick circumference, the tightness makes him close his teary eyes with a whimper. Still growing bigger- “Baby- m’I getting ngh- pregnant tonight or are you?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - King of Doubles

“Fuck- fuck.” Sukuna shutters his devilish crimson eyes in an attempt to veer off that embarrassing set of heart-eyes taking over his gaze.

Hell, he even shakes his head- he even grits his sharpened canines every time he’s hitting the roof of your pussy with every deep plunge. But it still didn’t work, and he’s feeling his mask of cursed energy start cracking, already reaching out and radiating off of him in waves.

Rovering each globular end of his shaft along your tenderest, mushiest spots, he groans. “This is all your fault- and yours.”

“Wh-whose?” You’re blabbing out stupidly, taking a few seconds to actually follow the King’s line of sight down to where your cunt was greedily trying to gulp him up. Fuck- you’re realizing with a jolt, he was talking to your pussy.

The first time you’re actually letting him lodge both massive, dual lengths inside and it’s driving you wild. Your legs thrash with each sunken inch, needing more– “Oh- mmm– s’too much, Kuna.”

“Too much- too much?” Sukuna mocks, octaves higher in a derisive tone that really doesn’t match yours. Breathes stuttered, tone thick. “I’ll show you too much, fucking brat.”

He was on the verge of losing it.

And all it takes is a singular bat of your eyes - and suddenly you’re no longer sprawled out all prettily on Sukuna’s royal silk sheets. You’re being lifted cleanly into midair- legs dangling, gravity drooping, clinging onto his seven-foot frame and at his completely n’ utter mercy.

Two of his clawed hands creep downwards to grope a good handful of your ass cheeks, grinning as you gasp at the change in positions. “Look what yer doing- do you even hah- realize?”

He’s holding you up like it’s nothing, letting your cute human hands scrape all down his muscular back. Shit, those barely even feel like kitten scratches to him.

“Ngh- o-oh my god, mm– s-so big, Kuna. Feel you so deep-”

“That’s it, easy there-” Sukuna feels the second cursed mouth smeared across his abs drool at the sopping wet squeeeelch your cunt lets off once he’s sinking even deeper. “Filthy fuckin’ pussy- sucking up both.” Letting gravity do its lecherous thing while he’s holding you up without a care in the world- acting as if he wasn’t absolutely shattering at the feeling of you taking both his bulging twin cocks for the first time. “Eeeeeeasy there, girl- s-stay still and take it.”

Holy shit, did you just make Ryomen Sukuna stutter?

Your head snaps up in shock, looking at him with the prettiest teary gaze. “D-did you just-”

“Shut up.” Gasping, fuck- he couldn’t lose face like this. And before you know it, the King’s pushin’ your gaping maw towards his cushy, shuddering pecs.

Letting your mouth slobber a sloppy piling sheen of saliva, two of Sukuna’s arms nestle safely underneath your legs and push you up higher. Rummaging your pussy with a few vulgar strikes that have your pupils circlin’ your eyes-

Determined to fuck you dumb.

“Shut up and take it a-all up to here now.” Your throat bobs with a swallow once the pointed curve of one of his claws draws a horizontal line halfway across your tummy, nearer to your throat than not. “Otherwise your king will be hah- displeased, little human.”

“W-wan’ it all, Kuna–” You’re whining, the doughy heels of your feet latching around his broad waist. He was just so monstrously massive that you’re straining to even cling on, crawling up to caress his neck. “I want both- ngh!”

And it wasn’t just his aching, swabbing girths that were rummaging your insides uncontrollably- with just the slightest reach to the top of his frame, Sukuna’s second mouth is slithering its slimy tongue tip between your inner thighs.

Making sure you feel the rough texture of his tastebuds when he’s swiping it between your teary pussylips and lapping up every inch of you from the outside.

“Shit-” He’s moaning out over the sweaty crown of your head, the arched length of his spine shivering with zaps of electricity. Narrowing his gaze downwards, “Wh-who told you to…”

And he can’t even finish his damn sentence.

Not when you’re rocking your hips back into the dampened gape of his cursed maw, letting Sukuna’s split-ended tongue toy the tiniest lecherous circles over the buttony nub of your clit. Spanking– he swears, “Nghh- and who told you to-”

He couldn’t even control his damn second mouth anymore.

You taste so damn sweet that he can’t help but grow bigger, stretching your slippery walls out to the maximum.

Panting, slouching, ears popping with the pressure of cursed technique so strong that the King of Curses himself is struggling to steady the tremble in his meaty thighs. “Keep those h-hands to yerself, brat, unless you nghhh- want me to-”

You gasp- Sukuna wasn’t just inflating from the protruding end of his double shafts, he was growing taller. More muscular.

Your breath catches in your throat as you watch his jujutsu energy let his true form rip through even more. No longer toning himself down for you, he’s struggling to fight against the powers making him well over eight feet, oh-so-large.

“Y-you have…” You’re muttering, eyes widening as you trace your fingers over the sharp, pointed ends of the horns that’d just grown from his skull.

Horns. He had horns now.

More monster than man.

And Sukuna shivers just as soon as your doughy fingerpads scrape near the base, just as sensitive as if you were tickling his aching cocks. “O-ohhh– you’re ruining me, girl.” Peripherals darkened, trying to reel himself back in. Trying to wield his cursed energy. “You don’t know what you’re haaah- up against. You don’t know if you can even take it.”

Almost pleading- and yet, you’d never step down from that.

It turns out that his horns were where Sukuna was the most intimately sensitive, “But I wan’ that, Kuna—” You’re whining, lower lip jutting with a pout as you grab onto both those long tusking projections.

“O-oh.”

Using it - using him to roll your hips back in swivelling gyrations, bludgeoning the spheroid circumference straight into the gooey depths of your pussy. Slamming n’ slamming the thrashing fringe of his tip into your g-spot.

Growling, “You asked for ngh- this, spoiled brat.” He couldn’t shift back even if he tried, Sukuna throws his head back with a shiver as his frame chisels further.

Now damn nearing nine feet, he’s pushing his deeply barreling lengths into you until your cunts painting the tattoos on his hilts all translucent. “So you’re gonna- fuuuck- take it.”

Sukuna’s second mouth laps up the glittery sploshes of your arousal as you whine, and you can’t help but notice that his canines had grown so sharp. He was so much bigger, stronger, cursed energy stifling you to him until his fat, veiny cock was all you could think about.

“And then-”

“Th-then?”

So utterly dumb with his vicious pace, he’s planting a striking bash dug into the spongy wetness of your cervix that finally - finally - bottoms him out. Gasping, your eyes flap confusedly open at the feeling of something hot…and swollen kissin’ the base of your ass cheeks.

What was…oh, fuck.

“Then…” Grinning toothily, Sukuna watches on as you’re swervin’ your cunt back to feel more more more of his aching knot. A knot— all to plug you up from the inside, fat n’ throbbing. He has to slouch nearly his entire body to whisper in your ear, “-you’re gonna squirt on my knots as thanks, spoiled lil’ human.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - “Next.”

Gojo’s blindfold dangles haphazardly off of your clammy neck as you instantly gape- his rasping baritone sending shivers where it hits the top of your arched back.

Scorching a light breeze down your spine where goosebumps pebble, the strongest lays one hand on the right of your ass cheek and pulls out with a squeeelch! That lewd noise making him twitch, making him gasp–

“Oh…” He’s grumbling out, plump n’ pink mouth sagging into a gaping oh! at the heaps of creamy white cum that dribble from between your pussylips.

It’s making such a mess down his milky upper thighs, a syrupy ringed frothing falling from between your stuffed, driveling cunt. “Next.” Rounded tips of his fingers pushing and pushing it all back in where it belonged. Breath hitching, “Next.”

Fuck- you don’t know where it even began.

One second your husband was off on one of his usual missions, and the next he’s teleporting back and kneeling at your feet to fuck your sweet, sweet pussy. Mouth already watered because of the sheer saccharine scent— “Fuck me.”

Though, that was hours upon hours - rounds upon rounds ago.

He’d begged, and right now he was groaning at the plop! of wetness ringing out from your entrance. A free hand curling just around your gasping throat-

“Look.” Gojo utters, something primal seeping into his tone as he sinks in. “Look.”

He doesn’t even need to tug on your sweaty crown with tendrils of his cursed energy, Gojo’s choking your tender airway upwards. Making your fluttering, lust-filled eyes stare right into the mirror propped up at the end of your bed.

And oh- oh.

The sight that greets you makes your heart race.

Gojo Satoru - but not like you’ve ever known him.

This was the strongest that curses and sorcerers alike feared- half-opened eyes aglow, skin skittering with pale blue lightning, he looked like he’d just crawled from hell just to drag you down with him. And he was ravenous.

The crescent nailmarks curve deeper into your skin, Gojo leaning his own smoky throat closer. “I want you to look at me while I breed you, sweetheart.”

“B-but Toru–” You’re whining, your teary pupils roaming ‘round the surface of the mirror. Catching on the way the unbolted pieces of furniture in your bedroom were floating at the sheer pressure of his jujutsu. “-the- ngh- your power-”

He was so out of control as he slipped just a few inches inside, letting that cute strawberry-pink tip of his get swallowed up by your entrance. You’re clenching and sparks of cursed energy burst–

“Satoru, the bed!”

Oh, the bed.

Gojo was in so deep, losing himself to the soft n’ sweet clench of your cunt so much that even the damn mattress was starting to hover.

At your cute shrilling yells, he’s looking around airily as if in a daze. You’re peering through the half-fogged reflection at the way that his hoarse larynx rips out a tiny, ‘oh’. Immediately snapping his fingers—

“Fuh-fuck!” It wasn’t just the flying furniture that topples - it’s you, too.

Straight onto the soaked silken sheets of your shared bed- or, at least, you would have if it wasn’t for Gojo’s clasped hand trapping your throat. Holding your woozy head up whilst the rest of your hips sticks to the rickety bedsprings, the weight of him - the weight of his cursed technique - too much for you to handle.

“Wh-what did you-” You’re letting out a softly whining gasp at the press of charged atoms near your slick outer pussy.

Suddenly, it just felt like your walls stretched so much wider - yearned for his fat, plundering cock so much more. And Gojo can only look down at the mess he’s made with a dopey grin, “Unlimited void, huh?”

Posing it as a question- he didn’t even realize.

“Didn’t mean to oh- mmm yeah—” Letting the dampened ends of his bangs tickle your neck, he’s rubbin’ his curvy cocktip against the gummy roof of your pussy back and forth back and forth back and forth. Deeper. Harder. “Ooooo– didn’t even mean to hah- do this, my girl.”

Whimpering, your hips buck back greedily in tempo with his once he dips just the tail ends of a free hand past your quivering folds.

Eyes widening, breath stuttered- Gojo can’t help but hold back his ruined whimper and rut. “Oh, s’really unlimited void.” Sending a splosh of sap to hit the sides of your walls and pool at the very bottom of your womb. “Was an accident but…”

It’s so noisy the way you’re dripping with creamy knots of his cum, all down between your thighs. Squeeelch goes your pretty pussy, and he’s finding himself greedily swallowing.

Now he could fit all he wanted into you.

Nodding along as if he was in conversation, “If you ngh- insist, sweetheart.”

“Toru- who are you–”

“Her, duh.”

Rolling his hazy azure eyes- and if Gojo was talking sweetly to your pussy, it sure didn’t mean that he was pounding into you nicely. “Next” Repeating like a mantra. “Next.” Drilling away like he was crazed, like he couldn’t fight back the urge to reach underneath you and push down on the inflation of cum n’ dick outlining your pretty tummy. “Next next- next.”

Your teeth rattles with the splashing swat of each ribbon after ribbon of thin, wiry cum he’s milking out of himself. Dragging the zig-zagging veins of his shaft repeatedly into your gooey orifices until his overworked divot was sputtering out more seed.

He needed this- needed you to be all full to the brim.

Just to feel how wet you were with his icy white sap, Gojo pushes his v-line against your hips until you’re keening. Roughly lining the inside of your sweet spots with a precise glide, he’s feeling the insides of your flooded cunt and smiling. “Mmm– you’re about to cum.”

The Gojo Satoru above you was drooling- whimpering.

Gaze locked. Cock ravaged.

He was fucked out.

And so were you- all it takes is one, two, three accurate hammers against the bulbous orb of your g-spot before you’re hitting your high. Whining drunkenly as you finish off, Gojo lets off a syrupy swing of his length to stir your insides before he himself cums. Dry.

If you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed how the lights were now permanently off, how every glass object in your bedroom shatters. In practically every ward in Tokyo, actually.

And somewhere in Gojo’s out-of-control, powerful senses he’s registering the sudden spike of cursed energy- surely, the alarm bells were going off for every sorcerer in the area.

But ah, he’s the strongest. And the strongest was more focused on you right now.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You jolt when you feel the burning stare of his Six Eyes– Gojo snickers. Pushing you down further to cream himself, reverse cursed technique seeps out of him like a second skin when he hears the faint pop! of joints. “It’s gonna be- hah…a girl.”

Blinking back the stupid circles your dilated eyes were traveling, you’re still twitching with the euphoric remnants of your high. “A-a girl?”

“Mhm.”

It doesn’t matter if it makes him shiver like no other- flickers of blue cursed energy shatter across his muscular body as Gojo plants another slurring thrust on your rummaged pussy. Feeling his fattened tip freeze just where his eyes saw your womb to be- “Let’s make it twins.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Jailhouse Fuck

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The thrice-repeated slamming of Higuruma’s gavel left you hostage to his rudely probin’ cock, locked in your husband’s domain and at his mercy ever since you’d decided it was time to put his work aside for a little…relaxation.

He didn’t even mean to call on his jujustu- but fuck, if it didn’t feel like your pussy was even sweeter when your body’s being pressurized with charged atoms of energy.

“O-oh, please, Hiromi–!” Calls out your hoarse throat, head tumbling back stupidly as you buck your hips on top of his toned ones. It just felt so filthy to be riding Higuruma right then n’ there in his office chair. “It f-feels so good-”

Tugging on the black velvet of his tie, he’s staring up at you through such heady half-lidded eyes. “S’that so?”

And fuck- you’re noticing the way that his courtroom domain seems to only radiate with even more waves of cursed energy. The way that split-ended circle at the end of his lengthy shaft was pouring out dewy sprinkles of precum, flooding your poor insides.

Grunting, Higuruma plants his hand on the side of your ass to hold you still whilst he impales your cunt with a thorough thrust. Dead-on your g-spot- “Bullseye.”

“Mmm– r-right there!”

“Can feel you hah- clenchin’ around me so much, sweet angel.” He’s puffing out as a sigh, circling his hips underneath yours to make his blushing red tip stiiir your insides sensually. “You’re not lasting long.”

Responding with the cutest pout- oh, how it makes his aching balls tighten even more. “Can’t help it–”

And here, in his domain, Higuruma was even stronger.

The coldness of his matching wedding ring sizzles against the clammy side of your hips, manhandling you with a mere fraction of his strength to ride his cock even sloppier.

Higuruma wrestles you up n’ down his veiny shaft like he was trying to milk himself, like he was gliding the pointed end of his dick against your gummy walls with the aim to bruise. “Mhm- oh yes, you can’t ngh- help it, sugar.”

And though he’s nodding his head along n’ agreeing, there’s something dark seeping into Higuruma’s deep tone that makes you falter.

Something he doesn’t have the patience for - something his thoroughly pussydrunken mind can’t even stand right now.

“Ah ah-” With a soft spank near your right ass cheek, he claws down your clammy flesh and makes you slam your hips down. “So…” Stinging with the ridges of his sculptured pelvis, rubbed all raw with his black happy trail. Glancing somewhere over your shoulder, “Do you think she deserves to cum?”

And fuck- fuck, how could you have forgotten that lil’ part of Higuruma’s domain?

You two had a cursed audience - that massive shikigami your husband called ‘Judegman.’ Looming near the edge of the domain and closely watching as he ruined you on his lengthy cock.

Feeling your heart race in embarrassment and something else. “H-Hiro, that’s ngh- fuck, you’re so mean-”

“Now now, don’t make me haaaa- hold you in contempt of the court, angel.” He’s cutting through your babbling mewls, and shit- you catch that dimple near the corner of his lips as Higuruma grins. “We have…exhibit evidence here.”

Once more speeding up his relentless cadence, he’s slamming against that goopy g-spot of yours and instantly making you see stars. Your maw falling open with a few glittered beads of saliva that hit his broad pecs with a splatter!

Both you and the wooden chair sing out in croaky synchronization with each bucking swerve back where he was drilling up into you. Pummeling you with all his long inches, “Please- please let me cum–”

“Behave.”

And he wasn’t just silencing you - Higuruma was reaching for that sexily dangling tie still around his neck. Slipping the soft fabric over your mouth to wrench it cutely shut, he finds himself pulling back with a snicker at how pretty you looked with your whiny mouth all gagged. “Order in the court.”

Toying with the perked outer edge of your clit, he gives you a striking whack there right on time with a particularly harsh probe against your g-spot. “Hmm…I don’t think she deserves to ngh- cum.”

Watching as you muffle out a shriling plea-

He only swats your sensitive nub with a rapid spank, “How about it?” Further dumbifying you with the most lecherous drags of his cock- and despite riding him, it was allll on him now to ruin you. “Think she ngh- deserves it?”

You know the question’s not directed at you, but you’re still nodding. Lurching yourself closer to where grunts were spilling through Higuruma’s mouth after every push of his barreling thrusts.

So hot and soft inside you that- fuck, even he was weak to the way you’re gazing down at him with the most adorably dazed eyes. Occasionally criss-crossing when his plummy tip kisses your favorite spots, “Do you deserve it, angel?”

You were burning. You were being split apart.

And the only thing you can do is give your wailing answer– strangled through the tie and yet still reaching your husband’s ears as a constant ‘yes yes yes yes!’

“S’that sooo–?” Gruffly, Higuruma lifts the edge of his frigid wedding band to glide down the slope of your pussy. Watching as your creamed pussy quivers and gushes. So sinful. So addictive.

And he might be a damn good lawyer- but fuck, was he weak for his wife. And he languidly watches as the golden glint of his ring gets covered in all your translucent slick, “Well-” Looking right in your eyes when he’s bringing it up to his spit-glossed lips to suck. “-the verdict says…”

You barely even hear what his cursed shikigami says - barely even need to know, because in a split-second Higuruma’s face splits with a snarling, feral grin and he bucks.

Smoochin’ your g-spot so hard that it propels you from your edged agony and straight into heaven. Oh- you’d been judged, and you’d been allowed to cum.

And Higuruma was making sure that you’re riding it allll out to your heart’s content-

“Ride me. Use me.” He’s groaning, superhuman reflexes carrying your weight easily to swivel his slimy tip inside n’ drag out peak after peak. The driveling gloss of Higuruma’s precum collects all over your g-spot and makes you feel hot all over, your orgasm making your vision flash.

Toes curling, your mouth unhinges so wide that that rude tie flops straight into your lap.

Lips moving with those next few words of yours before you’re even registering them in your melty mess of a mind. “F-fill me up, please, Hiromi?”

“O-oh.” For perhaps the first time in your marriage, Higuruma opens his mouth and falters. Stoic bass cracking, huffed pants coming out heavy, you feel his domain crackle with a sudden surge of powerful energy– he’s never been more gone. “I don’t have any objection to that, sugar.”

A/N. Heheh first time writing for a four-hundred year old man kinda nervous.

Plagiarism not authorized.

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hsmagazine254 · 2 years ago

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Soundproofing Secrets: Enhancing Your Off-plan Property While Under Construction

Soundproofing Symphony: Elevating Your Off-plan Property Purchasing an off-plan property opens up a world of exciting possibilities, allowing you to customize your future abode to match your dream home vision. One crucial element often overlooked during this phase is soundproofing. Whether you’re a fan of serene quietude or simply wish to shield your space from external disturbances, integrating…

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the-autistic-vulcan · 22 days ago

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So Loud, Yet so Hushed (Thunderbolts x Mute!GN!Reader Headcanons)

Request: For a heacannoncrequet please for Thunderbolts: Being the youngest member who is mute? Really like your stories! - Anonymous

Description: Headcanons on being the youngest member of the Thunderbolts and being mute

a/n: Reader is a Thunderbolt, Reader is mute, except able to express themselves through making noises. Reader isn't a specific age, but we'll say they're between 18 - 21 I've done as much research as I could, so I hope I do this justice!

gif credit: @princesssunderworld, @scorpiovelaryon

You are an assassin, just like the rest of them, so you already ticked the box on that part. But one thing that the team wasn't really made aware of, was your mutism (which we'll say Valentina neglected to let them know that)

They appreciated the quiet, especially Yelena and Ava - they got annoyed with the men bickering over stupid stuff, but liked you were to yourself

Until they realized you were too quiet

You were sat in your room in the tower one evening, Yelena, Ava and Bob went to go crash there just to hang out

Until Bob unceremoniously asked "...hey...you're really quiet...why's that?"

Before Ava could scold him for being insensitive, Yelena stopped her and asked you herself

Hence you wrote on your notes app "I am mute. I cannot speak at all."

They were there to give you full support, and also debrief the others - with varying success

Bucky kind of went into 'parental mode' when he heard the debrief

John was...John. He just patted your shoulder and moved on - but he was going to try

Alexei, being Alexei, despite having a very chequered past, was also willing to try

Yelena likes to sit with you and listen to music together - especially if it's anything rock or metal related. Even if it isn't, she likes to see you swaying or making some sort of happy noise

Bucky likes to spar with you, offering words of encouragement and even trying to ask for criticism from you on his technique. With a little time, you both learn to communicate via signs that he used in the army back in the '40s

Ava and John help you in a more cognitive sense, in that they teach you some skills that maybe you hadn't acquired yet - they figured cooking would help with your communication skills. And when the food is burning, you three just laugh at it all, earning a few huffs of relief from you

Alexei tells you stories of his glory days, even complimenting your style of fight and comparing them to his own. Other times, he offers you a sympathetic shoulder - it's mostly for him to make up for being a bad father, so he'd thought he would try again. But you let him know in your own way that he is doing his best

Now you and Bob are the closest in age and predicament - he struggles just as much as you do - even if you both don't suffer with the same things. In his case, Bob reads with you. He'll take time to try and get to know the types of books you read - and considering he had lost so much time out in the world, he wanted to catch up on the latest books

There are days where not even a sound would leave you - whether due to high levels of stress, a mental health episode or something completely out of your control happened

Bob, Yelena and Ava are the first to notice. Bucky and John take note also, and Alexei just straight up asks you what's going on

You write in your notes app that you're just not up to socialize, no matter how much progress has been made to accommodate you

The good thing is that they understand that feeling, and give you the space you need

If you still want to be around them, you guys just watch a movie together or sit in silence

The Thunderbolts are a strange bunch, nothing in their minds would tell them otherwise

You were basically the little sibling. And they would do anything to make sure you were happy, healthy and safe.

Like, Comment and Reblog! Have an idea? Drop it in my inbox!

#marvel #marvel x reader #yelena belova x reader #ava starr x reader #bucky barnes x reader #alexei shostakov x reader #john walker x reader #bob reynolds x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x reader #bucky barnes #yelena belova #ava starr #bob reynolds #alexei shostakov #john walker

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itsnesss · 10 days ago

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Hi lovely! I was wondering if you could do a lando norris x reader in the Miami gp 24' (based on the dts episode of him) where he is starting to have some self doubt because he is having a hard time beating max in the race so the McLaran team brings reader to talk to lando through the headsets/radio while he's racing and she encourages him to win but also says that other people's opinions about him shouldn't matter to him. And after all he ends up winning the race and reader is the first person lando finds after winning for the first time. Tyy

𝐦𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 | lando norris × fem!reader

summary | lando, full of self-doubt during the 2024 miami gp, hears your voice over the team radio. your words push him to fight harder, he overtakes max and wins his first race

warnings | emotional vulnerability / self-doubt, slight angst, fluff, comfort, intense racing tension

word count | 1.4 k

🖇 more ln4 🖇 f1 masterlist

The Miami sun bore down fiercely on the circuit, illuminating every curve and inch of asphalt. The 2024 Grand Prix had kicked off with full intensity, and you were stationed at McLaren’s control center, watching with your heart in your throat as Lando fought on the track.

From the moment the race began, the battle for victory seemed destined to be a constant duel between him and Max Verstappen, the relentless champion.

But something about Lando worried you. Through the radio communications, you could sense a subtle change in his voice, a small crack that hadn’t been there before. He sounded less sure of himself, as if that spark that had always made him shine on the track was starting to flicker.

"Everything okay out there?" you asked calmly, trying to project confidence.

"I’m... I don’t know, not sure I can do it this time," he replied, a hint of doubt in his voice. "Max is too strong. I don’t know how I’m going to get past him."

You knew Lando was an incredible driver, capable of pure moments of genius. But you also knew that the pressure of facing a rival like Max could make even the strongest start to waver.

"Listen to me, Lando," you said, trying to make your voice both firm and comforting. "You have something Max doesn’t. It’s not just speed or technique. It’s you. Your heart. Your courage. Don’t let anyone’s opinion make you doubt that. You’re not what others say, you’re what you know you’re worth."

There was a moment of silence, then you heard him take a deep breath. You knew your words were reaching him, that they were starting to sink in.

The race continued, and with each lap, the tension rose. Lando seemed to be fighting not only Max, but also that inner voice whispering that maybe he wasn’t enough.

But you were there, on that invisible radio channel, reminding him he wasn’t alone. That someone believed in him someone who knew he could do it.

"Lando, focus on Sector 3. You’ve got pace, you can catch him on the straight. You have DRS."

The engineer’s voice was clear, but deep down, all he wanted was to hear yours again. Amid the heat, the speed, and the pressure, your voice had become his only anchor.

You came back on the comms, on direct order from the team principal. "Lando, listen to me. Breathe. You’ve done this before. You’re more than a stat or a podium. You brought yourself here. No one else."

From inside his cockpit, with his hands clenched on the wheel and his visor fogged from the heat, Lando closed his eyes for a second. Not enough to lose control but enough to let your words reach him.

"Don’t let Max live in your head," you continued, that mix of firmness and tenderness only you knew how to use. "He doesn’t live there. You do. Remember why you started. Remember who you are. Not to beat him... but because you never give up."

And then, something changed.

The next sector was clean, precise. Pure art on wheels. The gap shrank lap by lap. The pit wall erupted with data and strategies, but Lando wasn’t listening to the noise anymore. He was only listening to you.

On lap 54 of 57, he made his move. Aggressive, but smart. He tucked into the slipstream and, coming out of turn 11, he had him: DRS activated, he dove down the inside and

he passed him.

"Let’s go, Lando, you did it!" you shouted over the intercom, forgetting all protocol. You weren’t part of the technical crew, but in that moment, you were everything he needed.

"Thanks to you," he replied, voice breaking, barely audible beneath the helmet. "You have no idea how much I needed that..."

The final laps were the longest of his life. Not because of difficulty but because of restraint. He wanted to scream, cry, see you.

The team buzzed, fans went wild. Final corner. Final breath. Checkered flags.

"P1. Lando Norris. P1."

For the first time in his career, he crossed the line first, not by accident, not by luck. By merit. By fight.

And when the car stopped at the pit line, and he removed his helmet through tears and ragged breaths, he didn’t look for his engineer or his team boss.

He looked for you.

Mechanics surrounded him, applauding, lifting him onto shoulders while camera flashes exploded from all directions. But he barely registered their faces. It was all noise, confusion, and overwhelming celebration.

Until his eyes found you in the crowd.

You were there, headset hanging around your neck, walking quickly toward him, eyes shining with emotion and pride. You didn’t wear a race suit or technical gear, but you were more a part of the team than anyone.

Lando didn’t think. He broke free from the arms congratulating him, from the cameras trying to capture him. He ran to you as if the real finish line was exactly where you stood.

And you moved too because you knew what was coming.

You met halfway, right in front of the pit lane barrier. He wrapped you in an embrace so tight it nearly lifted you off the ground. His body trembled—not from physical effort, but from the emotional release he’d held in for 57 laps.

"You did it..." you whispered, burying your face in his neck, feeling the heat radiating from his race suit.

"No. We did," he replied, his voice cracking. "I couldn’t have without you. Really. Hearing you... saved me."

Slowly, you pulled back, just enough to look him in the eyes. His face was streaked with sweat and tears, still tense from the intensity but his gaze was clear. Free.

"Lando, win or lose, that doesn’t define who you are. People are always going to talk. But I see you. I always have."

He smiled. Not the usual media smile, or the cocky driver one. A real smile. Raw. Completely human.

"I promised myself that if I won… you’d be the first person I’d hug. And look at us. I didn’t let myself down."

He kissed your forehead, and for a second, the world disappeared. No roaring engines. No screaming fans. Just him, you, and the certainty that the day wasn’t about the trophy.

...

Drops of champagne still sparkled in his hair as Lando stepped down from the podium, the trophy in one hand, and that impossible smile still painted across his face. The British anthem still echoed through Miami’s loudspeakers, and you watched from the paddocksurrounded by media, crew, and curious onlookers. Everyone wanted a piece of that moment. His moment.

But not you. You just wanted to be with him. In silence. No cameras. No noise.

After the press conference, the photos with the team, and congratulations from drivers who finally saw him as more than just McLaren’s friendly kid, he slipped away.

He found you next to the hospitality unit, alone, a bottle of water in hand and your headset already packed away. Lando didn’t say a word. He just walked toward you slowly and, once close enough, set the trophy down and pulled you into his arms.

This time, the embrace wasn’t about euphoria. It was about relief. Intimacy. Belonging.

"Can we hide from the world for a while?" he whispered in your ear.

You nodded without a word, taking his hand.

You climbed into one of the team’s private rooms the one he used between sessions. No luxury. Just a couch, a ceiling fan, and soft sunset light filtering through the blinds. He stripped off his race suit down to his waist, leaving only his sweat-soaked black shirt, his neck still red from the heat.

You sat on the couch, and he dropped beside you, resting his head on your lap.

"You know something?" he murmured, eyes tired but joyful. "During that final lap, I wasn’t thinking about Verstappen. Or the trophy. I was thinking about how you’d look at me if I won."

Your fingers began gently combing through his damp hair, lowering his heart rate more than any cooling system ever could. "And how am I looking at you now?"

"Like I’m worth it. Not for winning. Just… for being me."

You smiled, lowering your gaze to meet his. "You’ve always been worth it. The rest is just... the consequence."

He slowly sat up, leaning in. His hands took yours, warm and soft. "Today, I felt like a champion. But with you… I always feel invincible."

And then he kissed you. Not a quick one. Not one stolen between pit stops. A deep kiss, honest, tasting of victory and salt. Of unspoken promises, clearly understood. Of staying together, through every race, every doubt, every lap.

Because the real finish line was never the checkered flag.

It was finding each other at the end.

#🖇️ lando norris #lando norris one shot #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando x reader #lando norris #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x female reader #f1 x you

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girlrotterr · 9 months ago

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— "𝐿𝛦𝛢𝑉𝛦 𝑊𝐼𝑇𝛨𐒆𝑈𝑇 𝛢 𝑇𝑅𝛢𝐶𝛦."

𝑃𝛢𝐼𝑅𝐼𝛮𝐺: artist!ellie x fashion designer!reader

𝘚𝑌𝛮𐒆𝑃𝘚𝐼𝘚: You attend an art exhibition where you unexpectedly lock eyes with your ex-girlfriend, Ellie Williams, whom you haven't seen in years.

𝛢/𝛮: omg?! not me becoming consistent?! heavily inspired by "no one noticed" by the marias!!

The gallery is a cathedral of silence, punctuated only by the soft clicking of heels against the polished hardwood floor and the low murmur of voices echoing from every corner. The walls are a crisp, sterile white, meant to let the art breathe. But tonight, they seem oppressive, closing in on you as the weight of old memories seep through the cracks of time. You’re standing in the midst of it all, surrounded by strangers who admire Ellie’s work like they’re deciphering some abstract language.

But to you, it’s not abstract. It’s painfully familiar.

Your eyes drift over the crowd, catching fragments of conversation—chatter about technique, boldness, meaning—but they wash over you like background noise. Your mind is elsewhere, pinned in the past.

College felt like a lifetime ago.

It was chaotic, with you balancing late nights in the sewing lab, surrounded by mannequins and fabric swatches, while Ellie lived in the art studio, her hands constantly covered in charcoal, paint, or ink. There had been nights when you’d find her sprawled on the floor, sketching out her wildest ideas with frenzied energy, and you’d sit beside her, watching her create worlds you could only dream of.

Back then, you both were consumed by your passions and each other. She’d stay up late to help you finish a garment, sewing alongside you even though she hated it, just so she could be near. And you? You’d sit in on her critiques, quietly fuming when anyone dared to criticize her work, even though she could take it, even though she loved the fight. The memory of her smirk when she’d dismantle an argument from one of her professors—god, it still lingers.

But the fire that had burned so bright between you had also scorched everything in its path.

You remember the late-night arguments, when both of you were too stubborn to apologize, too young to realize that passion wasn’t enough to hold everything together. The breakup wasn’t dramatic—no shouting, no tears. Just a slow unraveling, a quiet drifting apart until one day, it was done. She moved on. You moved on. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

The years that followed had been a blur of fashion internships and city lights. You threw yourself into your work, traveling between studios, pouring every ounce of yourself into fabric, stitching your broken pieces into new designs. You hadn’t heard from her since. Not directly, anyway. You’d seen her name float around in the art world, her work gaining traction, and each time, you’d feel a pang of something you couldn’t quite name. Pride? Regret? A mixture of both.

And now, here you are, in her world once again.

Your gaze is drawn to the painting in front of you—a massive, turbulent landscape of violent brushstrokes and bold colors. The reds are fierce, like anger seething just beneath the surface, and the blues are deep, almost suffocating. It’s raw. Emotional. It feels like her. It feels like you. The two of you, tangled in something you couldn’t quite control. You step closer, your breath catching in your throat as you notice the delicate lines etched into the paint—small, subtle marks hidden beneath the chaos. You know those marks. She used to make them with the tip of her palette knife, carving out tiny details that most people wouldn’t notice unless they really looked.

You’re staring so intently at the painting that you almost miss the moment she walks into view.

Ellie.

The air shifts the second she enters your line of sight, like the whole room inhales in unison. Your heart stumbles over itself, beating out of rhythm, as if trying to catch up with the sudden rush of emotions flooding through you. You haven’t seen her in years, but it’s as though no time has passed at all.

She’s changed, but not in ways that feel unfamiliar. Her hair is still short, though it’s more trimed now, less uneven than you remember. She’s wearing that same damn brown jacket, the one she always wore like a second skin, only now it’s more worn, the creases deeper, the edges frayed. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, revealing the tattoo that winds around her forearm— you remember tracing with your fingers in quiet moments. There’s a confidence to her now, a steadiness that wasn’t there before, like she’s found some kind of peace, even if it’s only partial.

But then there’s her eyes. Still that piercing green, sharp enough to cut through glass, or in this case, through the crowd. You watch as she shifts her weight, one foot tapping lightly on the floor, her posture betraying a flicker of unease as she nods absentmindedly to whoever she’s speaking to. Her hands are deep in her pockets, her thumb worrying the edge of the denim, a sign that she’s restless. She used to do that when she didn’t want to be somewhere—when she was lost in thought, in another world entirely.

You know her. You know her so well that it aches.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible string, her gaze lifts, scans the room, and lands on you.

It’s electric. The second your eyes meet, it’s like the ground shifts beneath you. Time folds in on itself, collapsing the years between you into this one fragile moment. You can see the shock in her expression, the way her brows twitch upward, just barely, before her features settle into something more controlled. But there’s no hiding the way her shoulders stiffen, or the slight parting of her lips like she’s forgotten how to breathe for just a second.

You’re both standing still, two statues carved in the midst of a gallery filled with movement, but you may as well be the only people in the room. Her green eyes are locked on yours, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of something there—something that mirrors the knot of emotions tightening in your chest.

Recognition. Pain. Something unfinished.

You can feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the way your fingers tremble as you drop your gaze for just a second. When you look back up, she’s still watching you, her expression unreadable, a mask of calm that you know too well. But underneath it—god, you know there’s so much more. Years of silence. Years of things unsaid.

She doesn't move. And neither do you.

You both just... stand there, holding onto the fragile tension between you like a thread waiting to snap. The air is heavy with what could be—what might’ve been—what still lingers between you like smoke from a fire that never quite burned out.

It’s your sophomore year, late spring. You remember because the air had that soft, electric warmth that made everything feel alive. You were both sitting on the edge of the campus fountain, surrounded by the sound of splashing water, the soft hum of people passing by, and the occasional flutter of birds overhead. Your fashion projects had been spread out between you—loose sketches and fabric samples fluttering in the light breeze—while Ellie’s hands were smeared with charcoal from a half-finished drawing she couldn’t quite get right.

“I don’t get how you do this,” she had muttered, frowning at one of your illustrations. She held it up to the light, squinting as if that would make the delicate lines make more sense. You had laughed, the sound coming out lighter than you’d intended, mostly because of how seriously she was studying your work. Like it was a puzzle she had to solve.

“It’s just fabric,” you’d teased, leaning closer to her to catch a glimpse of her concentrated expression. “You make art out of nothing but feelings—this should be easy for you.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Art out of feelings, huh? That’s one way to put it.”

You watched her for a second longer, your gaze tracing the familiar curve of her jawline, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the way her hair stuck up no matter how much she tried to tame it. There was a smudge of charcoal on her nose that she hadn’t noticed yet. You found yourself leaning in, almost without thinking, using your thumb to wipe it away. The moment your skin touched hers, her body went still—like you’d pressed pause on her every movement.

Her green eyes flicked to yours, and for the first time since you’d met, there was a shift. Something unspoken passed between you, heavy and undeniable, hanging in the air between your breaths. You were close—closer than you usually were. And you could feel the heat radiating off her skin, mixing with the spring warmth, making the space around you feel almost too small.

Ellie cleared her throat, her gaze dropping to your hand still lingering on her face. “You, uh… you didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

The words came out before you could stop them. And then the silence stretched out, pulling taut as the world around you blurred and fell away. The distant laughter of students, the splashing water of the fountain—it all melted into the background until the only thing you could focus on was the way Ellie was looking at you.

It wasn’t a stare. It was deeper. Like she was seeing you for the first time, really seeing you.

You didn’t move. Neither of you did. Time slowed, and in that moment, every boundary you’d carefully drawn between friendship and something more started to dissolve. You could hear your heart beating in your ears, your chest tight with anticipation, with something you hadn’t let yourself name before now.

Ellie’s breath hitched, so soft you barely noticed. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” she murmured, her voice lower than usual.

“Why not?” Your voice trembled, betraying you.

Her eyes flicked back up to meet yours, and there it was—the thing you’d both been avoiding for months. The truth that had been simmering beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every late-night conversation when the rest of the world was asleep and it was just you and her, tangled up in each other’s lives without even realizing how deep it went.

“Because…” she hesitated, biting her lip as if searching for the right words. Her gaze softened, like she was caught in a struggle between fear and wanting. “Because I wouldn’t know how to stop.”

The air left your lungs in a rush, and before you could second-guess yourself, before the doubts and the what-ifs could pull you back, you leaned in.

The kiss was soft, tentative at first. Her lips brushed against yours, the faintest touch, as if she wasn’t sure you were real. But then—god—then she kissed you harder, her hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you in as though you were the answer to every question she hadn’t known how to ask. Her mouth tasted like spearmint gum and the faintest hint of cigarettes, warm and familiar. You melted into her, your hands gripping the edge of the fountain to keep yourself steady as everything around you spun.

In that kiss, there was no hesitation, no distance. Just the two of you, colliding in a moment that felt like it had been building for a lifetime. Her hands slid up your back, anchoring you to her, and you could feel the slight tremble in her fingers. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because you were kissing Ellie, and the rest of the world could’ve disappeared, and you wouldn’t have cared.

When you finally pulled back, gasping for air, you kept your forehead pressed against hers. The world had snapped back into focus around you—the chatter of campus life, the rustle of the wind in the trees—but it felt distant, muted, like it wasn’t quite real. Not compared to this.

Ellie’s eyes fluttered open, and she looked at you like you were the only thing she could see. Her breath was still shaky, her lips swollen and flushed. She swallowed, hard, and whispered, “I… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t…”

But you silenced her with a gentle smile, brushing a thumb across her cheek.

“You don’t have to explain.”

Because you both knew what it meant. You both knew that nothing would be the same after this, and you were okay with it. Maybe you were scared. Maybe she was too. But in that moment, wrapped up in the heat of the afternoon sun and the lingering taste of her on your lips, none of that mattered.

All that mattered was her.

The sound of your name pulls you back to the present. It’s bright and full of life, cutting through the thick haze of tension like a ray of sunlight. You turn just in time to see Dina pushing her way through the crowd, a grin spreading across her face as she practically bounces in your direction.

She’s the same as ever—sharp, effortlessly cool, with a wild energy that always made you feel like you were part of something big just by being near her. Her dark hair, tied up in a messy bun, hasn’t changed a bit, though there’s a new edge to her style—bold patterns clashing in a way only she could pull off.

Before you can even get a word out, she’s enveloping you in a tight hug, squeezing you so hard that you let out a laugh, the tension in your chest easing a little. She smells like lavender and cedarwood, familiar and grounding, and for a brief moment, the knot of emotions tangled in your stomach loosens.

“Oh my god, it’s been forever!” Dina practically yells, pulling back just enough to look at you, her eyes sparkling with genuine excitement. “I didn’t even know you were coming tonight! How the hell are you? You look amazing!”

You’re caught off guard by her energy, her enthusiasm wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You smile, shaking your head as you try to gather your thoughts. “I—yeah, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? I wasn’t sure I’d even make it, but, you know”

Dina snorts, rolling her eyes playfully. “Yeah, tell me about it. But seriously, I’m so glad you’re here! You—” she gestures at you with both hands, eyes wide as if she’s sizing you up, “—still killing it with the whole fashion thing, right? I saw your last collection! so damn chic! The textures, the layering—ugh, I wanted to steal every piece.”

You laugh, feeling a flush of pride at her words. “Thanks, Dina. I’m still trying to figure out what’s next, but I’m glad you liked it.”

“Liked it? Girl, I loved it.” Dina leans in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I mean, between you and Ellie, the two of you were always the most talented people on campus. It’s wild seeing both of you making it big.”

The mention of Ellie’s name sends a ripple of tension down your spine, and suddenly, the room feels a little too warm again. You glance over Dina’s shoulder, and sure enough, Ellie is still standing there, watching the two of you.

Dina follows your gaze, and when she spots Ellie, her face lights up even more. “Oh, shit, you haven’t seen her yet, have you?” Dina’s voice drops to a mischievous whisper, her grin widening. “This is gonna be good.”

Before you can protest, before you can even think of what to say or how to brace yourself, Dina’s already calling out, “Ellie! Hey! Get over here!”

Your heart skips a beat, your pulse quickening as Ellie’s eyes flicker to Dina. For a second, she looks like she might hesitate, like the distance between the two of you is a bridge she’s not sure she wants to cross. But then, with a slow exhale, she starts moving, weaving through the crowd with that effortless stride of hers—confident, but never cocky.

And just like that, she’s standing in front of you.

Up close, the years between you seem even sharper. You can see the slight changes in her face— the way her lips quirk at one corner like she’s fighting a smile but doesn’t want to give in. Her green eyes, though, are as piercing as ever, and when they lock onto yours, you feel that same jolt of electricity you did back in college, the same spark that never really went out.

For a moment, no one says anything. The air is silent with unspoken words, with the history that hangs between you like a thread waiting to snap.

Ellie’s lips part, and she starts with something simple. “Hey.”

Dina, completely oblivious to the tension, claps her hands together with a grin. “Okay, this is weird for me. Two of my favorite people, standing here after all these years—this is like, full circle, right?”

You manage a small smile, though your throat feels tight. “Yeah. Full circle.”

Ellie shifts her weight, glancing at Dina with a wry smile before her gaze slides back to you. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she says, her voice soft, like she’s trying to keep things light.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Didn’t expect to be here either.”

But the words feel thin, hollow. Because standing this close to her, with the buzz of the gallery around you and the memories swirling like ghosts in the air, it’s impossible to ignore the truth.

This isn’t just a chance encounter. This is something you’ve both been avoiding for too long.

Dina shifts her weight, a perceptive glint in her eye as she surveys the two of you, the tension thick enough to slice through. She opens her mouth as if to say something—maybe to break the silence, to diffuse the moment—but then she pauses, that playful grin still dancing on her lips.

“Okay, you know what?” she says, clapping her hands together once more. “I just remembered I promised Jesse I’d check on him. He’s probably stuck at the snack table, drowning in mini quiches. So, I’ll be right back!”

Before you can even respond, she’s off, weaving through the crowd with that effortless grace of hers, leaving you and Ellie standing there, caught in a moment that feels suspended in time. The sounds of the gallery fade into the background—the murmur of conversations, the soft clinking of glasses—until it’s just the two of you.

The silence stretches.

Ellie shifts her weight again, her fingers fidgeting at her sides. You can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes, a whirlwind of emotions waiting to be unleashed, but the words seem to stick in her throat.

“So, how’s the show been for you?” you finally ask, trying to fill the space, to ease the tightness that’s creeping in. Your voice sounds a bit steadier than you feel.

Ellie’s gaze softens, and for a moment, the corners of her mouth twitch up into a small, genuine smile. “It’s… good. Better than I expected, honestly.” She glances around, taking in the vibrant colors of her artwork, the way the lights catch the brushstrokes, illuminating the stories behind each piece. “It’s kind of surreal to see it all up here.”

You nod, watching her as she talks. There’s a light in her eyes that flickers with passion.

“Your work is incredible, Ellie.”

She meets your gaze again, and there’s a flicker of something deeper in her expression—gratitude with a hint of vulnerability.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “I’ve been trying to push myself more lately.”

Your heart swells with her words, and the warmth of the moment wraps around you like a comforting embrace. But then, as if sensing the shift in the air, the gallery begins to swell with new energy. The crowd thickens, laughter and chatter rising, and the once-intimate space starts to feel almost claustrophobic.

Ellie’s expression changes slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. “I should probably go check in with some of the other guests,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Make sure everything’s okay.”

“Yeah, of course,” you reply, though a part of you aches at the thought of her leaving, of this moment slipping through your fingers like grains of sand.

But before you can say anything else, she steps back, creating a small distance between you. “It was really good to see you,” she says, the words almost swallowed by the hum of the gallery.

You nod, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. “You too, Ellie..”

It was winter. Cold, biting, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. You and Ellie were huddled in her tiny apartment just off campus, the one she’d insisted had “charm” but was really just a glorified box with bad heating. The windows fogged with condensation, and outside, snowflakes drifted lazily down onto the already blanketed streets. Inside, the space was warm and dim, lit by a single lamp in the corner and the flickering glow of a candle Ellie had lit for atmosphere.

But there was no warmth between you that night.

Ellie was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, her hands running through her hair, tugging at it the way she always did when she was frustrated, on the verge of losing control. Her movements were restless, sharp, filled with an energy that seemed like it would combust if she didn’t do something, say something. She wasn’t looking at you—she hadn’t been able to for the past hour. And you, sitting on the edge of her bed, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, could feel the distance between you growing with every step she took.

“I just… I don’t know how to do this anymore,” she muttered, almost to herself, her voice strained, barely holding together. She stopped pacing for a second, pressing her palms to her forehead, her elbows resting on the back of a chair. “I feel like I’m drowning. Every day, it’s like… like I’m waiting for something to go wrong, and I don’t even know what it is, but I can’t breathe.”

Her words hit you like cold water, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You’d been feeling it too, the unraveling, the way everything between you had started to fray at the edges. It wasn’t sudden. It had been slow, creeping in like a shadow you couldn’t outrun. Long nights turned into silent mornings. Conversations that used to be easy, light, now felt like stepping through a minefield. Every fight, every misunderstanding, left scars you hadn’t been able to heal.

But hearing her say it out loud… that made it real.

“Ellie…” Your voice was soft, almost a whisper, like you were afraid of shattering the fragile air between you. “We can fix this. We just need to talk. We always work through things, right?”

She shook her head, her back still turned to you. You could see her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath, as if she was trying to hold it all together. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, more broken. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve been working through things too much, you know? Like, we keep trying to fix it, but it’s not working.”

You felt your chest tighten, your pulse quickening. The coldness of the room started to creep in, the warmth from the candle and the blankets no longer enough to fight it off. You stood up slowly, your legs shaky, and took a tentative step toward her. “Ellie, please—”

She spun around, and the look in her eyes stopped you in your tracks. They were red, bloodshot, like she hadn’t slept in days. And there was something else there—something raw, something you hadn’t seen before. Desperation, maybe. Or fear.

“I don’t want to keep hurting you,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “But that’s all I’ve been doing, isn’t it? Every time we fight, every time I say the wrong thing or don’t say enough… it’s like I’m breaking you apart, piece by piece, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being the one who keeps doing this to you.”

Your throat tightened, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. “You’re not—” you started, but she cut you off, shaking her head again.

“Yes, I am!” Her voice cracked, and suddenly, she wasn’t pacing anymore. She was standing still, facing you, her fists clenched at her sides like she was trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will. “You deserve better than this. Better than… than me.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and final. For a moment, the only sound was the soft hiss of the candle flickering in the corner, the distant rumble of a car passing by outside. You could feel the weight of what she was saying sinking into your skin, settling deep in your bones. She was pulling away, tearing out a piece of herself, a piece of you, and you didn’t know how to stop it.

“Don’t do this,” you whispered, stepping closer, your voice trembling. You reached for her hand, desperate to hold onto something, anything, but she flinched, stepping back just out of reach. “Please, Ellie. We can fix this. We can figure it out, we always do.”

But she was already shaking her head again, her eyes glistening with tears she refused to let fall. “No. I can’t… I can’t keep dragging you down with me. You deserve to be happy, and I don’t think I can give that to you anymore.”

Your heart broke then. It shattered, piece by piece, with every word she spoke. You wanted to scream, to tell her she was wrong, that you could make it work, that love was enough. But deep down, you knew. You’d both been unraveling for months, slipping through each other’s fingers like sand. And no matter how tightly you tried to hold on, it wasn’t enough.

Ellie took a shaky breath, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet, barely audible. “I love you, but I don’t think I’m good for you anymore. And I can’t… I can’t keep pretending like I am.”

You stood there, frozen, as the words echoed in the small space between you. There was nothing left to say. Nothing that could change what was already happening. So, instead, you just nodded, your throat too tight to speak, your heart too heavy to protest.

She watched you for a moment longer, her eyes softening, filled with something that looked like regret, maybe even guilt. Then, without another word, she turned and walked toward the door, leaving you standing there, the candle flickering weakly in the corner.

The sound of the door closing behind her felt like the final nail in the coffin. The room was suddenly too quiet, too cold, too empty.

And you were alone.

The night air cools your skin, but the warmth of the gallery lingers, wrapping around you like a heavy cloak. You take a few steps down the street, trying to steady your breath, trying to shake off the flood of emotions Ellie’s presence stirred up. But as you reach the edge of the block, something pulls you back—an invisible tether, tightening around your heart. You stop, glancing back toward the gallery, the soft glow of the lights spilling out onto the sidewalk, the hum of conversations still echoing in the air.

You’re not ready to leave. Not yet.

With a deep breath, you turn and step back inside, the warmth of the space enveloping you once more. The crowd has shifted, people moving around the artwork like currents in a river, but you’re not drawn to any of them. Instead, you find yourself wandering, letting your feet carry you through the gallery without any clear direction.

The pieces on the walls are beautiful—Ellie’s unmistakable style shines through in every brushstroke, every burst of color. But there’s something else here, something you can’t quite put your finger on. You continue walking, the noise around you dulling to a low murmur as you lose yourself in the art.

And then, you see it.

Tucked away in a corner of the gallery, slightly off the main flow of the exhibition, is a painting that stops you in your tracks. Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, everything else falls away—the crowd, the noise, even the memory of Ellie standing just a few feet from you moments ago.

The painting is large, dominating the wall with its raw, unfiltered intimacy. The colors are rich, deep tones of reds and golds and shadows that dance across the canvas like firelight. And in the center, almost hidden in the interplay of light and dark, are two figures—tangled together, their bodies intertwined in a way that leaves no room for doubt. The lines are soft, delicate, but there’s a fierceness to the way the brushstrokes capture the curve of a back, the arch of a neck, the way two sets of hands grip each other as if holding on for dear life.

It’s you and Ellie.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you take a step closer, your pulse quickening with every detail that comes into focus. The figures are not exact replicas, not perfect portraits, but there’s no mistaking it—the shape of your body, the curve of Ellie’s form. The familiarity in the way your hands touch, the way your legs are tangled together, skin on skin, lost in the moment of sex.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks as the memories flood back. The night in question comes rushing to the surface—one of those endless nights in college, when the world outside had ceased to matter, and all that existed was the space between you and Ellie. The way her breath had felt against your skin, the soft murmur of her voice in your ear, the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in a world of chaos.

It’s all there, captured in the brushstrokes. The vulnerability, the connection, the way you’d both been completely unguarded with each other in a way that had felt terrifying and exhilarating all at once. The memory is so visceral, it’s like being pulled back in time, your body remembering the touch of her hands, the feel of her lips against yours.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, your eyes tracing every detail of the painting. It’s beautiful, in a way that makes your chest ache, but it’s also unmistakably private. This moment was yours—yours and Ellie’s—and seeing it laid bare here, for everyone to see, feels almost too intimate, like a secret exposed.

Your breath hitches as your mind races. Did Ellie mean for this to be here? Was it a message? Or just a piece of her past she needed to exorcise, to let out into the world in the only way she knew how?

You take another step closer, your eyes fixated on the way the light plays off the figures—your figure—highlighting the delicate curve of your waist, the way Ellie’s arm wraps around you, pulling you closer. It’s so raw, so unapologetic, and the emotions it stirs up are almost too much to bear.

You stand there, your heart hammering in your chest, you hear the soft creak of footsteps behind you. You know, without turning around, who it is. Ellie’s presence fills the space before she even speaks, the air between you charged with an intensity that has been building all night.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel her eyes on the painting, then on you, her silence heavy with meaning. She’s watching your reaction, waiting—maybe even bracing—for what you’ll say, for how you’ll respond. You want to say something, anything, but the words seem lodged in your throat.

Finally, Ellie breaks the silence. Her voice is soft, almost hesitant, but there’s a vulnerability to it that makes your chest tighten. “It’s… from a long time ago,” she says, the words almost a whisper. “I didn’t think anyone would see it and know..”

You swallow hard, still unable to tear your eyes away from the painting. “It’s us,” you say, the words barely audible, but Ellie hears them. You can feel her nod behind you, even though she doesn’t say anything.

Another beat of silence stretches between you, the weight of the past pressing down on you both. And then Ellie speaks again, her voice lower now, more grounded. “I didn’t know how else to… capture it. It was the only way I could make sense of everything.”

You finally turn to look at her, and the sight of her standing there, just inches away, sends a fresh wave of emotions crashing over you. Her face is softer now, the hard edges you saw earlier had smoothed away. Just her, standing there, vulnerable and exposed in a way that mirrors the painting on the wall.

For the first time all night, the space between you feels real. Heavy with everything that’s gone unsaid for years.

You open your mouth to speak, but the words are still out of reach. Instead, all you can do is look at her, your chest tight with the weight of everything this painting has stirred up. There’s a part of you that wants to step closer, to reach out and touch her like you used to, to see if the connection that once burned so brightly between you still lingers in the spaces where your skin meets hers.

But for now, all you can do is stand there, your heart pounding in your chest, the memory of that night—of her —playing over and over in your mind like a song you thought you’d forgotten.

Somehow, you ended up here—Ellie’s apartment. You’re not sure how it happened. Maybe it was the tension in the gallery, the weight of the memories between you, or maybe it was Ellie’s quiet, almost tentative offer: “Do you want to come over for a bit?”

Now, the door closes softly behind you, and you find yourself standing in the small entryway of her apartment, the familiar scent of her space—wood, paint, and that faint earthy musk of hers—hitting you all at once. It’s like stepping back into a life you’d long since tried to leave behind, except everything feels slightly off now, like a song that’s being played just a little too slow.

The silence stretches between you, awkward and thick, as Ellie moves past you into the living room. Her apartment is small, but cozy. Messy in the way an artist’s space always is, with scattered paintbrushes, canvases propped up against the walls, and sketchbooks overflowing with half-finished ideas. It’s not much different from the space she had in college, except this time, the mess feels more intentional—like it’s been lived in, not just occupied.

You hover near the door, unsure of where to put your hands, unsure of where to put yourself. The air between you is charged, but not in the electric way it had been back in the gallery.

Ellie clears her throat, scratching the back of her neck as she moves around the space, avoiding your gaze.

“Uh, you can sit if you want,” she says, motioning vaguely toward the worn, comfortable-looking couch that’s pushed against the far wall. “I’ll grab some drinks.”

You nod, grateful for something to do, even if it’s just sitting down. The cushions sag beneath you, and you can’t help but remember the nights you’d spent like this before, curled up together on whatever hand-me-down couch she had at the time, talking for hours, or sometimes not talking at all. Just being.

But this isn’t like before.

Ellie disappears into the kitchen, and you take the opportunity to look around. There’s an easel in the corner with a half-finished painting—a cityscape this time, vibrant with color and movement. The table next to it is cluttered with tubes of paint, brushes, and crumpled pieces of paper with rough sketches. It’s Ellie’s world, laid out in front of you, and yet you feel like a stranger in it now.

The awkwardness creeps up your spine, settling in the pit of your stomach as you wait, the quiet stretching on and on. You can hear Ellie moving in the kitchen—bottles clinking, the soft sound of the fridge opening and closing. It should feel normal, familiar. But it doesn’t.

After what feels like too long, Ellie finally returns, two bottles of beer in hand. She hands you one without a word, her fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. The touch is electric, sending a jolt through you, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Ellie sits on the opposite end of the couch, as far from you as the small space allows. She takes a swig of her beer, her gaze flicking to the window instead of meeting yours, her posture stiff and uncertain. You take a drink, too, trying to focus on the bitter taste of the beer instead of the way the room feels too small, too quiet.

The silence stretches again, awkward and heavy, like neither of you knows how to bridge the gap. The weight of the past hangs between you—unspoken, but impossible to ignore. You’re both dancing around it, unwilling to dive in, yet neither of you knows how to avoid it.

“How long have you been working on the pieces for the show?” you ask, desperate to fill the silence with something, anything.

Ellie shrugs, taking another sip of her beer. “A while. A couple of years, I guess.”

You nod, not really sure what to say.

You can feel her eyes on you—intense and heavy.

“I don’t think I ever forgot how it felt.” she blurts out, her voice low and husky.

You swallow hard, your pulse quickening as the weight of her words hits you. You know exactly what she means. The memory of her hands on your body, the heat of her breath against your skin—it all comes rushing back, sharper now, more immediate.

Ellie leans back against the couch, her legs spreading just slightly as she sets her beer down on the floor with a soft thunk. She’s still watching you, the unspoken desire hanging thick in the air between you. It’s a look you recognize all too well—a look that used to drive you wild, that used to make you ache for her touch in a way that felt almost unbearable.

And now, sitting here in her apartment, that same ache is starting to stir inside you again.

“I know it’s been a long time,” she murmurs, her voice soft, “But I’ve been thinking about you. About us. ”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and you feel your body reacting, your skin prickling with heat as the space between you seems to shrink. You can see the way her chest rises and falls with each slow breath, the tension in her body barely restrained. It’s like she’s holding herself back—just barely—but there’s no mistaking the hunger in her eyes, the way her gaze keeps flicking to your lips, your body, like she’s already imagining what it would feel like to close the distance.

You know you should say something, should acknowledge the fire that’s rapidly spreading between you, but you can’t find the words. All you can do is watch as Ellie shifts closer, her movements slow, her eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m not gonna pretend like I don’t want you,” she says, her voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. There’s no hesitation anymore, no awkwardness, just pure, unfiltered desire. “Because I do. I always have.”

The confession hangs in the air, bold and dangerous, and it takes everything in you not to close the gap between you and her right then and there. Your body is already reacting, your pulse racing, your breath coming faster as the tension between you reaches a fever pitch.

Ellie leans in slightly, her face inches from yours, her lips so close you can feel the heat of her breath against your skin. Her hand moves to your thigh, the touch light but deliberate, her fingers pressing against you in a way that sends a jolt of heat straight through your core. It’s a touch that’s both familiar and new, reigniting the fire that had once burned so brightly between you.

“You remember how good it was, don’t you?” she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice sending shivers down your spine. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Your breath hitches, and you feel your body responding, your skin buzzing with the memory of her touch, the way she used to know exactly how to drive you wild. The pull between you is too strong now, the desire too overwhelming to ignore. You want her—desperately—and you can see the same hunger reflected in her eyes, the way her hand tightens slightly on your thigh, her grip firm.

“Ellie…” you breathe, your voice a whisper, but she hears it. She always hears you.

She moves even closer, her lips brushing against your neck now, the warmth of her breath sending a rush of heat through your body. “Tell me you want this,” she murmurs, her voice rough with desire. “Tell me you want me.”

Your mind is spinning, your heart racing as you feel the full weight of her body leaning into you, her hand sliding further up your thigh, her touch firm. You can barely think straight, the heat between you unbearable now, every nerve in your body on fire as she presses her lips against your neck, soft but insistent.

“I want you..” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. And as soon as they leave your lips, Ellie’s restraint shatters.

In an instant, her lips are on yours, the kiss rough and desperate, all the tension and desire that’s been building between you exploding in a surge of heat. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer as if she can’t get enough of you. The kiss is hungry, wild, like she’s been starving for you for years, and now that she has you again, she’s not going to let go.

Your body reacts instinctively, your hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer as you lose yourself. It’s overwhelming, intoxicating, the intensity of her touch, the way she knows exactly how to make you melt beneath her.

Ellie pulls you onto her lap, her hands gripping your hips, and you can feel the hardness of her body beneath you, the strength in her arms as she holds you close, her lips never leaving yours. It’s rough, raw, and so intensely familiar, like falling back into a rhythm you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

Ellie pulls back just enough to catch her breath, her forehead resting against yours, her breathing ragged, her eyes dark and wild with need. “I need you,” she whimpers.

In a rush, your hands find the hem of ellie’s shirt, pulling it up and over her head. You toss it aside without a second thought, your eyes immediately drawn to her bare torso—her tattoo twisting along her arm, her skin flushed with heat. For a moment, you pause, breathless, as you take her in. She’s gorgeous. Strong and lean, every muscle under her skin defined, her freckles scattered across her chest like stars in the night.

Ellie’s breathing is ragged, her chest rising and falling heavily as she watches you, her lips slightly parted, her eyes burning with want. But she doesn’t say a word. Instead, her hands move to your shirt, tugging it up in one swift motion. You lift your arms, letting her pull it over your head before it, too, is discarded in the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

Her gaze drops immediately, her eyes sweeping over your body.

There’s something in the way she looks at you—something intense,that makes your skin burn under her. Ellie’s hands rest on your bare waist now, her fingers brushing over your skin as she takes you in.

“Ellie…” you breathe, the sound a mixture of a plea and a gasp, urging her to continue.

“Fuck…” she mutters, almost to herself as she leans back slightly to get a better view. Her hands slide up your sides, fingers trailing over the curve of your breasts, the sensation sending a shiver through your entire body. She looks at you like you’re something to be worshipped, her eyes dark with want, her touch slow, as if she’s savoring every second, every inch of you.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Ellie whispers, she’s taking her time now, her hands exploring every inch of your skin, her fingers brushing over your collarbone, tracing the line of your ribs, before they move back up, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasts the raw hunger in her eyes.

You reach for her, your hands roaming over her body, feeling the strength of her shoulders, the hard lines of muscle beneath her skin. Your hands move lower, exploring the soft dip of her waist, the way her body feels beneath your touch—strong, every muscle tensing under your fingers as you stroke her skin. You let your fingers trace the outline of her abs, feeling the way her body responds to your touch, the way her breath hitches every time your hands move lower.

Ellie's hands grip your hips with an sudden urgency, your slick catches against her cunt, the soft, wet friction sending pulses along your clit. You feel her body respond—every muscle tightening, every breath hitching in anticipation.

Ellie's hands grip your hips with an urgency, your slick catches against her cunt, the soft, wet friction making you pulsate. You can feel her body respond—every muscle tightening, every breath hitching in anticipation.

“n-need to feel you,” she gasps, her voice wavering on the edge of breaking, raw and desperate. The intensity in her eyes makes your heart race, an unquenchable thirst that mirrors your own.

You begin to grind against her, your slick meeting her puffy clit, the sensation making you gasp as the friction builds.

“Oh god, please..” you whimper, a moan escaping your lips.

It’s intoxicating, the way your bodies move together, the way every roll of your hips sends ripples of pleasure through both your pussies.

“Fuck,” ellie breathes, her voice low and filled with a mix of need and awe, her eyes locked onto yours as you move together, a slow, delicious rhythm that feels like it’s been waiting for this moment for years.

“Come here,” she begs, pulling you closer, her grip tightening as you continue to grind against her. The slick sound echos in the air, mingling with the soft moans that slip from your lips. Each sound you makes pulls ellie deeper, melody that makes her crave more.

Ellie shifts beneath you, her body arching in a way that allows you to scissor closer. You can see the way her chest rises and falls, each breath heavy. Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, lost in the sensations, and ellie takes the opportunity to lean down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, “You feel so fucking good, baby.”

The sound of her voice makes your pussy pulsate, your eyes snapping open as they lock onto hers. “d-don’t stop,” you breathe, your voice trembling with urgency. “I need m-more.”

“God, you’re s-so fucking good,” she whispers, her voice thick with desire, her gaze locked on yours, as if she’s trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

Ellie’s hands slide down your body, exploring every curve, every contour as she pulls you closer, her fingers digging into your skin, leaving marks that will linger long after this night.

“Ellie...” you breathe, the name falling from your mouth like a prayer. “Please, I need to feel you closer,” you whisper, voice all shaky.

Ellie gives in to the rhythm, moving faster, harder, each thrust sending shudders of pleasure racing through both of you. Your moans come out loud and whiny, mingling with Ellie’s desperate gasps.

“Fuck, yes!” You breathe, your body arching into hers, your hands gripping her arms as she pulls you closer. You can feel the tension building between you, the way your body responds together, every roll of your hips bringing you both closer to cumming.

“Don’t stop!” Ellie lets out a soft cry, her body tensing beneath you as the pleasure washes over her. You feel the way her body responds to yours, and it sends you tumbling over the edge, your own pleasure crashing down, pulling you both into ecstasy.

You collapse against her, breathless and trembling, the world around you fading away as you savor the warmth of her body against yours, the softness of her skin, and the way your bodies still pulse.

You turn your head slightly, your eyes catching a glimpse of the half-finished paintings scattered around her apartment, the abstract strokes, the splashes of color that seem almost chaotic, like her thoughts spilled out onto the canvas. You can’t help but wonder if you’ll be another one of those unfinished things—something she can’t quite complete, something left unresolved, a work in progress that she never intended to finish.

There’s a lump forming in your throat, but you push it down.

You won’t wake up to her. Not tomorrow, not ever. Ellie will go back to her life, and you’ll go back to yours, and this night will fade into the past, becoming another memory, another fragment of what you once had together.

With a quiet sigh, you press a gentle kiss to her shoulder.

1K notes · View notes

natsaffection · 3 months ago

Text

Redline. (Bonus 4) | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha × Younger!Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), 18+! MINORS DNI! Restraints (handcuffs), strap on use, blowjob, oral (n receiving), strap riding

Word count: 3,8k

A/N: That was fun..

You were sitting in a team meeting, eyes blankly fixed on the screen where telemetry charts blinked in rhythmic flashes. Data, stats, numbers, normally you were locked into them. But today, the entire thing washed over you like white noise.

Because you weren’t thinking about tire degradation. Or fuel windows. Or even the race coming up. You were thinking about Natasha. It was just a flash in your mind, but it made your stomach twist with heat and giddiness.

Across the table, Natasha’s brows lifted. “Something funny, detka?”

You flinched like a kid caught daydreaming in class. “N-Nope. Just-uh. Sector times.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed playfully. She knew. Not what you were thinking, but that it wasn’t sector times. Your face flushed. You gave a quick nod, muttered something about needing water, and bolted out of the meeting room, heart pounding.

You took a breath and let it out slowly, willing your skin to cool down. But the image..Natasha beneath you, panting..refused to leave. Then, just ahead near the security booth, you spotted a man you barely knew by name, fiddling with a pair of standard-issue handcuffs.

You slowed, watching him casually twist them around his fingers. Something inside you clicked. Perfect.

With a growing smirk, you approached. “Hi!” you called gently.

The guard nearly dropped the cuffs. “Oh! Uh- Ms. L/n, h-hello!”

You grinned, holding back a laugh at how pink he turned. “No need to panic. I just…saw the cuffs.” You motioned to his hands. “Think I could borrow them for a few days?”

He blinked. “The…The cuffs?”

“Yes..” you nodded, completely casual, though your heart was racing. “Not for, like, arresting people. Just…practice.” You offered a crooked smile that probably didn’t help.

He stared for a beat, then nodded so hard it nearly shook his cap off. “Y-Yeah! Of course! You can totally- uh, here.” He offered them with both hands like you were royalty.

You took them carefully, feeling the cold weight of them in your palms.

“Thanks, really.” you said.

“I know you’re probably busy…but…my kids are a huge fan! C-Could we make a photo?”

“Of course! You gave me your cuffs. Least I can do.” He fumbled his phone out so fast he nearly dropped it, and you leaned in with a bright smile, snapping a quick photo before giving him a quick wave and strolling off, handcuffs tucked in your hoodie pocket, heart pounding.

Now, your room became a workshop. The cuffs lay on the table beside your laptop as you queued up video after video, escape artists, magicians, tactical demos. All of them showing quick, fluid techniques. One-handed flips, snap-click-lock or misdirection.

You practiced until your wrist ached. Pick up from the left. Fake a caress. Flip. Click. Pick up from behind. Loop the wrist. Snap it shut in one smooth motion.

You dropped them at least twenty times. Cursed under your breath just as often. But the vision..Natasha, hands locked above her head, blinking in surprise as you stepped back with a devilish smile, kept you going.

You rehearsed your lines in the mirror, cheeks warm with nerves. Sometimes you had to stop, burying your face in your hands and giggling like a teenager. But each night, you got faster. Smoother. Until you could click both cuffs shut in under three seconds. It had to be fast.. Because Natasha didn’t surrender easily.

Days later, the door slammed shut behind you, laughter and adrenaline still buzzing between kisses. You didn’t even remember how you’d made it from the car to the apartment, just that Natasha’s lips hadn’t left yours once.

Natasha was already pressing your back toward the bed, her hands firm on your waist, guiding you like she always did, in control, composed, knowing exactly where this was going.

But tonight, you had other plans..You crashed onto the mattress in a tangle, mouths locked, breath sharp, bodies already buzzing from the familiar fire between you. Natasha’s hand was sliding under your shirt, her thigh nudging between your legs, her rhythm confident, possessive.

Just like always.

You kissed her harder, then shifted. A quick twist. A practiced motion. Natasha landed with a soft grunt on her back. You moved fast, crawling over her, straddling her hips as your fingers dipped behind the pillow, feeling the cool bite of metal.

Natasha didn’t even blink, her hands tugging at your shirt now, eyes hooded. “Mmm, taking charge tonight?” she teased, voice dark velvet.

“Something like that..” you murmured, leaning down to kiss her again, slow this time, deep and purposeful. And as she reached up to cup your jaw..click.

You pulled back. One of Natasha’s wrists was now bound to the bedframe. There was a second of stunned silence. Natasha blinked. Looked up. A flash of confusion, a flicker of surprise, then amusement blooming like wildfire across her face.

You sat back on your thighs, grinning ear to ear, eyes sparkling like a kid who just pulled off the prank of the century.

“Oh my God..” you whispered, practically vibrating. “It actually worked!!”

Natasha laughed softly, raising a brow. “You planned this?”

You nodded, still catching your breath. “For days. Like..full-blown practicing. On myself. On a chair. I made your security guy give me the cuffs.”

“Wait- Mark gave you his cuffs?”

“He was so flustered he didn’t even ask why..” you laughed. “I gave him a selfie to say thanks.”

Natasha just shook her head in disbelief, still half-laughing. Her free hand was resting on your thigh now, her touch light but warm. “You little thief.”

For a moment, Natasha simply stared at you. And then, she raised her free hand and snapped her fingers.

“Key.”

You reached into your pocket, took the small key between your fingers, and flicked it, sailing it across the room, where it landed somewhere.

Natasha’s brow shot up. “…You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Natasha laughed, a low, dangerous, almost impressed sound. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that..”

She gave the cuff another pull, testing it. Realizing it wasn’t going to budge. Her muscles flexed under you, strong and coiled, and her eyes locked on yours, sharp and unreadable. “You sure you know what you’re doing? You think you can handle me like this?”

You leaned in, lips brushing her ear as you whispered, “I don’t think I can. I know I will.”

Natasha exhaled through her nose, eyes dark with challenge now. “You better make it worth it, sweetheart. Because when I get out of these…” Her free hand trailed slowly down your thigh, grip firm. “You’ll be begging.”

You grinned, hips shifting just right as you settled in. “Guess.. I better make you beg first.”

Natasha leaned back into the pillow, watching you with a predator’s patience. One wrist still cuffed to the bed, the other resting lazily on her stomach like this was just another game she’d already won. But her eyes… they tracked every movement, sharp and focused.

Your hands moved slowly, purposefully, as you started to peel away Natasha’s clothes. Every inch of exposed skin earned you a lingering look, that trademark Romanoff smirk never fading.

“Careful, malysh (baby),” Natasha drawled, voice low and thick with heat. “You undress me like that, and I might think you’re trying to seduce me.”

You just smiled, sweet, smug, and pushed Natasha’s pants down past her hips.

And paused.

Your eyes widened for just a second, a breath catching in your throat as you realized what Natasha was already wearing beneath.

A harness. Strap in place., ready and waiting. “Wha-” you blinked, somewhere between stunned and amused. “You were…you had this on?”

Natasha chuckled, low and dangerous. “You’re not the only one who had plans tonight.”

You looked up, eyes glinting. Natasha tilted her head, smirking like a cat who’d let the mouse think it had a chance. “You want it?” she teased, flexing her hips slightly. “Unlock me. And maybe I’ll let you ride it properly.”

But you didn’t move for the cuffs. Instead, you shifted, lowering yourself between Natasha’s thighs, your mouth now dangerously close to the toy. Your fingers slid over the harness, gaze locked onto hers.

“I’ll use it just fine, thank you..” you murmured and then you wrapped your lips around the tip.

Natasha’s smirk faltered. Her mouth parted, eyes going a little wider as she watched you suck slowly, deliberately, dragging your tongue along the underside like you meant to break her. Her free hand clenched the sheets.

“God..” Natasha breathed, hips shifting instinctively.

You glanced up at her, teasing, and went deeper, taking more of the strap into your mouth, slow, wet sounds filling the room. You hollowed your cheeks, working it like you were showing off, like you knew exactly how much it was affecting her.

And Natasha was affected. Badly. She tugged on the cuff again, harder this time. The chain clinked against the bedframe. “You-” she gasped, a small laugh breaking through her curse. “You little brat…”

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice smug and sweet against the toy. “Still think I can’t handle it?”

Natasha swallowed hard, chest rising and falling with growing tension. “You’re so in trouble when I get out of these..”

You just grinned, lips brushing the base of the strap as you whispered, “Then maybe I’ll keep you there a while longer.”

And without another word, you took the whole thing in, deep, slow, confident, watching Natasha struggle. She was staring down at you, breathing heavier now, eyes slightly glazed, like she couldn’t decide whether to smirk or moan.

“You look so cute like this..” you murmured, voice low. Your fingers trailed slowly over Natasha’s hips as you moved down again,

Natasha’s free hand curled into the sheets. “You’re proud of yourself, huh?” she rasped, voice rough with tension.

You didn’t answer. You just settled between her thighs, nudging them wider. Your hands slid up, palms smooth against soft skin, and then..Your tongue met her core.

The reaction was instant. Natasha tensed, hips twitching off the bed, a soft gasp escaping before she could stop it. She grit her teeth, chest rising sharply, her arm pulling against the cuff again.

You smiled into her. You started slow, using your tongue with purpose, teasing circles and flicks that made her thighs tremble.

Natasha exhaled harshly through her nose, trying to stay quiet, trying to keep her body still. She bit her bottom lip, eyes locked on the ceiling, muscles taut like a wire about to snap.

But then..You found that spot. You pressed your tongue there, slow and firm, then sucked, just once, deep and focused.

Natasha bucked. “F-Fuck—!” The curse burst from her mouth, sharp and unfiltered. Her head snapped back, eyes fluttering shut as her body jerked. She yanked hard against the cuff, her free hand flying to the headboard like she could tear the whole damn thing apart.

You moaned softly at the reaction, proud and fueled by it. You pulled back just enough to whisper, breath hot against her core, “You love this.”

Natasha panted, teeth clenched. “Y/n, Fuck you.”

You laughed, low and dangerous. “Maybe later..”

And then you dove back in, tongue working faster, deeper, mouth devouring her like you wanted to leave her breathless and wrecked. Every twitch, every shaky breath, every curse spilling from her lips only pushed you further.

She tried to hold back, tried to keep the illusion of control, but it was slipping.. You could feel the tension coiling beneath her skin like a live wire. Her thighs trembled with every flick of your tongue, and her breath came in ragged bursts, sharp, guttural, completely unguarded.

But she still hadn’t said the word. Not the one you wanted to hear. You smirked against her, dragging your tongue in slow, lazy strokes, circling her clit without pressure, just enough to make her need it, not enough to let her fall. You flattened your tongue and licked her again, then pulled away entirely, letting your breath ghost over her skin.

She cursed under her breath, hips jerking up, chasing the contact. “Oh? That close already?” you purred, kissing her inner thigh. “And you haven’t even told me what you want..”

You looked up through your lashes. Natasha’s eyes were dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. She was beautiful. Ruined. Desperate. But still clinging to her pride.

“Hah…” she exhaled through her teeth, free hand gripping the sheets hard. “You think this is new to me, baby? You think I haven’t been edged before?”

You laughed softly. “Yeah, but not by me..Common Nat..”

Then you leaned back in and sucked her clit, deep and wet, just for a second. Natasha cried out, still not a single word, not a plea, just a raw, broken sound. Her hips bucked hard, her body chasing every inch of pressure like it was the only thing grounding her.

You pulled back again. “You gonna ask for it?” you whispered, licking your lips.

Natasha shook her head, breathing hard. “No fucking way.”

You raised a brow. “You sound like you’re about to lose your mind.”

“Y/n.” she hissed.

You kissed the inside of her thigh again, dragged your nails lightly down her skin, then dipped your head once more, letting your tongue work with new intensity, hard, fast, deep.

And she lost it. She rolled her hips, chasing every flick of your tongue. Her head slammed back against the pillow, one arm still restrained, the other clenched in the sheets so tight it might rip them apart.

Still..no begging. Just gasps, groans and curses. You pressed your tongue flat again, relentless, never breaking rhythm. You knew she was there, right there, teetering, and you didn’t plan to let her fall until she was exactly where you wanted her.

“You’re shaking..” you whispered, licking slowly up again. “Please Natasha..let me hear it..”

Natasha grit her teeth, eyes fluttering shut. “I swear t-to god…”

You smiled. “Still not?”

Her only answer was a strangled moan that sounded almost like a yes. And you accepted it.. So you went all in, tongue deep, rhythm perfect, sucking and circling and dragging her right into release.

She screamed..a raw, guttural sound, hips jerking, body writhing, orgasm ripping through her. Her hand pulled at the cuff like she could tear the bed apart, thighs clamped around your head as wave after wave hit her.

Still, no: “please.” Just wild, shattered moans. You didn’t stop until she collapsed, chest heaving, eyes blown wide with aftershock.

Then you crawled up her body, kissed the corner of her mouth, and whispered, “That was better than begging.”

Natasha lay there chest rising and falling, one arm bound, the other limp on the sheets, knuckles white from how hard she’d gripped them. A slow smirk crept across her face, heavy-lidded eyes meeting yours as you leaned up slightly.

“Huh..” she breathed, voice rough and low, “you really went for it..I can’t believe it..” She whispered while brushing a bit of sweat from her forehead.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, flushed and proud, crawling back up her body.

“You did good..” Natasha added, a cocky gleam in her eye despite how wrecked she looked. “I’ll give you that.”

You smiled sweetly…Too sweet. “Thanks.” you said simply, brushing a kiss to her cheek.

Natasha let her eyes fall shut for a moment, until she felt movement. Her eyes fluttered open again…and froze.

You were straddling her again. But this time? You weren’t going down to tease. You were going up.

Natasha’s breath caught as you positioned yourself over the strap still strapped to her hips, slick, already aching. Your hands rested on her stomach for balance, your expression calm…but your eyes burned with intent.

“Wait-” Natasha said, a slow smirk forming. “You’re not-”

You didn’t answer. You just started to lower yourself. Natasha’s pupils snapped wide.

“Y/n-” she grunted, jerking at the cuff instinctively, the chain clanging against the headboard with a force that made your head snap around.

You blinked. That was a strong pull. For a second, your eyes flicked up toward the frame, half-worried the metal might actually snap.

Natasha noticed. Her smirk turned lethal. “Oh?” she purred, voice dripping with danger. “You’re nervous now?”

You looked back at her slowly, a little breathless…but still smiling. “N-No.”

You lowered yourself further. The strap pushed inside you, slick and easy, but thick enough to make you gasp. Your fingers tightened on Natasha’s stomach.

Her jaw tensed, her arm flexing again. You exhaled slowly, rolling your hips downward inch by inch. You took it all the way in.

Seated flush against her. And Natasha groaned loud, helpless, her head falling back against the pillow as her hips instinctively tried to thrust, but had nowhere to go. All she could do was feel it.

“Jesus..” she choked out. “You’re- fuck, you’re soaked..”

You ground your hips in a slow circle, the pressure hitting just right. “I wonder why..”

You straightened again, hands sliding up your own body, down your thighs as you began to ride harder, deeper..slow, grinding, working yourself against the strap like you owned it. Like you owned her.

Natasha cursed under her breath, head tossing against the pillow. Her hips tried to follow, to thrust up, but with one hand chained and you in complete control, she couldn’t do anything but take it.

“Y/n..” she gasped. “You’re gonna make- feel so—!”

Another roll of your hips cut her off. Another deep, wet sound as you slid back down. Natasha’s eyes snapped shut, her chest arching, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt. “I can’t-” she hissed.

You slowed again, pulling back until only the tip remained inside you, teasing the edge. Natasha whimpered..whimpered! And it wasn’t even intentional. You leaned down, your breath brushing over her mouth. “Can’t what, Natty?”

Her eyes fluttered open, dark, desperate, wrecked. She didn’t say the word..She couldn’t. But her eyes were begging. And you saw it.

You kissed her hard, biting, dominant, then sat back up, thighs trembling now from the slow burn as you dropped back down onto the strap, deep and hard, a slick sound filling the space between your bodies.

Natasha moaned, long, loud, involuntary. Her hand pulled at the cuff again, the chain rattling violently. “Y/n! G-God!!” Her voice was wrecked now, breathless, right on the edge. “You’re gonna- drive me fucking insane..”

You grinned, riding with perfect rhythm now, grinding deep against her, back arching as you let yourself chase the high. “That’s the plan.”

And Natasha? Helpless. Breathless. Drenched. Her mind slipping between pleasure and surrender, just barely holding onto that last thread of control.

She was breaking. Every inch of her body was flushed, trembling beneath you, breath ragged, voice reduced to raw, gasping moans. Her cuffed hand was bruised from how hard she’d pulled, and the other, finally reached up, grabbing at your waist, your side, anything she could touch.

“I need to-” Natasha groaned, fingers digging in. “Let me- fuck, I need—”

Your eyes widened slightly at the strength in her grip. Even in this state, she could flip you if she wanted.

But not this time. You grabbed her wrist with both hands, firm, focused, and pushed it back down to the bed.

“No touching..” you whispered, voice trembling with lust. “You don’t get to take tonight, Nat..”

Natasha let out a frustrated, wild noise, somewhere between a growl and a moan. “You’re.. gonna kill me..”

You leaned down, panting into her ear, hips slamming down hard onto the strap. You locked eyes with her, hands pinning her down, both arms restrained, one by cold metal, the other by your strength and sheer desire.

And then..You rode her. No more teasing. No more games. Just fast, filthy, relentless rhythm. Wetness coating everything. The sound of skin on skin filling the room. Your hips slammed down again and again, the strap hitting deep, you grinding hard against it with every bounce, every drop.

Natasha was gone. Her head tossed, mouth wide open, moans choked and broken. Her thighs flexed, her whole body trembling, helpless beneath you.

“Y/n- fuck- I’m..!” And she came.

Harder than before..louder, rawer, her voice breaking on your name. Her hips jolted, back arching off the bed, trembling uncontrollably.

And still..you didn’t stop. You chased your own release, using her body as your anchor. You moaned, breath hitching, the sight of her flushed and ruined pushing you over.

“Fuck..” you gasped, thighs shaking. “I’m gonna..Natasha—oh my G-God!”

You came with a cry, slamming down one last time, your body locking up as the orgasm ripped through you. Your nails dug into her wrists, your whole body trembling as you collapsed forward, grinding softly through the aftershocks.

And when you finally pulled away, the angle shifted. And the tip dragged just right against her again.

“Y-Y/n!” she gasped, body jolting. Her head dropped back, eyes squeezing shut as a choked moan escaped her throat.

You froze, wide-eyed. “s-sorry, I didn’t-”

Natasha let out a breathless laugh, arm flopping over her face. “Careful…” she groaned, voice shaking.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “Didn’t think that would still hit…”

Natasha peeked at you from under her arm, eyes glassy, lips parted, utterly wrecked. “It hit.”

You chuckled, spotted the key in the corner of the room, and carefully climbed off her. Your hands were still shaking as you picked it up.

When you turned back, Natasha was watching you. Flat on her back, one arm still cuffed, eyes half-lidded but focused now. That smirk from earlier? Gone. Replaced by something unreadable.

You chewed your bottom lip, key tight in your fingers. “You have to promise..” you said softly.

Natasha tilted her head. “Promise what?”

“That you won’t…” you hesitated, glancing at her body, then back up. “Flip this. Take over. The moment I let you go.”

She raised a brow, eyes gleaming. She said nothing. You narrowed your eyes. “Nat.”

Still nothing. Just that faint smile growing. You stepped back. “I’m not unlocking you.”

That earned a low laugh. “You’re bluffing..”

You didn’t move. And this time…she realized you weren’t. She let out a slow breath. “Fine.”

You waited. “I promise.” she said finally, voice low and warm. “I won’t do anything…without your permission.”

You searched her eyes for a long second. Then, slowly, you moved forward. You climbed onto the bed, into her space, and carefully slid the key into the lock.

With a soft click, the cuff popped open. A second passed. Maybe two- She moved like lightning. Flipping you beneath her in one fluid motion, your wrists immediately caught and pinned above your head.

You gasped, eyes wide. “Y-You promised!”

Natasha leaned down, nose brushing yours, eyes dark with heat.

“I did.” she whispered. “And I’m keeping it.” She didn’t move further. Didn’t dominate. Just held you there. Breathing the same air.

You blinked up at her, stunned. And then she kissed you. When she pulled back, her voice was barely a murmur. “Thank you for tonight.”

You swallowed. “You’re not mad?”

Natasha smiled, brushing her nose against yours. “Are you kidding? I’ve never been more turned on.”

Her grip softened. Her forehead rested gently against yours.

“But next time…” she whispered, lips brushing your ear, “You better run after you unlock me.”

You laughed, heart pounding. “Deal.”

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha smut #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanov

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asxgard · 2 months ago

Text

Semper Fi | [6/8]

Dr. Jack Abbot x f!doctor!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You deal with the aftermath of the shooting and you take the next step with Jack.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: I love them a lot…I’m sad we’re getting closer to the end.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: age gap, therapy, feelings, foul language, afab!reader, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, oral (f! & m! receiving), mild dirty talk, mild praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, baby, honey)

not beta read

Jack recommended therapy in the aftermath of the college shooting — seeing that something had shifted in you. Just barely, but enough that he had taken notice. Despite not being present for the shooting, you still subtly flinched at loud noises whenever the two of you were out together. He picked up on the way you had begun to watch the ambulance doors in more than just simple anticipation.

You seemed more restless, too, prone to the occasional nightmare that had you staying at Jack’s apartment a lot more frequently.

While you knew there was a stigma, you still ended up searching for a therapist. You always wanted to be the best doctor you could be, never wanting to bring your personal baggage through the door because it was affecting putting your best foot forward.

Dr. Nelson was pleasant and easy to talk to. She had been recommended by Kiara, the day shift social worker, when you arrived early enough to sneak a conversation with her about it. Her office was only a few miles from the hospital, and she did Zoom appointments when that was easier for you.

You had compartmentalized well enough from your early med school days that there were no groundbreaking revelations to be had — just quiet understanding and a lighter feeling in your chest. Dr. Nelson started with Dr. Tate, though you ended up keeping him nameless, more so for your own peace of mind.

It seemed like your feeling of helplessness was apparent with both your old hospital and the recent shooting. Dr. Nelson helped talk you through techniques about regaining control where you could, something that usually always helped you, and letting go of it in a healthy way, and not feeling lost without it.

Easier said than done, but you were working on it.

While the nightmares eased, nights at Jack’s did not. The nights were cozy and the moments unmistakably yours. The mornings after shift were easy, usually ending with you both tangled in Jack’s sheets after he shut the blackout curtains, sleep finding you not long after.

Humming softly to yourself, you scrambled some eggs in a pan, hair still slightly wet from your shower. One of Jack’s old military t-shirts hung loosely on your frame, sleeves slightly frayed from overuse, just barely covering your ass. You still loved it, wearing his things — it smelled like him and it was soft on your skin.

You felt his eyes on you, sitting at the kitchen island. You turned your head to smile at him, mildly sleepy from your shift, but completely relaxed. It was easy to enjoy the quiet with him, the silence of the morning before you both turned in to go to bed.

“I love you.”

You nearly dropped the spatula, looking at him with wide eyes. He had said it like he had mentioned the sky being blue, a casual state of a fact — and with unmistakably certainty and care.

The feeling had been lingering in your chest for some time, and it swelled every time you met his gaze, a thousand things being said without any words. That warmth creeped up from your chest to your throat, emotion pulling tight while your heart soared. Your eyes quickly grew glassy and you took several steps closer to him.

“I love you, too, Jack.”

A large grin overtook his features, and he was out of his seat and in your arms within seconds. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held onto him tightly, smiling wide against his neck.

Wrapping his arms around your hips, he lifted you up and you let out a quiet gasp. You felt him move toward the stove and turn off the burner. You instinctively brought your legs up and around his waist, trying not to fall.

His lips found yours with practiced ease, and he hummed, slipping a tongue into your mouth. You let him devour you, one hand moving to his curls and tugging gently.

You were on the bed in the next moment, a breath of air escaping your lungs. You stared up at him while he undid his scrub bottoms. His intense gaze on you made heat pool low, making your pussy throb.

He discarded his shirt, but you were not able to admire him long before he was kissing up your leg, lingering on your thighs. He trailed his tongue up, closing in on where you wanted him most, but he diverted to kiss along your hip. His hand moved up your torso, pushing up his t-shirt to expose you fully to him.

You whined, hands fisting the bedsheets. You tried to convince yourself he might have mercy on you.

“Jack.”

“I ain’t in a rush, sweetheart.” He told you, tone husky, “Say it again.”

He planted an open mouthed kiss where your leg met your pelvis and your head felt empty of thoughts. You had enough sense to give him what he was after, “I love you, Jack.”

The vibration his hum sent through your body was cruel, and you reached for him. His shoulders, his hair, anything. You needed to pull him back to you, meet his lips and anchor you — otherwise, you feared you might float away on a cloud of pure ecstasy. His hot breath fanned over your panties, making you shiver.

“Again.”

Fuck, this man was going to be the death of you.

“I love you.”

He pulled your panties down tantalizingly slow. You met his eyes, and the heat in his eyes sent a pulse down making you try to squeeze your thighs together.

He placed a hand right above your knee and kept your legs from closing, “Don’t think so, sweetheart. Look how pretty you are.”

“Please.” You begged. For his hands. His mouth, His cock. Anything.

“Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart.”

You groaned, cheeks heating as arousal pooled, hot and pulsing, in your core. You swallowed thickly, “Please, I want your mouth.”

A wolfish grin overtook his features, and he hummed. He kissed your hip again, “Here?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. You let out a long breath before looking at him again. “Eat me out, Jack, please.”

He obliged, his mouth finally meeting your wet heat, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit. You jolted at the sensation, hands gripping the sheets again, as a low moan escaped your throat.

He licked, sucked, and treasured your pussy more than any man ever had in the past — and the feeling was making your thoughts grow hazy. You closed your eyes and tried to keep from squirming underneath him.

His mouth was gone, and you felt a rush of cold air from where his saliva was.

“Need those eyes on me, honey, otherwise I’m gonna stop.”

Something hot twisted in your stomach, and you looked down at him. His hands squeezed your thighs and pulled you down to meet his mouth. His eyes held steady on you, and fire licked up your core, burning every nerve in their wake.

You moaned his name and resisted the urge to throw your head back.

There was a low groan from Jack, and the vibration made you roll your eyes back, before you blinked them back open to look at him. His eyes were intense, and they nearly made you feel self conscious, if it wasn’t for the way they also were incredibly tender.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, sweetheart, never gonna get enough of you.”

Your hips moved just enough to search for his mouth again, and Jack moved back down to lick expertly on your clit. The coil wound tight in your core, and heat flushed through you. You spent so much time trying to focus on his hazel eyes that your orgasm came in a rush, without any warning.

You cried out, heat burning through your bloodstream. Jack’s mouth followed you as you squirmed, your release rocking through you. His tongue kept at it, until it bordered close to pain and overstimulation.

“Fuck, fuck, Jack—” you lightly pushed at his head, hoping he might catch the hint.

He gave a kiss to your clit, before discarding his boxers. He crawled up your body, leaving wet kisses up your abdomen. You moved to start taking off his shirt.

“No, let make love to you in it.”

The words went straight to your pussy, and you clenched around nothing. Make love. Jack didn’t seem the sort, but you were completely enthralled in finding out how he would make love to you. While you weren’t always rough with each other, he was not always exactly tender with you.

The kiss was wet and messy, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, gripping onto his shoulders to try to ground yourself.

Jack was quick to put on the condom, and push against your entrance. You kept your eyes on his, spreading your legs wide to accommodate him. He pushed in slowly, allowing you only a few moments to adjust before he was thrusting back out. It burned slightly as he stretched you, and you let out a high-pitched whine. He gripped your thigh tightly, kneading at your flesh.

“Doing so good.” He kissed along your jaw.

You wrapped your legs around him, and he leaned down to capture your lips. His tongue won easily, and you followed his lead, hands tangling in his hair. He groaned low in his throat and you pulsed at the sound.

“You take me so well, honey, look at that.” He was glancing down at where your bodies met, his cock driving in and out of you.

Tears gathered in your eyes — either from the intensity, the pleasure building, or the feelings you had for him. Perhaps even all three.

“You feel so good—fuck—love being so full of you.” You whispered, lips parted.

He laid so he was completely flush against you and you squeezed him tighter with your legs around his hips.

“Yeah? I’ve got you.” His breath was in your ear, kissing the shell of your ear before he was looking at you again. “You’re so beautiful.”

The pace he set was languid, stopping occasionally while he was nestled deep inside you to savor it. He kept brushing against the spongy spot inside you and the coil was back, deep in your abdomen, heat working its way outwards.

He moaned out your name, and delved exactly how he felt in the passionate kiss, and you accepted it all greedily. You drank it in, fingers tightening on his back until you were sure there would be indents from your nails on his skin. As that familiar wave approached, you felt completely drunk off him.

His pelvic bone kept brushing against your swollen clit, and the coil tightened. Your breathing came in shallow pants, kissing along Jack’s shoulder and throat. The feeling was growing to be too much and you whimpered.

“Jack—I—I—”

He hushed you, “I know, honey. Come on, be good and come on my cock, yeah? Know you want to.”

Your second release kept growing until you were sure there was nowhere else for it to go. It was too much, heat exploding through your core as you teetered over the edge. All the while, Jack was looking deeply into your eyes, unable to tear himself away.

“Let me see.” He encouraged, kissing open mouthed up your neck until he was staring down at you. “You look so beautiful when you come on my cock.”

You shattered around his cock, and cried out his name. Your eyes shut quickly before you opened them wide, back arching off the bed, pussy fluttering around him. White hot euphoria exploded across your vision, the intensity making you feel completely incoherent.

Jack fucked you through your orgasm while he was hurtling toward his own, eyebrows drawn in.

“Fuck, Jack, I love you so much.”

His groan was loud and obscene, his next thrusts fast and hard, rocking through your body.

His heart thundered in his chest as you moved your hands over the plains of his body. He kissed along your hairline before kissing you deeply. You kept your legs wrapped securely around him.

“Let me savor this just a bit longer.”

Jack nodded, burying his face in your neck, catching his breath. You wrapped your arms around him and closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. The room smelled like sex, but your thoughts swam at the warm smell of him.

Shifting slightly to look at you, he offered a small smile, whispering softly, “I love you.”

You grinned.

The cold eggs afterwards were the best meal you had had in years.

—

It was magnetic, the way Jack’s eyes were always able to find you, even in all the chaos of the Pitt. It felt instinctive now and just flat out undeniable to anyone in the ED to know how he felt.

While your ray of sunshine demeanor did not disappear, it had dimmed for a time — as you took a more reserved approach to your patients. He was glad to see you brightening again, the smile you carried was nearly infectious. Jack had no care for satisfaction scores, but it was not hard to know you had the best scores out of all of them.

It was no wonder why day shift was fighting to have you — but Jack protested at every turn, going toe-to-toe with Robby whenever he brought it up.

“Gloria’s on my ass. We need reinforcements and she’d be perfect.”

The tiniest frown pulled at Jack’s mouth, though his stony expression didn’t waver. “Need her on nights, man. Sorry.”

“That the only reason?” Robby’s eyebrow quirked upward, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Yup. I know we’re both short staffed, but you’ve got more hands than I do. You’ve been managing just fine. Can’t afford to lose her.”

“Not just because you’re dating?”

Jack attempted to look nonchalant, glancing up at the board with his arms crossed. “Nope.”

Robby let out a huff of air, “Alright, I’ll keep her on the schedule for nights. Can’t promise Gloria won’t march down here one of these days…dayshift might be more appealing.”

Jack shrugged simply, “So you keep saying.”

Robby chuckled before departing for the night. Jack let out a long sigh, eyes finding you easily as you approached the charge desk.

“That seemed serious.” You said, grabbing a tablet.

“They’re trying to poach you to work dayshift.”

You raised an amused eyebrow. “Are they now?”

Jack grunted, which for whatever reason, made you grin affectionately at him.

“For what it’s worth, I’d like to stay on nights. Bias aside, I’ve learned to enjoy it.” You told him. “And it’s not so bad to work with my tough, ruggedly handsome senior attending.”

“Don’t let HR hear you say that.” But he was smiling.

“We say worse down here.” You laughed, “Besides, I don’t think Singh would mind.”

His eyes snapped to yours, taking in your devilish grin. He took the challenge easily.

“That right? I suppose my date in the morning is now just a solo breakfast.”

You chuckled, “Alright, alright. Correction: my tough, ruggedly handsome chief attending.“

Jack settled, and there was a playful edge to his voice, “Sure you’re not talkin’ ‘bout Robby now?”

“No,” You said, nose crinkling despite your grin. “He might be a chief attending, but he surely isn’t mine.”

Jack’s chest swelled, something burning low in his abdomen that he tried to brush aside. He set his shoulders back and gave a firm nod, “Damn straight.”

You sighed in contentment, clicking a few times on the tablet, “I’m glad they’ll have to go through you first.”

His eyes moved to yours, gently taking in your features. He was glad you wanted to stay on nights, and he met your eyes which was answer enough. Jack was a man of few words, but you always had a habit of reading him like an open book.

You waved over Ellis to assist you with whatever case you had picked up, and he scanned the board again before getting to work.

After a few patients, and one trauma coming in by ambulance, he found your voice around the Pitt was a remedy all on its own. He had never tried to make you feel like you had needed to heal him, or even fix him, but you were, in your own way. Softly and quietly, and loving him without hesitation.

Jack was proud to be the man you had chosen to be by your side.

—

Moving in together came as softly as your relationship had, slow to start and then all at once. It made more sense than many things in your life, as you had quietly and without fanfare invaded his. Clothes in his closet, your favorite tea in his cupboard, your shampoo in his shower, slippers tucked under the edge of his bed, sheets tangled with the smell of you. Effortless, yet full of care.

You were packing boxes even though the question had not been asked aloud. Just a simple, “You shouldn’t renew your lease.” So you didn’t.

Jack hadn’t really needed to make space for you, as you had steadily made the apartment yours over time, filling it with warmth. There had been an emptiness sitting in corners and dusty shelves that you filled easily, with knicknacks and picture frames and plants that grew mostly out of spite. Your tender touch had made the place a home in more ways than one — making the space lived in and cozy.

After years of moving on in small bursts, his apartment was never quite bare, but it hardly had a personal touch, always ready to leave the apartment if he ever needed to. With a flourish of a sigh like Jack let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding, it felt like Jack finally settled into the home you had helped create. More than just the material things that now decorated his walls, but the way he was able to relax as soon as he stepped into it.

You knew about his wife — more so knew of her, and little bits of what had happened. You never tried to replace her in his life, despite it having been years since she had passed, and you had carved out your own place in his life.

Living together presented new types of challenges, but also an array of new memories to be had. Quiet domestic life had completely pulled you in and you would be lying if you said you didn’t love it. You also loved the thrill of keeping him on his toes.

Jack was leaning against the kitchen counter, dishes done behind him, phone in hand — likely reading something on NPR. You moved into the kitchen with a sultry smile. He glanced at you quickly, eyes going back to his phone, but then they snapped back over to you. Maybe it was the way you were moving or the look on your face, but he set his phone aside.

He raised a simple eyebrow.

You kissed him, slow yet deliberate, pushing your chest against his. He hummed against your mouth. You ran your hands over the crotch of his pants, hard enough to feel but some enough to be teasing. You could feel him begin to tense under you and your heart began to race.

“You always make me feel so good,” you murmured against his lips. “Wanna return the favor.”

“You always make me feel good, sweetheart.”

“I wanna taste you.” You said, opening your eyes to look at him, eyelids hooded with desire.

He watched you for several beats of your heart, hands on your hips.

“Please.”

His eyes darkened and he let go of you. You took it as permission, undoing the button and sliding your hand into his pants. He was already half hard and you salivated at the thought of having your mouth on him. Desire pulsed low.

You got down on your knees, Jack’s heavy gaze on you, and you pulled down his pants as you eased to the floor. Your eyes looked up through your lashes to meet his eyes. His intensity never failed to go straight to your core.

You palmed him through his boxers before pulling them down his legs. You trailed a few kisses along his thighs, looking up at him. You grabbed his length in one hand and licked the slit, tasting the salty pre-cum that had balled at the tip.

His eyes flickered closed, his hands gripping onto the counter. He opened his eyes again to watch as you took him into your mouth. A long sigh escaped his nose. You swirled your tongue around the head, allowing a bit of saliva to drip, helping as you pumped what you couldn’t fit in your mouth.

You brought as much as you could into your mouth, feeling him in the back of your throat. You held him there, before bobbing your head and trying not to choke. You felt his abdomen tense, a moan so soft and devine slipping passed his lips.

Keening, you locked eyes. You smiled around his cock and he cursed. You relaxed your jaw, tongue going flat on the underside of his cock. You breathed through your nose and deepthroated him again, before bringing your tongue to swirl around his tip again.

“Fuck, do that again.”

You released him with a wet pop. “Gotta ask nicer than that, baby.”

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes, filling your chest with excitement.

“Sweetheart, can you do that again…please?”

You smiled at the tiny victory, taking him back into your mouth and sucking him off eagerly. Your mouth worked on his tip, hand twisting around the base, taking him deeper again. You felt his belly tense again, his balls tightening. You kept your pace until he let out a guttural groan, coming down your throat. You moaned around him.

Jack was panting when you released him, licking a final time to catch anything you might have missed, and he hissed with a shiver. You were grinning at him when his eyes found yours.

He pulled you up sharply, claiming your mouth in a passionate open mouthed kiss. You tangled your fingers in his hair, allowing him to lick and bite your lips. He let go of you and you let out some air, taking a step back.

His hand was on your neck, pulling you back to him.

“Oh,” his grin was wicked. “You think I’m done with you?”

[ Next ]

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Semper Fi: @rosiepoise88 @stelliferousphoenix @fancyvoidtragedy @lauraneedstochill

Dr. Abbot taglist: @flyinglama @valhallavalkyrie9 @melancholyy-hill @travelingmypassion @yournerdmodziata @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse @woodxtock @rachel2494 @looneylooomis

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69 @moonlightmvrvel @andabuttonnose @boldlyherdream @cosmosnkaz @brnesblogposts

All: @nixandtonic

mmmm I love domestic jack

next part is Pittfest and will be angsty for many different reasons😬

…also?? I love them a lot, I’m not ready to give them up in only a few more parts😭I’ve enjoyed this story so much

#the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbott #the pitt x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #asxgard writes #semper fi series #Jack can get it any day of the week

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literaryvein-reblogs · 5 months ago

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When your Character is Sleep Deprived

Sleep Deprivation - occurs when you don’t routinely get sufficient sleep at night.

Seven to eight hours of quality sleep time is the baseline for most adults, yet the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) estimates that one third of American adults suffer from measurable sleep loss.

This lack of sleep can lead to disruptions in everyday life, from grogginess and delayed reaction times to serious medical conditions.

Causes of Sleep Deprivation

Many factors can prevent you from getting a good night's sleep. These include:

Sleep disorders: Certain conditions like sleep apnea and restless leg syndrome can interfere with healthy sleep.

Mental health conditions: Depression and anxiety can be sources of severe sleep deprivation.

External stimuli: Loud noises, bright lights, and hot temperatures can all prevent you from getting enough sleep.

Work schedules: Shift work at night can clash with your natural circadian rhythms and trigger sleep deprivation.

Physical activity: Exercise can inhibit sleep onset if scheduled too close to bedtime.

Effects of Sleep Deprivation

The consequences of sleep deprivation can be serious. A person operating on insufficient sleep may face increased risk of the following effects.

Daytime drowsiness: A poorly rested person can go through the day feeling groggy. This can lead to drowsy driving, car accidents, mental slip-ups, and poor cognition.

Microsleep: In addition to general drowsiness, a person running on very little sleep can experience microsleep—very short bursts of unconsciousness that feel like blacking out.

Mood swings: A person overcome by sleepiness may be cranky and irritable, and they may also experience headaches that further sour their mood.

Memory issues: Poor sleep patterns that cause a person to get less sleep have the potential to affect memory recall.

Tips for Avoiding Sleep Deprivation

To ensure you get consistent and sufficient sleep duration, consider the following strategies.

Stick to a bedtime routine. Sleep difficulties can stem from inconsistent schedules and routines. Improve your sleep hygiene by creating consistent sleep habits and a bedtime routine. This may involve stretching, an evening shower, or a cup of tea.

Avoid digital screens before bed. The blue light of electronics can mimic the effects of sunlight and prevent your body from entering its natural sleep cycle. Keep digital devices out of the bedroom, and when you must use them before bed, use a blue light filter that keeps the most disruptive light out of your eyes.

Consider a natural sleep remedy. Supplemental melatonin can help you fall asleep when your routine sleep schedule has been disrupted. Take care to not build reliance on sleep medications that may dampen the restorative effects of REM sleep and non-REM sleep.

Lower the temperature of your bedroom. A nighttime room temperature of 60 to 67 degrees Fahrenheit signals to your brain that it’s time to sleep.

Practice mindful relaxation techniques. A bedtime ritual of deep breathing exercises and slow exhales can promote progressive muscle relaxation. Mindfulness can also eliminate tension while allowing your body to drift into drowsiness and get enough hours of sleep.

Monitor your health conditions. Certain medical conditions, like sleep apnea and restless leg syndrome, can impair sleep onset and deprive you of sleep over the course of the night. Seek medical advice for handling such conditions, and work with your healthcare provider to develop treatment and coping strategies.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#sleep #sleep deprivation #writing reference #writeblr #character development #writing notes #literature #writers on tumblr #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #light academia #writing inspiration #writing ideas #johannes vermeer #writing resources

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rezitio · 5 months ago

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⊹ ︴ 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐌𝐀 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 ₙₛʄʷ

warnings: oralf!m!, tit play, exhibitionism, rough play, man handling, edging m!, size kink, fingering, p in v, anal, somno from Katsumi, possessive unhealthy behaviour!

includes; baki hanma, jack hanma, yujiro hanma, katsumi orochi, retsu kaiou, kaoru hanayama.

looking for the convicts?

━━━━━━━━━━

` ⊹ ﹑ Baki Hanma

When he's in his munching episodes he'd start of slow and sensual. in the end you're screaming for your life.

This is sex with Baki. Tit sucking, random speeding up, asking if you're okay, his moans, everything. (its like they recorded him the guy even looks like him its scary)

Baki fucking you in your room while your parents are home. Careful not to make noise.

Skipping class to see your boyfriend, you're just sitting on his lap enjoying the breeze. Right...

Baki is the type of man eat your pussy no questions asked.

more on baki?

` ⊹ ﹑ Yuujiro Hanma

Spitters are quitters

He'd drag you from the party you sneaked out to, take you back to his penthouse and shut that bratty mouth up. (could be step-daughter trope)

Make up sex is supposed to be slow and forgiving. For yuujiro it's a chance to show you who he truly prefers without saying a word

He'd make you addicted to the dick till you're just a begging toy for him.

Yuujiro fucks so fast his dick vibrates in you. You wouldn't see him moving fast enough when you look at him. But you can see it in your face.

` ⊹ ﹑ Jack Hammer

Realistic size difference with a 7'0ft man

Jack can hold you up with just his dick

You told him it wouldn't fit, all the motivation he needed to make it fit tthrough your ass

This is probably how Jack would handle you. Imagine his huge size tossing you around

` ⊹ ﹑ Kaoru Hanayama

Hanayama would have his bratty little whore by his side, teasing and disciplining her while he sat at the front of a meeting.

He expects to hear nothing but your loud pussy as he fingers the disobedience out of you. Sneaking out to a party? What were you thinking?

You'd have a face full of makeup, ready to have the night of your life with your friends, just right outside your apartment door you're pinned, reminded of who you belong to.

` ⊹ ﹑ Katsumi Orochi

After spending the whole day out, Katsumi would show you how hard you got him.

Letting your boyfriend sit back while you grind him. He worka so hard.

You wake up with his fingers inside you, great now he doesn't have to be so gentle

` ⊹ ﹑ Retsu Kaiou

Retsu know all kinds of techniques, including the best way to go deep into your cunt.

You were Restu's first. You showed him a whole new world of pleasure and canal desires

Teaching Restu how to control his urges. His most difficult training

REZITIO. This took a while mb, it doesn't take long to make I was js lazy.

this work is created and owned by rezitio on tumblr!

@yuhhxhxx

#꒰꒰ : rezitioworks #baki hanayama #baki katsumi #baki son of ogre #baki hanma #baki the grappler #baki #jack hanma #yujiro hanma #baki smut #baki visuals #baki twitter #katsumi orochi #smut #twitter links #jack hammer #baki hanma x reader #yujiro hanma x reader

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blossomcola · 2 days ago

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omg pt2 of risky lara with u two catching manon being pervy and lara letting her join in please

i accidentally turned this into ot5 katseye and free use with the reader... i hope you like it!

pairing. ot5 katseye x fem reader

content warnings. degradation, fingering, gropping, hair pulling, humiliation, toys, overstimulation, scissoring.

we all know that lara is a loving and charming woman who would clearly be the sweetest and most romantic girlfriend in the world, but what happens when her group mates have a certain weakness for her girlfriend and she has no problem sharing her girl?

manon being the one who enjoys this the most because for months she’s been dying to get her hands on you... of course she wouldn’t try to make a move because you’re dating her friend, but if the opportunity arises she wouldn’t let it pass! her excitement is more than evident and you realize it when manon takes her toy box out of her closet... yes, she is the type of girl who loves toys. no matter what your preferences are because she doesn’t let you say anything about it, just by making you lie on her bed with your legs open for her and at her complete disposal, having no choice but to stay here and accept whatever she gives you regardless of whether you can take it or not :( manon is a bit naughty and doesn’t care if she’s being too hard for you or if you feel like you can’t cum again, she will not miss the opportunity to do whatever she wants with you and she doesn’t care if that means playing with your sanity, you’re just her doll.

sophia can be at the same level of cruelty depending on her mood, just as she can be heartless with you, she can also be super gentle and fuck you as much as you like or prefer, but she decides what mood to have with you! she prefers to start slowly and increase the intensity slowly, so sophia would first make out with you while she desires you to the point that your juices soak her hand and slowly run down her wrist, but she doesn’t care! sophia would go a little crazy for your taste so she would proceed to bury her face between her thighs and eat you out until her jaw hurts, regardless of whether you are very sore and feeling overwhelmed <3 and of course she also loves toys, but unlike manon, she has a big adoration for her strap, which is so big and thick that with just a glance you know it will be hard to take... and well, you know you were right the moment she’s fucking you missionary in her bed, legs shaking on her shoulders because the head of the silicone cock is hitting that spongy and sensitive spot inside you but she seems to understand that every whimper from you means you want her to push her cock deeper and deeper into you.

i fear that daniela is a girl who loves scissoring but in a way where everything is messy and sweaty, basically it means she can fuck until the bed breaks but it’s not a problem because you can continue on the floor! it is evident that she would choose to be on top because she needs to be in control of things for several reasons; first of all, it’s because daniela, being a dancer with years of experience, knows how to move her hips and that means she would use her dancing techniques to fuck — and secondly it’s because she knows that you’d probably get whiny soon after you two started getting wild and would probably have a hard time keeping a steady pace that doesn’t lose consistency... it doesn’t matter much what the reason is because daniela ends up on top of you anyway! maybe she’ll even hold your wrists above your head so you just have to lie under her and worry about making cute noises while she does all the work because pretty girls like you deserve to get laid and be cared for and looked after.

my dear megan... girl recently out of the closet so she doesn’t have the luxury of saying or showing off her experience or bragging about at least something, which is a fairly good thing because she would be somewhat afraid to act and her actions would be clumsy most of the time. among all the girls she would be the most “normal” because she is not yet a depraved freak, she may be kinky but she hasn’t developed that part of having a big confidence yet. even though lara has authorized them to do whatever they want with you, megan keeps asking every five seconds if you are sure and if what she is doing is okay, regardless of whether she’s doing something as simple as taking off your shirt or something more serious like about to touch you.

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shiyorin · 1 month ago

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Author's note: Come from my private au, has so many settings I am never said before but I think it is funny, must post.

Tumblr formatting sucks so I had to change it like this.

EXPOSED: 133 SPICY SECRETS THE IMPERIUM DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW — WHAT THE PRIMARCHS REALLY DO AFTER DARK!

From kink collections to bedroom blunders - the juiciest, weirdest, and most heretical habits of the Emperor’s golden boys. You won’t believe #26… and #90? Absolutely illegal in 7 systems!

The Lion maintains absolute discipline even during climax, barely changes expression.

Has a secret passionate side that only emerges with you.

Silent hunter in the streets, vocal beast in the sheets.

Despite his serious demeanor, he makes cat noises when he comes. Not sexy growls, literal "meow" sounds.

Has never discussed his intimate life with anyone, total compartmentalization.

Possesses surprisingly detailed knowledge of ancient Terran tantric practices.

Watch you like prey before making a move, intense predatory stare.

Has a ritual of knightly "service" that leaves you breathless.

Fulgrim has tried literally every sexual practice in Imperial records.

Can delay his climax indefinitely through perfect muscular control.

His perfectionism extends to sexual performance, practices techniques alone.

Has a mirror positioned above his bed, claiming it's "for technique refinement."

Keeps a detailed journal rating every sexual encounter on multiple criteria.

Always smells like different exotic perfumes depending on his mood.

Perturabo pproaches pleasure like an engineering problem to be solved with precision.

Records biometric data during encounters to analyze optimal techniques.

His jealousy issues manifest as possessiveness in relationship.

He has body image issues despite being built like a Greek god. When you started calling his stretch marks "triumph lines" and his response was to short-circuit emotionally.

Surprisingly responsive to praise during intimate moments.

Despite his gruff exterior, he cries during his refractory period. Every time.

Has trust issues that translate to control dynamics in bed.

Jaghatai's speed isn't just for the battlefield, it can vibrate certain body parts.

Never stays in one position for long, constant motion and rhythm.

Has a thing for outdoor sex.

Braids his hair specially for intimate occasions, pulls it out after.

Makes a distinctive sound during climax that's become legendary.

Knows pleasure techniques from dozens of different cultures.

Sometimes recites war poems during particularly intense moments.

Leman's heightened sense of smell means he can detect arousal from across a room.

Growls during climax, not metaphorically, actually growls.

Has fucked in every environment imaginable, including in blizzards.

Gets rough during full moons without even realizing it.

His beard provides unexpected sensations that drive you wild.

His dirty talk is surprisingly poetic, often in ancient Fenrisian dialects.

Has a thing for biting, leaves marks that last for weeks.

Dorn approaches sex with the same directness as everything else, tells you exactly what he wants.

Has incredible endurance, can maintain the same position for hours without tiring.

He speaks exclusively in literal terms during sex. "I am now going to insert my penis into your vagina" is his idea of dirty talk. When you asked him to talk dirty, he told you about soil composition and drainage issues. Somehow, still hot.

He has never once lied, which made "how was it for you?" a terrifying question until you learned to be more specific.

Never exaggerates or falsifies his reactions, 100% authentic responses.

Has an unexpected thing for bondage, loves testing the strength of different restraints.

Always keeps his word on promised pleasures, reliability is his hallmark.

If you want to peg him, he will provide a detailed structural analysis of your technique, complete with suggestions for improved angle of entry.

Konrad can see your deepest desires through his precognitive abilities.

Only has sex in complete darkness, says the shadows "speak to him" then.

Has a thing for fear, gets aroused when you are slightly afraid.

Never makes a sound during sex, total silence except for breathing.

Sometimes whispers your future to you during climax, usually disturbing stuff.

He's a little spoon who needs to be the big spoon until he falls asleep, then immediately reverts to little.

He keeps a "justice journal" where he ranks everyone's crimes and appropriate punishments. Apparently, your crime is "excessive smugness" and your punishment is "thorough pleasure correction."

Sanguinius's wings are erogenous zones, extremely sensitive to touch.

His beauty isn't just physical, emits a pheromone that intensifies attraction.

Blood rushes to his wings during arousal, making them flush visibly.

His enhanced hearing means he can detect the slightest changes in heartbeat and breathing.

You can feel a euphoric blood rush in his presence, possibly psychic.

Has a tragic fear of hurting you, requires absolute trust.

He looks like an angel but fucks like a demon. The dichotomy is disorienting.

He apologizes after dirty talk. "You're a filthy cockslut-I'm sorry, that was disrespectful.”

Despite Ferrus's gruff exterior, whispers surprisingly tender things during intimate moments.

Temperature of his hands can be adjusted for different sensations.

Always checks in verbally throughout, consent is non-negotiable.

Can go for multiple rounds with zero recovery time.

Has a thing for hands, loves both giving and receiving hand pleasure.

Contrary to expectations, Angron is extremely controlled in bed, afraid of hurting you.

His rage translates to intense passion when properly channeled.

The Butcher's Nails make his pleasure/pain responses unpredictable.

Requires specialized reinforced beds, has broken dozens.

Gets emotional after particularly intense sessions, sometimes even cries.

Prefers if you aren’t intimidated by his size or reputation.

His heart rate during sex would kill a normal human.

Guilliman approaches sex with tactical precision, maps erogenous zones like campaign targets.

Keeps a detailed spreadsheet analyzing performance and your satisfaction.

Actually wrote a private codex on sexual techniques, 500 pages, fully illustrated.

Always showers immediately before and after.

Has a thing for authority figure, ironic given his own position.

Surprisingly imaginative once he trusts you enough to relax.

Asks for performance reviews afterward, genuinely wants to improve.

Despite his appearance, Mortarion is unexpectedly gentle and attentive.

Has a breathing kink, loves controlled breath play.

His body temperature runs cold, creating interesting sensations for you.

Surprisingly flexible.

Has never been naked in front of anyone, always keeps something on.

His scarred skin is extremely sensitive, especially along his back.

Silent during sex except for carefully controlled breathing.

Prefers total darkness, claims it "equalizes the experience."

Magnus can psychically enhance your pleasure, making you feel everything he feels.

His eye glows brighter during arousal.

Can maintain an erection for days through psychic control.

Know exactly what you want before you do, mind reading has its benefits.

Has invented several positions that would be physically impossible without telekinesis.

Sometimes accidentally projects his orgasms psychically, causing everyone nearby to feel it.

His extensive library includes the galaxy's largest collection of erotic literature.

Has had sex while simultaneously reading a book.

Horus has a thing for power dynamics, he loves when you challenge his authority before ultimately submitting to him.

His stamina is legendary, often going for hours without breaks.

Gets incredibly turned on when called "Warmaster" in bed.

Has a secret collection of handcuffs from every world he's conquered.

That scar on his body? Extremely sensitive to touch, instant arousal trigger.

Secretly recorded himself with you, keeps the videos in a hidden vault.

Has a thing for doing it in war rooms, especially on strategic tables.

Lorgar treats sex like a religious experience, complete with rituals and chanting.

Has written erotic poetry that would make experienced courtesans blush.

Takes his time, foreplay can last hours as he "worships" every inch.

His voice alone can bring you to the edge, has studied sonic stimulation.

Maintains eye contact throughout, intensely spiritual connection.

Has a thing for confession scenarios, wants to hear your darkest desires.

Always burns special incense that heightens sensitivity.

Has sacred words tattooed in places only you discover.

Vulkan's body temperature runs extremely hot, like making love to a furnace.

Gives the best post-sex cuddles in the Imperium, like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

Has a surprising affinity for sensual massage, can work out knots you didn't know you had.

Laughs during sex, finds joy in physical connection.

Always focuses on your pleasure before his own.

His heartbeat is audible and hypnotic during intimate moments.

Corax can literally turn into shadows during particularly intense moments.

Has a thing for heights, loves balconies, rooftops, and flying vehicles.

So quiet during sex you sometimes forget he's there until he touches you.

Can see perfectly in darkness, knows exactly where to touch.

Sometimes sprouts shadow-wings during climax, startling the unprepared.

His voice drops to hypnotic registers during dirty talk.

Enjoys watching from the shadows before joining in.

You're never sure which twin you're actually with, sometimes they switch mid-session.

Can perfectly mimic the sexual techniques of anyone they've observed.

Keep a network of informants reporting on the sexual preferences of your.

Have developed secret pleasure points unknown to standard anatomy.

Sometimes speak in unison during threesomes, eerily synchronized.

Have been known to disguise themselves as servants to spy on people's sexual habits.

One likes to be on top, one likes to be on bottom, but they never specify which is which.

The Emperor's psychic presence intensifies pleasure to godlike levels.

Can appear differently to different, manifests as your ideal lover.

Time seems to stretch in his presence, moments of pleasure can feel like eternities.

His golden aura becomes blinding during moments of passion.

The Primarchs' various quirks are genetic echoes of the Emperor's own preferences, each inherited different aspects.

*******

You stared at the crumpled list in your hands, blinking rapidly as you processed what you were reading. The paper had been slipped under your door sometime during the night, the handwriting alternating between several different styles as if multiple people had contributed to it.

"What the fuck," you whispered, scanning the detailed, disturbingly detailed, descriptions of the Primarchs' supposed sexual habits.

This had to be retaliation for your artwork. Ever since you'd been caught sketching that sexual piece featuring Horus and Sanguinius in a rather compromising position, things had escalated into a bizarre war of increasingly sexual content between you and the Emperor's sons.

Your data-slate pinged with an incoming message. Seventeen new commission requests from seventeen different encrypted sources, all requesting artwork based on items from the list. Each offering payment that would make an Imperial Governor blush.

"Oh, it's fucking on," You cracking your knuckles as you reached for your stylus.

********

The first anatomical "reference session" was scheduled for that afternoon. Magnus had requested a private meeting in the Librarium after hours, claiming he needed to discuss "important tactical matters" with the remembrance.

When you arrived, you found the crimson Primarch sitting rigidly at a massive wooden table, surrounded by ancient tomes and scrolls that definitely weren't tactical in nature.

"I received your list," you said without preamble, dropping the crumpled paper onto the table between them.

"What list?" Magnus asked, his single eye widening with what appeared to be genuine confusion.

"The 133 sexual facts about you and your brothers," you clarified, watching his face carefully. "Rather detailed information about your... preferences."

Magnus's crimson skin darkened further as he snatched up the paper and scanned it rapidly. "This is...I didn't-" he sputtered, then paused, his eye narrowing. "Number Eighty-eight is accurate, though."

"Which one was-" you started to ask before catching yourself. "Not the point. Did you and your brothers create this as some kind of joke? Retaliation for my artwork?"

"I assure you, I had nothing to do with this," Magnus said, still reading the list with increasing distress. "Though I suspect Fulgrim or perhaps the twins..." His voice trailed off as he reached the section about himself. "That's... uncomfortably specific."

"So these are accurate?" you couldn't help asking, professional curiosity getting the better of you.

"I neither confirm nor deny," Magnus replied automatically, though his continued deepening complexion suggested otherwise.

"Right," you nodded, retrieving the list and tucking it away. "Well, regardless of its origin, I've received seventeen commission requests based on it. Including yours about psychic pleasure enhancement."

Magnus choked on nothing. "I didn't-"

"The request came from '[email protected],'" you interrupted dryly. "Very subtle."

"That could be anyone," Magnus protested weakly.

"It was written in Prosperine hieroglyphics," you countered. "With annotations in a language that doesn't technically exist yet."

Magnus slumped in defeat. "Fine. I may have sent a... hypothetical inquiry."

"About whether I could accurately depict psychic pleasure transference in artistic form," you completed. "For which you'd need to demonstrate the technique. For accuracy."

"Precisely," Magnus nodded, scholarly demeanor returning. "It's a complex psychic phenomenon that requires direct observation to properly capture."

"Uh-huh," you said skeptically. "And this has nothing to do with item ninety-one on the list about you accidentally broadcasting your orgasms psychically?"

Magnus's eye darted away. "A preposterous exaggeration."

"So that didn't happen during the Ullanor campaign? Because I heard an entire regiment of Imperial Army suddenly collapsed in ecstasy during your private meditation time."

"A coincidence," Magnus insisted. "Mass hysteria."

"Right," you grinned. "So about this commission..."

********

The next morning found you in the training cages, ostensibly observing combat techniques for "assassinorum purposes" but actually gathering reference material for the flood of commissions that had arrived overnight.

Jaghatai and Leman were sparring, stripped to the waist, their compression leggings leaving little to the imagination as they grappled and threw each other around the cage. A small crowd had gathered to watch the Primarchs train, but you had managed to secure a front-row position with your sketchbook.

"Enjoying the view?" Torgaddon asked, sliding up beside you.

"Research," you replied without looking up from your rapid sketching. "Anatomical references for commission work."

"Uh-huh," Torgaddon nodded skeptically. "And the fact that you're focusing on their glutes and crotches is purely professional."

"The gluteal muscles are key to understanding proper movement dynamics," you explained with mock seriousness. "Also, item twenty-three indicates Jaghatai 'never stays in one position for long, constant motion and rhythm.' I need to capture that accurately."

"You actually believe that list?" Torgaddon asked incredulously.

"I'm verifying it empirically," you corrected. "Scientific method and all that."

Just then, Jaghatai executed a particularly impressive takedown that left Leman pinned beneath him, both Primarchs breathing heavily and glistening with sweat. They held the position a beat too long, eyes darting to where you sat sketching, before Leman growled something and they separated.

"They're showing off for you," Torgaddon observed.

"Of course they are," you agreed, adding detailing to your sketch. "And I'm getting excellent reference material because of it. Win-win."

"This is going to end badly," Torgaddon predicted.

"This is going to end profitably," you corrected. "I've made more money in the past week than in my last three assassination missions combined."

"Speaking of which," Torgaddon lowered your voice, "there's a rumor that the Emperor himself has commissioned you for something."

Your stylus paused momentarily. "Where did you hear that?"

"So it's true!" Torgaddon’s eyes widened.

"Neither confirm nor deny," you muttered, returning to your sketching. "Client confidentiality."

"By the Throne," Torgaddon breathed. "What did he ask for?"

"If, and I stress if, such a commission existed," you said carefully, "it would be for a classical portrait. Nothing more."

"Classical as in...?"

"Classical as in Ancient Terran style. Renaissance era."

"Nude?" Torgaddon pressed.

"Artistically draped," you corrected primly.

"The Emperor wants you to draw him like one of your Terran girls," Torgaddon marveled. "The actual Emperor of Mankind."

"This conversation isn't happening," you insisted, focusing intently on your sketching as Ferrus Manus entered the training cage, also stripped to the waist, his metal arms gleaming under the lights.

"Your pupils just dilated," Torgaddon noted.

"Lighting change," you dismissed, though your increased sketching speed suggested otherwise.

"Right," Torgaddon drawled. "Well, while you're conducting your 'research,' you might want to know that father is looking for you. Something about providing 'detailed references' for his triple-self commission."

"Already scheduled," you replied without looking up. "After the war council. He's bringing reference materials."

"What kind of reference materials could father possibly-" Torgaddon started to ask, then shook his head. "Actually, don't tell me. I don't want to know."

"Wise decision," you agreed, flipping to a new page as Ferrus began demonstrating a series of strikes that showcased his impressive torso musculature. "Very wise indeed."

********

The Emperor's private gallery was unlike anything you had ever seen, a vast chamber filled with artwork spanning human history, from primitive cave paintings to hololithic masterpieces that seemed to shift and move as you walked past them.

And here you were, presenting your completed commission to the Master of Mankind himself.

"The brushwork is exquisite," the Emperor commented, examining the large canvas you had delivered. "You've captured the classical style perfectly."

"Thank you," you replied, trying to maintain your professional demeanor despite standing before the most powerful being in the galaxy, discussing what was essentially an erotic portrait.

"The musculature is anatomically precise," he continued, "yet idealized in the classical tradition. Your understanding of chiaroscuro is impressive."

"I studied the ancient masters extensively," you explained, which was true, you'd spent three days in the Imperial archives researching Renaissance techniques for this commission.

"And the draped fabric creates just the right balance between revelation and mystery," the Emperor noted, his golden eyes studying the painting with the intensity of a sun. "Excellent work."

The painting depicted the Emperor in a classical pose reminiscent of ancient Terran deity portrayals, strategically draped fabric preserving modesty while suggesting the perfection beneath. It was tasteful yet undeniably sensual, exactly what he had requested.

"I'm pleased it meets your expectations," you said, feeling oddly nervous despite your training.

"More than meets them," the Emperor assured you. "I shall add it to my private collection immediately." He gestured to a section of the gallery that appeared to be accessible only through a psychically locked doorway. "Your compensation has been transferred to your accounts, with a substantial bonus."

"You're too generous," you began, but the Emperor raised a hand.

"I reward excellence appropriately," he stated simply. "And I understand you've been providing similar services to my sons."

You froze, unsure how to respond. "I-"

"No need for concern," the Emperor assured you, his perfect lips curving into a slight smile. "Creative expression takes many forms. And frankly, they've been more focused on their duties since your commissions began. Less... tension among them."

"I'm... glad to hear that," you managed, processing the fact that the Emperor of Mankind was essentially approving your pornographic side business.

"I would, however, suggest discretion regarding the list that has been circulating," the Emperor added, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. "Some of those items hit rather close to home."

"You've seen the list?" you blurted before you could stop yourself.

"I see everything eventually," the Emperor replied enigmatically. "Though I suspect Malcador had a hand in its creation. He always did have a peculiar sense of humor."

Before you could process this revelation, the Emperor gestured toward the exit. "I look forward to seeing your future work, Remembrance. Perhaps we might discuss another commission at a later date."

Taking the dismissal for what it was, you bowed slightly and turned to leave. As you reached the doorway, the Emperor's voice stopped you.

"Oh, also? Item One-hundred-and-thirty-two is entirely accurate."

Your mind raced to recall the item in question, something about his golden aura becoming blinding during passion. By the time you turned back to respond, the Emperor had vanished, leaving you alone in the gallery with the distinct impression you'd just been teased by the Master of Mankind himself.

"What even is my life right now?" You muttered, making your way back to your quarters where seventeen more commissions awaited your attention.

#shiyorin's writer #warhammer 40k x reader #primarch x reader #reader insert #romantic stuff in 40k #wh40crack #lol

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cinnamon7girl7 · 3 days ago

Text

"WHAT'S MINE IS YOURS"

Being married to Satoru Gojo didn’t just mean sharing a bed, a house, or a last name. It meant sharing your life with someone who loved you absurdly — someone who never understood, and never will understand, the concept of boundaries.

You had your own missions.

Your cursed technique.

A well-built life long before you ever met him.

But from the moment you stepped into his world, Satoru decided that no part of you would ever be alone again. Not your exhaustion. Not your hunger. Not even your most simple little preferences.

The first time you said your feet hurt after a mission, a week later you had a high-tech imported massage chair with a smart footrest and a robe with your name embroidered on it.

One night, he canceled a meeting with his clan elders just to come back home, crawl into bed with you, and wrap his arms around you.

—The only urgent thing on my schedule is you —he whispered, without even taking off his coat.

His gestures were constant, subtle... and sometimes incredibly ridiculous.

Other times, if he found out you’d had a rough night, he’d wake you up with a breakfast cooked by private chefs in his kitchen.

Once, he spent over six million dollars just so you could see snow on your birthday for the first time… in the middle of August.

He had an entire climate-control system installed at one of his properties in Dubai, imported realistic artificial snow from Japan, and had a fake alpine village built in the garden.

The team helping him included meteorologists, movie set designers, and a group of dancers dressed as penguins who showed up at the end with an igloo-shaped cake.

—You said you wanted “pretty snow, like in the movies” —he told you with a proud grin, while you cried in your thermal robe and bunny-ear slippers.

—And I want every birthday of yours to be better than the last. So… get ready.

If he noticed you were quiet or down, he would shut down five floors of a luxury shopping mall just so you could walk around in peace, no crowds, no noise.

—The world’s being annoying today, babe. So no world. Just you… and the window displays —he’d say, carrying your bags like they weighed nothing.

Sometimes he even paid millions so that an amusement park would open just for the two of you for one night. Not because you loved the rides… but because you told him you’d never been to one as a kid. That night, he let you ride the Ferris wheel a thousand times, just to see you laugh.

And if he noticed you were happy… he gave you even more reasons to be.

Once, he hired Chanel’s head designer to make you a custom dress in less than 24 hours, just because you said “nothing I have fits for tonight’s dinner.”

Another time, he decorated an entire room just because he heard you say “I need a space just for me.” You didn’t say anything when you saw the library with new shelves, the aroma diffuser, the soft blanket on the perfect chair. You just hugged him.

—You deserve to be comfortable. Always. I don’t like that you’re unhappy in our little home because… I want to give you that. All of it —he said.

By “little home” he meant, of course, his modest three-story mansion with a Japanese garden, heated pool, and a walk-in closet that looked like it came out of a fashion magazine.

Because for him, the size of the place didn’t matter if you didn’t feel at peace there. And if that meant gifting you an entire tower just for yourself, he would do it again without hesitation.

Not even when he replaced all the chairs in the private cinema because you once mentioned that velvet irritated you. The next day, the furniture was soft leather, with cashmere blankets and a sound system that made you feel inside the movie.

Not even when he ordered croissants from Paris, flown in by private jet, because you joked that “nothing tastes the same since I came back from my trip.”

You didn’t question it when he planted a whole garden of flowers that only bloom at night, you said nothing. He just took your hand one early morning and led you outside, under the moon, to show it to you.

Or when he had a perfume made that smelled exactly like your freshly washed hair. He didn’t tell you. He just wore it one night when he had to travel, and when you hugged him, you felt your own scent wrap around you like an invisible ribbon.

Not even when he reserved a planetarium just for the two of you and rearranged the constellations to spell your name.

—Because there’s no star I find more beautiful than you, darling —he said, in a voice so soft you almost didn’t hear him.

And he meant it.

Not out of obligation, but as a personal desire —and you knew you couldn’t stop him. Not even when he bought you 10 identical pairs of Louboutin heels just because “he didn’t know which color you liked more.”

Not even when he bought a private island just because you said you wanted to “sunbathe without hearing people talking nearby.” He furnished the whole place in two days, with exclusive chefs, an endless bar, and a 3-meter-wide bed just so you could sleep like a queen.

And much less when he installed a heating system in your studio because you said, half asleep, “I hate when my feet get cold while I’m working.”

One night, while the city lights shone through the tall windows of his office, Satoru was reviewing papers with a half-finished glass beside him.

His phone vibrated on the desk. He answered without hurry, without even looking at the number.

—Gojo?

—Mr. Gojo, good evening —said the voice on the other end—. We’re calling to confirm a transaction attempting to process from your joint account with Mrs. Gojo. The amount is four million seven hundred thousand dollars. Do you authorize it?

He smiled, leaning back in his chair.

—Of course I do.

—Are you sure?

—If she’s the one buying it, don’t even ask me.

And he hung up with that calm of his, as if approving a multimillion-dollar purchase was as easy as breathing.

Because for Satoru, it didn’t matter what it was. If it was for you, it was always worth it.

One afternoon you came back from an exhausting mission. Everything hurt, you didn’t want to talk, just sleep.

But when you opened the door, you found something that left you speechless.

Lilies.

White lilies. Blue lilies. Oriental lilies, in big and small vases, marble flower pots, crystal bowls, and even in a teacup on the table.

There were petals on the stairs, tall stems in the corners, bouquets gently swaying with the breeze from the open windows.

The scent was delicate, enveloping. Familiar.

You walked among them with wide eyes, your heart racing, as if you had been transported to another world. In every corner, a small note:

“Here I took your hand for the first time.” “Here I realized I never wanted to let go.” “Here I knew you were my home.”

Satoru appeared at the end of the hallway. Smiling, without glasses, messy hair, wearing a light blue shirt half unbuttoned.

—Happy anniversary of the first “click” —he said—. I don’t remember what we ate that day… but I perfectly remember how your hand fit in mine.

And since then, I haven’t stopped wanting to repeat it.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

So you did the only logical thing: you threw yourself into his arms, among lilies, among notes with memories, and surrounded by the scent of a kind of love money can’t buy.

He held you like always: as if you were the only thing he’d ever let fall.

I’ll be posting a long feed about Streamer!Gojo tomorrow, so hope you enjoy this one for now!

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obsesssedblerd · 10 months ago

Note

*makes sure no one's looking before sliding you ten dollars in monopoly money and a jolly rancher* this is all i got. can i request a gojo x curse user! reader smut fic? like he's trying to "get some information" out of reader?

oooh, a jolly rancher? sure!

pairing: satoru gojo x female curse user! reader

contains: smut lol [18+ MDNI], lots of edg!ng, dacryphilia, cunn!nglingus, f!ngering, some squirting, praise, gojo being a patient little shit, gojo being cocky (act surprised)

barely proofread, sorry for mistakes.

You’re strong, but you’re no match for the strongest.

You’re laying down on a soft mattress, and your hands are wrapped in special binds that restrict the usage of your technique, leaving you completely at his mercy. You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel the sorcerer’s large hands trail up your sides, then gently cup your breasts, his thumbs teasing your sensitive nipples. It’s been hours of this: Touching, teasing, building you up with no chance of actually letting you release. You try to control your breathing, and you bite your lip so no noise escapes your mouth. You refuse to give him any more satisfaction.

Satoru Gojo—who’s still fully clothed—sighs when he catches on, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Hiding your cute little noises from me? Aw, that’s no fun.”

One of his hands begins to drift lower, and you inhale to prepare yourself. “I bet I can get a lovely reaction if I press riiiiiiiiiiight,” he trails off, and then you feel two of his long, slender fingers gently push into your sopping wet pussy, only exploring for about a few seconds before he finds what he’s looking for. “...here.”

A sharp burst of pleasure rushes through you when he presses against your g-spot, and your back arches off of the mattress. Your eyes open, and you see Gojo’s cocky smile before he dips his head, kissing your neck gently as you whine. His fingers expertly bring you to the brink of ecstasy, and it’s impossible to hold back your gasps and your moans.

“Got you,” he purrs against your ear, “this is where you’re weak, right?”

“Fuck…!” You cry out as you thrash helplessly on the bed, unable to stop the growing pressure in your middle. You know what’s coming, but a small fraction of you hopes for a different outcome anyway. Right when you’re about to release, he stops and removes his fingers. You whine in frustration, and tears rise to your eyes. Another edge.

“Awww. I know, I know. It’s okay to cry.” Gojo’s expression is of faux sympathy. The sight of your tears gives him a rush of gratification. You’re slowly breaking, and it’s so delicious. He wipes away your tears, then grabs your jaw and tilts your head so you’re looking at him. “Ready to talk now, curse-user?” He asks sweetly.

“F-Fuck you,” you say weakly between sniffles. You hate how pathetic you look. You don’t even want to imagine what your boss would think if he saw you like this: naked and falling apart from Satoru Gojo’s… interrogation. You were expecting a different form of torture when he caught you.

Gojo hums, his cerulean eyes sparkling with amusement. “You can get that after you tell me Suguru Geto’s location.” He brings his hand to his mouth, and your breath hitches when he sucks your essence off of his fingers, your stomach fluttering at the sound of his pleased groan. “I will say that I’m impressed that you lasted this long. It’s no wonder he kept you so close. Were you two a thing, pretty girl?”

Your cheeks grow hot at the nickname, and you turn away from him. “That’s none of your business,” you spit.

“So you were at one point? Interesting,” he chuckles. “I’m willing to bet that he made shit complicated for no reason.” He leans down and presses his lips to your neck once more, and his mouth begins to travel lower, leaving small kisses as his own body starts drifting down the mattress. “Such a shame. You’re truly a treat,” he mumbles, then wraps his mouth around one of your breasts, eliciting a whimper from you.

“You’re beautiful; you have a powerful technique, and a pussy that gets so, so wet.” He says when he pulls back, admiring the small mark he left on your breast, and the rise and fall of your chest as you try to calm your breathing. He kneels before the mattress, then gently pushes your knees apart, obscenely exposing your glistening pussy to him. “Look at you…” He teases as he runs a slender finger along your soaked folds. “You’re making such a mess. You sure you don’t want to talk? It’s been hours. I know you need to cum.”

You do. Fuck, you do. You feel like you’re going to die if you don’t release the massive amount of tension that’s collected in your body. Your entire body, especially your pussy, is so sensitive that it’s beginning to hurt. You’re hoping that he’ll eventually let up, but Gojo is patient—and he finds you entertaining.

Gojo chuckles again, then begins to kiss your thighs. You squirm, and his strong hands hold you still. The only sounds in the room are your heavy breathing, and the embarrassing squelching of your pussy as his fingers alternate between teasing your folds, and your clit. By now, he’s learned every single one of your weak spots, and the signs when you’re close to orgasm so he brings you as close as possible before abruptly stopping.

When he drags his tongue across your folds, he makes a low sound, and you feel the vibrations of it. “Perhaps Suguru might be stronger than me after all,” he says, “You taste so fucking good. You would’ve been mine within a week.” He gives your swollen, sore, and sensitive clit a few kitten licks, and you thrash again, practically screaming when he repeats his tortuous process again, and again, and again, and again.

You’re sweating, tears are streaming down your cheeks. You’re certain you’re going to die from this. After another painful edge, you babble out his name. “Ah…! G-Gojo, please! Please!”

He lifts his head from between your thighs and flashes you a faux-innocent smile. “You can call me Satoru. No need to be so formal.” When you don’t respond, he rests a hand on your twitching thigh, watching your face closely as he softly asks, “Are you ready to talk, pretty girl?”

“It hurts…” you whimper. “Can’t take it. Please. Let me cum and I-I’ll tell you where he is.”

He sighs disappointedly, tsking as he shakes his head, using one hand to wipe away your tears again. “Tempting, but you know the rules.”

His hand begins to slide lower once more, and when you feel his thumb press against your clit, you finally break. “Kyoto!” You shout, and the sorcerer grins victoriously as you mumble defeatedly in-between sniffles. “...He’s in Kyoto.”

“Be specific,” he orders, then he listens as you tell him Geto’s exact location, the number of allies he has, and what he plans to do. Once you’re done explaining, he kisses your cheek. “Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise sends a small chill down your spine. “How hard was that, hm?”

Two of his thick fingers gently push into your pussy again, methodically stroking your g-spot. He moves slowly at first, then gradually increases both the speed and pressure—all while his palm stimulates your clit. A part of you questions if he’s going to stay true to his word, but when you feel yourself getting dangerously close, you stop questioning. The pressure of your building orgasm is far more intense than the rest, and the impending force of it has your breath stuttering in your chest. You’re certain that it’ll shatter you after being edged for numerous hours.

“Breathe,” Satoru murmurs soothingly near your ear. “Just relax and cum all over my fingers, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” His voice unravels you. You’re pushed over the edge, and you cry out his name as you finally, finally orgasm. His fingers continue pumping in and out of you, stimulating you through the entire thing. “There you go, that’s it. Good girl,” he praises as your hips buck against his hand. The coil within you snaps, and you gush all over his fingers, gasping in a mixture of pleasure and mortified shock. It’s so unexpected, so messy, yet it feels so good you think you might black out.

When it finally fades, you exhaustedly collapse against the sheets, breathing heavily and trembling with the remainder of the aftershocks. You’re trying to remember what your own name is when Satoru gently pulls a thick hoodie over your naked body to keep you warm, then softly kisses your lips. “I’ll be back. Those bonds still won’t be able to let you use your technique or leave this place, but you can help yourself to anything you’d like here.”

He pulls away from you, then begins skillfully wrapping the white bandages around his face to cover his eyes. After that, he puts his jacket on.

“So, you’re just gonna keep me here?” You manage to ask between pants.

“Mhm,” he responds simply, then gives you his usual, cocky smile. “Suguru Geto wasn’t the only curse-user I was tracking down, y’know.”

Ah.

“Higher-ups think I should kill you, but that’d be such a waste of beauty and power,” he says. “Once I’m done dealing with Geto, you and I are going to talk about some other options. I honestly think you’d make a damn good teacher.”

You scoff. “There’s no way I’d join you.”

Satoru chuckles then gently strokes your cheek as he lowers his voice. “You also said that you’d never tell me where Suguru is, and look how that ended up. If edging you until you’re crying and begging is how I’ll get what I want out of you, then we’ll be spending quite a bit of time together until you change your mind.” He kisses you again, then pats your cheek. “Be back soon, pretty girl. Sleep well.”

He leaves, and you groan, thinking of what you can do. You can start looking for a way to escape so you can get to Geto before Gojo does, you can leave the city and never come back.

But you’re so tired. After being edged for hours and having the most intense orgasm of your life, all your body can do is sink deeper into the comfortable sheets.

Fuck, you’re screwed.

#gojo satoru smut #gojo x f!reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #satoru gojo x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #mdni #written by rey <3 #gojo au

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on-a-lucky-tide · 9 months ago

Text

Simon loves being Price's demonstration dummy. He loves the aftermath even more.

cw: sexual content, a horny lieutenant, body worship, oral sex, anal sex.

"Start by securin' a grip on yer opponent's arm with one hand, and use the other hand t' grab their collar or shoulder. Carrier vest works well too."

Simon stood at his captain's side, his body relaxed as he prepared to go airborne in the name of practical demonstration. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't his favourite part of the week... well, that and what always followed.

He watched Price from beneath low lashes, drawing deep, slow breaths through the fabric of his mask, if only to keep his bloody heart from thumping through the wall of his chest in excitement. Price's hands warm and firm against his body even through the cotton of his shirt, and his skin tingled in their wake.

"Step t' the side and lower yer hips while bringin' yer opponent close to ya," Price said, his attention on the new recruits gathered around the mat. Simon didn't resist as his captain drew him close, but he did breathe him in; sweat, deodorant and cologne, a deep musk that gathered at the back of Simon's throat, made his mouth water. Simon wanted to shove his nose into his ruffled hair, underneath his arm, across the ruff of his chest, for that scent to soak through to his bones.

"Yer shoulder should be positioned under their armpit. As ya pull yer opponent forward an' down, rotate yer hips and shoulders into them. Use yer legs t' lift an' drive yer shoulder into their body. Big fuckers like this? You gotta use their weight," Price moved and Simon's feet left the floor, "against 'em."

Simon's back hit the mat, punching a grunt from his chest, and he felt the familiar thrill unfurl down his spine as Price's body crowded over him. He studied the dark v-shape of sweat in the front of his shirt, the glisten of wet up his throat that disappeared into the scruffy stubble of his beard. Fuck, Simon wanted to lick it off him.

"As yer man's thrown, maintain yer grip t' control his fall and prepare for a transition into a dominant position or submission. Grapple, choke. Don't pause t' catch yer breath," he explained, half sprawled over Simon's body, his thick chest pressed to Simon's, so close that Simon felt the vibrations of his voice against him. "Any questions?" There weren't any. "Good. Pair up. Technique over strength."

The squaddies grabbed a buddy and headed to the other mats, and Price looked down at his junior officer's face. "You bulkin'?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. Had to put some welly behind that one," Price said, lopsided grin making Simon want to shove his tongue down his throat. Those blue eyes framed in scruff and laughter lines, the curves beneath his sloped collarbones, the effortless way he had thrown Simon's sizable bulk to the floor, his form perfect, the explosive power in his body exercised with trained precision; everything about him made Simon feral.

The captain rolled to his feet and Simon grabbed the arm he offered down. "Take the four over there. Positioning like that's gonna lead to somethin' tearin'."

"Rog."

Simon wandered over to correct the indicated trainees and Price observed another set. This latest batch were promising, but they were almost skittish in their desperation for approval. More likely to make mistakes and second guess themselves. They needed to relax into it, listen to their instinct over the noise in their head. Simon decided to break the ice with the next demonstration.

It was a simple manoeuvre that tended to be a whole lot of fun to finish the session; the ranger roll. Quick and snappy way to pluck someone from the field and leg it under fire. Price was a pro at it. Simon upped the difficulty by latching onto a nearby bench, locking his legs so that Price flailed on his back halfway through the roll, splayed over Simon's belly with an arm hooked under his knee.

"What the fu--?" Price glanced up, saw Simon's ploy and elbowed him in the gut in retaliation, smirking. "Ya bloody muppet." The recruits laughed, their stances noticeably relaxing as Simon shrugged apologetically. Ice broken. Price rolled to his feet and performed the move again. This time, he lifted Simon from the floor, and Simon draped over his shoulders with a soft, satisfied hum. Fuckin hell, he needed Price on his back, needed those strong thighs around his hips, needed to hear that gruff voice sex-rough, fucked raw.

Simon suffered through another twenty minutes of watching others perform pale imitations of Price, before the captain finally dismissed them to the showers, heading out of the gym to his room.

Simon stayed long enough to ensure no one lingered by the dumb bell rack before swapping out of his boxers and shorts to a pair of grey joggers; he wanted as little between him and his prize as possible. Hands shaking, he knocked at Price's door after pursuing him down the corridors, shouldering his way inside only when Price greeted him from behind it. "Feelin' impatient, Simon?"

Simon watched as Price stripped off, revealing damp curls of chest hair, the sweat-slick curves and slopes of his body, still pumped from exercise, thick and flushed. His mane of brown scruff was ruffled out of place, sticking up in all directions, begging for fingers to grab it, to tug until he was forced to show his throat.

Simon's cock thickened in his joggers, pressing out against the soft grey material, and he folded his mask up above his nose in anticipation. Price chucked his t-shirt onto the floor, standing there in his shorts and nothing else, built like a fuckin greek hero and begging to be defiled, blue eyes dark. "C'mon then, boy. Come get it."

Simon didn't need telling twice. He growled low in his chest and surged forward, barreling Price into his bed, his mouth pressing to his throat as he ground his hip forward between Price's thighs. "Mmf, fuck, yeah," Price moaned, fingernails snagging in Simon's t-shirt as he bucked eagerly.

Price arched, his body begging for worship even if his voice stayed stoic, understated. For now. Simon buried a hand in his hair and pulled his head back, sucking and laving biting kisses down the arch of his throat to his chest, mouthing thick muscle with desperate, wet licks, before sucking a nipple into his mouth with a grateful moan. Price tasted like heaven, raw masculinity and power, and Simon wanted to overwhelm him, overcome the strength roiling beneath his skin, possess it and feel it wrapped around his prick until it yielded to him.

Mine, mine, his mind chanted, his nose burying in Price's armpit as he forced one of Price's arms above his head. Simon ran the flat of his tongue into the groove of it, tip flicking over the veins in his bicep before he sucked kisses into that flesh too. Price gasped, a low, raspy sound deep in his throat, his erection pressing up into Simon's belly, and Simon sank off the edge of the bed as he worked lower.

There was a layer of plush on Price's abdomen and Simon nipped at it, tonguing the trail of hair that disappeared below the waistband of his shorts, before wrenching those down too. Price's full cock bounced free, the slit wet with precum, but Simon ignored it to bury his face in the dark curls around his sac, inhaling the deep musk of him with a feral, half-wild growl.

"Filthy git," Price said through a throaty laugh, only to dissolve in a low moan as Simon sucked, wet and open mouthed, at his balls, teeth threatening tender skin in a way that made Price's cock twitch and throb with arousal. Simon didn't leave him waiting too long, swallowing the thick bulb of his glans to the back of his throat, tongue writhing and wriggling beneath his shaft. Price arched, strong fingers scrunching at Simon's mask and then dropping to grip the blonde tufts that escaped the back of it.

Simon let him fuck up into his mouth, his arms curling around his thighs to pull them apart, Price's heels nudging the backs of his shoulders. It was erotic, the way Price's body moved in search of pleasure, even splayed and vulnerable. His command didn't falter. "Nnh, Simon, fuck, fuck... Yer mouth's a bloody treat, sweet'eart."

Simon growled and pulled off, leaving strings of saliva and cum to trail down his chin to the tip of Price's cock as he stared up the naked length of him to the mischievous blue eyes watching him. Price knew what he was doing. Knew how he was baiting Simon to fuck him until his legs didn't work and his throat was raw from the moaning. Simon's cock ached, the brush of soft fleece enough to make him rut forward against the mattress in search of pleasure. "C'mon, Simon. Fuck me," Price snarled, strong thighs testing Simon's grip on them.

Simon surged up his body to smash their mouths together, teeth catching chapped lips, the taste of copper between them as he snatched the bottle of lube from where Price had chucked it in full anticipation of the railing he was about to receive. Simon squirmed out of his joggers, thick cock rutting into the sweat and spit slick skin of Price's hip, fisting the bed sheets with one hand as he gathered enough self control to tilt to the side and soak his cock in lube. A messy fist smoothed the gel down to the base before gathering Price's legs up his torso, his tip pushing into the snug grip of Price's hole.

"Mmf, fuck, slow, slow... Fuckin hells," Price snarled, nails biting into the side of Simon's neck as Simon quivered under the strain of self control. He rolled his hips in short, measured thrusts, easing in slowly, hunching down to kiss the grimace of concentration off of Price's face.

Simon was a decent length, nothing to sniff at, but it was the girth that truly satisfied, left people wrecked. It had taken previous lovers time to work up to and even Price, practiced and experienced, huffed deep breaths as his body yielded to it. "God bloody fuck, mm..." Price cussed, pushing his head back as he rocked up to meet Simon's hips, sliding himself up and down the full length of him. "Yeah, tha's it, right... Ah, right there, Simon, fuckin... Ah."

He was fucking beautiful like this. Beautiful. There weren't a word that fitted better. Blue eyes misty, his head thrown back, the flush of pleasure down his neck, splashed across his furred chest. His legs spread wide and wanton as Simon's fat cock sank into his greedy hole. Simon wanted to look, but he also wanted to taste, his teeth scraping through the scruff of Price's beard on their way to his neck. The pace was sweet torture, the pleasure curling up his spine, his balls pulled tight, sinking in all the way to the hilt, hoping Price'd be able to feel him in his guts if he thrust deep enough.

"G'wan, fuck me proper, boy," Price rasped, rewarded almost immediately with a firm thrust that startled a yelp out of him. It was all the encouragement Simon needed, gathering Price's legs to his shoulders as he began to piston his hips at a relentless pace, fucking hard and fast into the warm, wet clutch of Price's body.

Simon loved making Price loud, his bitten off cusses peppered with lower moans, gasps that almost bled into whines when Simon found the right angle. It was a complete and utter fracture of his iron control, and Simon revelled in it. His own noises ran away with him; snarls, growls, Price's name, his title, sir. The dizzying pleasure unspooled through him from head to toe, the day's tension burning out of his muscles with every pant of exertion, Price's body milking his cock with the most delicious friction.

Price didn't touch himself. He never did at first. He liked being fucked; liked the way a thick cock felt as it spread him open and pounded his prostate, his hands fisting the bed sheets as he met each thrust, demanding. When Simon shifted onto his feet, curving Price's hips up until he was fucking down into him like an animal mounting a mate, deeper, harder, than before, Price finally fisted his cock in search of his building release.

Simon lost track of anything but the heat of Price's hole, the pulsing clutch of it around his prick, the increasingly desperate noises each of his thrusts punched out of Price's chest. His orgasm curled up his spine, pulling taut in his muscles, his balls high and tight as he held off until the end he desired.

Price's hand stuttered and then he was spilling, thick ropes of cum splashed over his chest and neck, his impressive cock throbbing and flicking in the circle of his fingers as he teased himself through the aftershocks. Simon went to pull out, but Price snarled, "Don't you... fuckin dare. "

It flicked a switch in Simon's head, cut the final thread of a chord that had kept him tethered, and he began to rut like the animal he was. The wet slap of his hips grew louder as he chased his high, Price's groans broken around the pain-pleasure of overstimulation, his hole more lax post orgasm, relaxed, sloppy with lube and precum, the noise of Simon's cock fucking into it as obscene as his command to be bred full that punched out in the next breath. "Fuckin... breed me, Simon."

Simon came with a bitten off shout, grinding down into Price 's body as his balls emptied in hot, heavy pulses. Price moaned, pressing up into Simon's hips, rocking slowly as Simon's stuttering thrusts ended with him staying as deep as he could until his cock had stopped twitching, brimming Price with a week's worth of frustrated build up.

"Fuckin hell," Simon rasped, slumping down onto his elbow as he drew out, satisfied by the wetness that covered Price's thighs in the aftermath, and the puffy redness of his fucked out hole.

"Hope they do," Price murmured, shaking legs dropping off the edge of the bed. Simon slumped onto his back, and Price rolled onto his side, following him. "You broken?"

"Nah. Fuckin knackered."

Price barked a laugh. "Simon 'One Nut Wonder' Riley."

"Fuck off," Simon blustered through a laugh of his own. "Aren't you meant to be gettin' a limp dick at your age anyway?"

"Watch it," Price shot back, but without heat. He patted around blindly for his cigarettes and lighter, striking one up between his lips. He took a toke before passing it across to Simon, who puffed smoke at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"Surprised maintenance haven't beasted you for that smoke alarm yet."

"They'd have to catch me first."

"Wiley bastard."

Price smirked as Simon passed the cigarette back, smoke curling from his nose as they both gazed thoughtfully into the dark above them, comfortable and quiet in the afterglow.

They fucked again a few more times that night; slower, closer to lovers than the raw fuck of earlier, and Simon spooned up behind his captain, thrusting into him as he tenderly kissed his neck, drawing out softer moans and praise. "Yeah, Simon... Mm, fuck, that's, ah, ah, please..." The way Price arched into him, muscular body spreading itself eagerly to be pleasured, gravelly voice demanding and pleading in equal measure, made Simon heady with lust and adoration.

Simon wasn't sure what the fuck they had, what it was called; he knew it was wrong by the standards of the service, but they'd have to pry it out of his cold dead hands.

#captain john price #simon ghost riley #ghostprice #priceghost #cod #call of duty

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seospicybin · 4 months ago

Text

TASTE.

FINAL CHAPTER: TASTE.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (10,2k words)

Author's note: Can't believe it's the end already. Thank you so much to each and everyone of you for following Taste series ♡

Taste. /teɪst/ (n) 1. the sensation of flavor perceived in the mouth 2. a brief experience of something, conveying its basic character.

The first thing Minho ever learns about taste is balance.

A dish can be technically perfect—each ingredient measured with precision, each technique executed flawlessly—but if it lacks harmony, it falls apart. Too much sweetness, and it becomes cloying. Too much salt, and it overwhelms. Too much bitterness, and it alienates the palate.

The key, Chef once told him, is knowing when to lean into one over the other. To understand how the sour sharpens, how the sweet soothes, how the bitter lingers, grounding everything in something real.

Minho spends years mastering that balance in food. He doesn’t realize, until now, that he has never quite mastered it in himself.

The sharpness of ambition pushes him forward, the bitterness of disappointment keeps him guarded, the salt of hard work keeps him steady—but he has never truly let himself indulge in sweetness. Not until you.

And now, as he watches everyone in the kitchen, his chest feels both light and anchored.

For the first time, he isn’t just chasing balance. Minho has found it.

He moves through the kitchen with sharp eyes and precise steps, watching every station like a hawk. The air is thick with heat, the clang of pans and the rhythmic chopping of knives forming a symphony of controlled chaos.

A new order spits out from the machine, and Minho grabs the slip without missing a beat. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the noise.

"Two risottos, one sea bass, one osso buco—fire it now!"

A chorus of Yes, Chef! echoes back as he moves.

"Hyunwoo, take the risottos. Seungwan, the sea bass is yours. Seojun, on the osso buco. Felix, where’s my agnolotti?"

"Coming up now, Chef!"

Minho barely nods before his gaze lands on you. "Hurry up with that basil pesto."

"Yes, Chef!"

The kitchen hums, bodies moving in perfect rhythm, but Minho doesn’t let up. He paces through the space, watching every detail, catching the smallest missteps before they happen.

“Are you all tired yet?” he asks, voice loud enough to cut through the frenzy.

No one answers. They know better. A slow smirk tugs at Minho’s lips. He stops between Hyunwoo and Felix, arms crossed. “This is all your fault.”

Hyunwoo glances at him, amused. “Yes, Chef?”

Minho nods toward the packed dining area beyond the kitchen doors. “All of you. It’s your fault the restaurant is bursting with customers.” He shifts his weight. “It’s your fault that expectations are through the roof.”

Hyunwoo grins. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho continues his path to the entrée line, sharp gaze flickering over the plates in progress. “If anyone screws up, you're all dead.”

Instead of intimidation, the response is instant, almost teasing. "Yes, Chef!"

Minho strides back to his table just as Seojun, Seungwan, and Hyunwoo present their dishes for final inspection. He leans in, taking in the plates, the precise plating, the balance of color and texture. He picks up a fork, slicing into the tender osso buco before taking a bite. A smirk tugs at his lips.

“First-place winners, indeed,” he mutters. Then, louder— “Pass!”

The three of them beam before rushing back to their stations, pride radiating off them.

Minho exhales, just slightly. The chaos, the heat, the relentless push for perfection—this is what a kitchen is supposed to feel like.

It’s exhilarating. Exhausting. Satisfying.

Because this kitchen? It’s his now.

Minho steps out of the restaurant, inhaling the crisp night air. The warmth of the kitchen still clings to his skin, the adrenaline from dinner service not yet fully faded.

He glances up at the restaurant’s facade, eyes landing on the banner draped proudly across the entrance—Congratulations to Farfalle’s Seojun, Park Hyunwoo and Choi Seungwan. Winners of the New Chef Culinary Challenge!

A quiet chuckle escapes him. It's ridiculous, really, but he can't deny the swell of pride in his chest. They earned it.

Shaking his head, Minho turns toward the parking lot, his pace unhurried. He doesn't expect to see anyone waiting, but the moment his eyes land on you, leaning against his car with that familiar, knowing smile, he feels his pulse stutter for a fraction of a second.

You were waiting for him. Your lips curve just a little more as he approaches, the kind of smile that tells him you’ve already decided how this night is going to go. Minho stops right in front of you, gaze flicking down as you reach for the front of his jacket. Your fingers curl into the fabric, tugging him closer—close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath when you finally speak.

"The contest is over," you murmur, voice low, teasing. "You're done helping the team."

Minho tilts his head slightly, watching you, feeling the heat of anticipation coil low in his stomach.

"Which means…" Your fingers tighten ever so slightly against his jacket. "Tonight, I'm taking back what's mine."

A smirk ghosts over his lips. The thrill of competition, the rush of victory—none of it compares to the way you look at him now.

Minho isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. But he can’t wait to find out.

The second the door clicks shut behind you, Minho barely has time to react before you shove him backward. His back hits the sofa, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he watches you climb onto his lap, your eyes dark with intent.

You waste no time, crashing your lips against his, the kiss hungry, urgent. Your hands are already working open the buttons of his shirt, fingers quick, almost impatient, as if you've waited too long for this moment. Minho lets you take control, but his own hands aren't idle—they move instinctively, sliding over your waist, your back, gripping and tracing every inch of you he can reach.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of late nights at the restaurant, weeks of stolen glances, of tension thick enough to cut with a knife. And now, finally, there's no more waiting.

Minho exhales sharply against your lips, tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his fingers tighten on your hips. He can feel the heat radiating off you, the way your body presses so perfectly against his.

God, he missed this. Missed you. And now, he’s not holding back.

Minho groans into the kiss as your fingers finally push his shirt open, sliding over the exposed skin of his chest. His hands tighten on your waist before gliding up your back, pulling you even closer until there’s no space left between you.

Your lips move hungrily against his, tongues tangling, breaths mingling. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his fingers trailing down your spine, reveling in the way you shiver under his touch. His grip grows firmer as he shifts beneath you, the heat between you both rising with every second.

You break away just enough to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his as your fingers lazily trace patterns on his chest. Minho smirks, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingertips teasing over your skin.

“You’ve been waiting for this, huh?” he murmurs, voice husky, his breath warm against your lips.

“Tell that to yourself,” You teasingly respond before pressing another kiss, slower this time, but just as intense. Minho groans softly, his hands exploring, savoring the feeling of you, the way you melt into him so effortlessly.

The night is just beginning but Minho’s hands are impatient now, his fingers slipping beneath your clothes, rough and eager. You gasp against his lips as he tugs at your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift motion before tossing it aside. His eyes darken as he takes you in, a smirk curling on his lips.

“God, you're perfect,” he murmurs, voice thick with want, but you don’t give him a chance to say more—you crash your lips back onto his as your hips beginning to move, grinding on his growing bulge.

Minho groans as your hands explore his chest, nails scraping lightly over his skin. His own hands travel down your back, gripping you tight as he shifts beneath you, his body pressing insistently against yours.

You grip his shoulder as you grin harder, your heating core making friction with his crotch. The heat between you is undeniable, every touch electric, every kiss more desperate than the last.

You slow down as you drag your lips down his neck and before he knows it, you get up from his lap. You stand in between his spreading legs, your eyes locked in a steady gaze as you unzip the zipper of your skirt and then letting it drops, pooling around your ankle before you kick it aside.

You bend down and put your hands on each of his knees, leaning in until your lips meet his in a rapturous open kiss. You let go of his lips only to continue making a trail of hot kisses down his body and then, before he knows it, you drop to your knees.

You look through your lashes as your fingers move to his belt, tugging it free with a satisfying snap. Minho flashes you a sly smirk as you slowly pull the zipper down and then roughly pulls the front of his jeans.

“Impatient, are we?” he teases, though his own hand is just as eager as he grabs you by the neck.

You pull his cock out of its confine, you gasp at how hot, how stiff he is in your hand. You slowly stroking it, once in a while, your gently rub the head with your thumb before giving it the gentlest of kitten lick but it's enough to make Minho gets hot all over. His ear, his chest, parts of his body reddening as desire makes his skin flushed.

His other hand reaches for your jaw, he tilts your head toward him and then shoves his thumb into your mouth. Your lips automatically wrapped around it, sucking and twirling your tongue around it. It gives him an idea what your mouth feels like and it gets him impatient.

Minho roughly pulls his thumb out of your mouth, sending a string of saliva dripping down your chin but instead of wiping it off, you grin at him and open your mouth wider. Then slowly, you bring your head lower as you aim his cock into your mouth.

“Think you can take it, mmh?” his voice is dripping with condescension.

You take him little by little. You take a second to adjust yourself before taking more of him. You pull away when it gets too much and doing it all over again.

Minho can’t decide which one is hotter: Watching you pleasing him with your mouth or how eager you are to please him.

He grabs the stray hairs covering your face and gathering it at the back of your head, one hand holds firmly holds it, forming a makeshift ponytail. That way, he can watches your lips wrapped so beautifully around his cock.

“Come on, you can take a little more,” his voice is low, husky and assertive.

You tilt your head a little to the side and take him up on his challenge, taking more of him until Minho feels nothing but the back of your throat. Your hand compensate the rest you can't take.

“Now, let's see what that pretty mouth can do,” he sighs, tugging at your hair a little harder.

You sync your mouth and hand movements and eventually finds the rhythm that makes Minho’s eyea fluttering shut, intoxicated by the way your mouth feels around him. Low grunts spilling out of his slightly parted open mouth. He must admits that you're too good at it.

You stop when he's close enough to the edge and gasp for air, you don't bother with the saliva dribble down your chin so Minho wipes it for you. Then without hesitation, he plants a kiss on your open mouth.

He pulls away but he keeps cradling your head in both hands and mutters, “You look pretty like this.”

He helps you get on your feet and wastes no time tugging his fingers on the elastic band of your underwear. He looks up at you but his hands are pulling your underwear down your legs. He then lifts your leg, resting the sole of your feet next to his thigh.

He begins by placing fluttering kisses on your inner thighs and not stopping until his mouth meets the source of heat. Gosh, you taste so sweet, so intoxicating that Minho buries his mouth deeper in your wetness.

You moan with your head lolling to the side, your hand is tangled in his dark locks while the other is gripping at his shoulder. In no time, Minho succeed on making your legs trembling that you end up on his lap again.

You prop your knees on the sofa, giving you the space to align his cock with your entrance before you slowly lower yourself on him.

“Oh...” your moan is low and sultry, it goes on until you take all of him.

Minho plants a haste kiss on your neck and then presses his mouth close to your ear. “You feel so fucking good,” his voice strained, as if overwhelmed by what he's feeling physically.

He slumps lower on the sofa, allowing you to drop your hands on his knees and plant your feet on the sofa. That way, you're free to move against him, bouncing on his cock and at the same time, giving him the best view of his cock slipping in and out of you.

“Keep going,” he sighs in between his breathless grunts, “You’re fucking me so good. Don't stop.”

You keep going for a few moments until you tire yourself out and you're settling down onto his back. Minho immediately wrapped his arms around you tightly as he starts bucking his hips down from under you.

The world narrows down to just the two of you—skin against skin, breath mingling in the space between kisses. Minho’s hands grip your waist, guiding you, his touch firm yet reverent, like he’s memorizing every part of you. The rhythm is unspoken but understood, each movement drawing you closer, deepening the connection between you.

And then, in the midst of it all, something shifts. A sudden rush of emotion wells up in your chest, raw and overwhelming. Your hands find his face, cupping his cheeks as you slow down, locking eyes with him. Minho’s gaze softens, the heat in them replaced with something deeper, something that steals the breath from your lungs.

"I love you," you whisper, voice barely audible but carrying all the weight of your feelings.

For a moment, Minho stills. His expression changes—something flickers behind his eyes, something unguarded, completely open. Then, his lips part, his voice hushed yet firm. "I love you."

His hands tighten on your hips, not possessive, but grounding, as if anchoring himself in this moment. He pulls you down into a kiss that’s different from the ones before—not rushed, not desperate, but filled with something far more intimate.

The movements between you grow softer, slower, every touch lingering, every breath shared. It’s no longer just about the heat or the need—it’s about this, about the way you fit together, about the way your hearts seem to beat in sync.

And as Minho presses his forehead against yours, whispering your name like a prayer, you know—this moment, this feeling, is something neither of you will ever forget.

There’s no space between you now, nothing but heat and breathless laughter, the two of you tangled together, lost in the moment as the world outside ceases to exist.

The warmth of Minho’s body lingers against yours as you lie tangled together on the sofa, skin still burning from the passion of moments before. His lips trace lazy, playful kisses along your neck and chest, his soft laughter vibrating against your skin as he intentionally tickles you with them.

You giggle, half-heartedly pushing him away. “Minho, stop,” you murmur, breathless.

He only chuckles before relenting, his eyes gleaming with mischief. You take a moment to simply look at him—his tousled hair, the sharp yet delicate angles of his face, the way his lips curve into the slightest smirk even when he isn’t trying. Every detail of him is unfairly beautiful. You’ve always thought so, but in moments like this, when he’s bare before you, when his body is still marked by the traces of your touch, you can’t help but admire him more.

Minho is sculpted like something divine, every line and ridge of muscle seamlessly carved into perfection. The sharp planes of his collarbones, the expanse of his chest, the flex of his abdomen as he shifts beside you—it’s mesmerizing. And his face… god, his face. Even when he’s teasing you, even when he’s looking at you like he knows exactly how much power he holds over you, you can’t bring yourself to look away.

You reach up, running your fingers along his jaw, and suggest, “Wine?”

Minho pecks your lips before pulling away. “I’ll get it,” he offers, and without a second thought, he gets up, not bothering to cover himself.

Your gaze follows him, utterly shameless as he walks toward the kitchen. You could watch him for hours—the way the light catches his skin, the strong lines of his back, the easy confidence in every step he takes. He is a masterpiece, and you drink him in like he’s the finest piece of art you’ve ever seen.

Minho glances back and catches you staring. His lips curl into a knowing smirk. “Stop staring, you perv!”

You grin, shaking your head in defiance. “Never.”

He scoffs and turns away, busying himself with picking a bottle of wine from his collection. You sit up, pulling the quilt from the other end of the sofa to wrap around yourself, and in the process, your elbow knocks something off the coffee table. A soft thud follows, and when you glance down, your eyes land on a large brown envelope. Your stomach drops.

Italy. The address on the front is unmistakable.

A sinking feeling settles in your chest as you reach for it, your fingers trembling slightly. You don’t need to read much to understand what it is. A contract. Minho’s name in bold. An offer from Paolo’s, the world renowned Italian restaurant.

Which only means that Minho is leaving.

Your heart clenches painfully, but you quickly put the papers back into the envelope just as Minho returns, a bottle of wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. His eyes flicker to you immediately, and for a second, the room feels heavier. He sees you putting the envelope back, and you know that he knows.

Forcing a smile, you reach to take the glasses from him. He says nothing, just watches you as he removes the cork, the rich scent of wine filling the air. But it’s not enough to distract you.

As he pours the deep red liquid into your glass, you keep your voice light, casual. “Paolo scouted you, huh?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, he wants me in his kitchen.”

You take a sip before asking, “Does that mean you’re going to Italy?”

Minho brings his own glass to his lips, pausing before replying. “Do you want me to go?”

The weight pressing against your chest is suffocating. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “As your girlfriend, I wish you wouldn’t,” you admit softly, keeping your grip on the glass firm. “But as a chef… you should go.”

Minho smirks, lips curving just enough to taunt. “Ah... You want it both ways.”

A breathy, shaky chuckle escapes you. “I guess I do.” Then, barely above a whisper, you ask, “So… that means you’re going?”

Minho takes another slow sip before nodding.

You knew this was coming. You expected this. But still, the confirmation stings like an open wound. You force a smile, hoping it hides the ache beneath. “If I were you, I’d go too.”

He watches you carefully, his gaze unreadable.

You swallow hard and meet his eyes. “You have to be good to me until then.”

His smirk returns, but there’s something softer in his expression. You add quickly, “And I’ll be good to you too.”

He nods, but as you look at him, the weight of it all—the inevitable goodbye, the time slipping away—becomes too much. Your eyes sting before you can stop them, and the first tear escapes, sliding down your cheek. You quickly brush it away, rough and careless, but more follow.

Minho moves closer, his hands reaching for you with the gentleness that always undoes you. He tilts your face up, his thumbs sweeping away the tears with careful strokes. His voice is quiet when he says, “Don’t cry.”

You nod quickly, even as more tears slip free. You offer a small, trembling smile. “I’m just happy for you.”

And you are.

But your heart… your heart is breaking.

Minho sets the last plate down on the dining table, the smell of freshly cooked breakfast filling the kitchen. Everything is ready—the only thing left to do is wake you up.

He walks toward the bedroom, but as he reaches the doorway, he stops. You’re still curled up on the bed, bundled in the duvet, your breathing soft and steady in sleep.

Last night’s conversation replays in his mind, the weight of it settling heavy in his chest. The next second, his jaw tightens when he remembered the one thing that nags at him.

“She didn’t even try to stop me from going,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and bitter.

A scoff leaves his lips before he strides toward the bed. He grabs your foot, giving it a firm tug, just enough to jolt you from your sleep. Your head slumps down against the pillow, and a sleepy murmur escapes you as you stir. Slowly, you blink your eyes open, meeting his gaze.

Minho’s voice is cold. “Wake up. Breakfast is ready.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves the bedroom, heading back to the kitchen. The moment he steps away from you, he exhales sharply, as if the air in that room had been suffocating him. He pours two mugs of coffee, the steam curling up in delicate wisps, but his expression remains tense.

It’s only after a short moment that he hears your footsteps. You emerge from the room, wearing his shirt, the fabric hanging loosely around you. Minho doesn’t react, even as you step close and press a quick kiss to his cheek before murmuring a soft, “Good morning.”

You take a seat at the dining table, and the sight of the breakfast spread makes you gasp. “Wow,” you say teasingly, picking up your coffee. “What’s the occasion?”

Minho settles into the chair across from you, leaning back slightly. His tone is casual, but there’s an edge of something unreadable in his eyes. “You asked me to be good to you,” he says simply.

You chuckle at that, taking a careful sip of your coffee before setting the mug down. As you pick up your fork, you glance at him and say, “I just remembered that I have to go somewhere today.”

Minho lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t let his curiosity show. Instead, he keeps his tone indifferent. “Eat your breakfast before you go.”

You take a moment to chew, then look at him again. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Minho tilts his head slightly, pretending to be disinterested. “Where?”

“I’m looking for apartments.”

His fingers tighten around the handle of his coffee mug. He still doesn’t look at you. “Why?”

“Chef Sara is moving out soon,” you explain, setting your fork down. “And I can’t afford the rent by myself.”

Minho’s next words come out without much thought, his voice calm, almost nonchalant. “You don’t have to worry about the rent if you come with me to Italy.”

Silence lingers between you. Then, you smile—small, knowing, a little sly. “Come on. Just come with me,” you say softly.

Minho exhales through his nose, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He doesn’t have anything better to do today anyway. “Fine.”

Minho lets himself be dragged through yet another apartment viewing, barely paying attention as the property agent talks through the details. He already knows you’re not going to take it—your face gives everything away. The moment you saw the kitchen, your enthusiasm faded, your disappointment barely masked by the polite nods you kept giving.

Then, the property agent, oblivious to the way Minho is barely tolerating this whole ordeal, suddenly comments, “It’s a little small for two people.”

Minho barely has time to react before you loop your arm around his, leaning into him with a sweet, practiced smile. “It’s fine,” you say smoothly. “We’re in love, so the small space doesn’t matter.”

Minho stiffens slightly, caught off guard by the sudden declaration, but the property agent only smiles bashfully, nodding in agreement. “Ah, of course. Love makes everything easier.”

Minho resists the urge to roll his eyes.

When the agent asks if you’re interested in any of the places he showed you, you respond with yet another polite smile. “We’ll take our time considering it.”

Minho bites back a sigh of relief when you finally part ways with the property agent, the two of you walking back toward where his car is parked. As you keep your arm linked with his, Minho glances at you, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You’re dragging me around so I’ll lend you money, aren’t you?”

Your eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “How did you know?”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

You hum, as if you’re genuinely considering it. “Should I look around Taesoo’s neighborhood instead?”

“It’s all the same,” Minho mutters.

You suddenly stop walking and let out a dramatic pout. “Then I don’t think I can afford anywhere else.”

Then, just as Minho is about to remind you again that you don’t have to, you turn to him, your voice casual—too casual.

“I think I’ll go to Italy with you.”

Minho freezes. His breath catches slightly, but his expression remains neutral. He blinks at you, processing what you just said before responding. “What?”

You give him a small, knowing smile. “At least in Italy, I can stay with you. Right, Chef?”

Minho’s heart stutters in his chest. He doesn’t want to react too quickly, doesn’t want to get ahead of himself—so he asks, voice steady but probing, “Do you really mean that?”

You hold his gaze for a second, then, without a word, you slowly let go of his arm. Then you shrug, nonchalant as ever, and turn away, walking off as if you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on him.

Minho’s eye twitches. “You—stop right there.”

You don’t. Instead, you keep walking, laughing under your breath.

Minho doesn’t think. He just starts chasing after you. “Why do you keep changing your mind?” he shouts, exasperated.

You don’t answer, just laugh again, quickening your pace.

Minho curses under his breath but can’t stop the small smirk forming on his lips as he picks up his speed, determined to catch you.

Once the dining hall is finally empty, you allow yourself a moment to relax. Sitting at the coffee station, you stack your hands together and rest your head on top of them, sighing deeply as you let the exhaustion of the day seep out of you.

A while later, Minho joins you, settling on a stool just one seat away. You lift your head, smiling despite your fatigue, and in your most professional tone, you tell him, “You did a good job today, Chef.”

Minho scoffs, eyes flicking away from you. His voice carries a quiet bitterness as he mutters, “I’m going to leave, and you don’t even seem to care.”

You bite back the urge to tease him, watching him sulk like a child. Instead, you soften your expression and say, “I do care about you.”

Minho looks at you for a second, as if assessing the sincerity of your words, before looking away again, unconvinced. You lean forward against the counter, tilting your head as you ask, “Do you know when I first started caring about you?”

Minho’s curiosity piques. He turns his head slightly toward you. “When?”

For the first time ever, you decide to reveal it. Meeting his gaze, you say, “It was back in culinary school, during one of our earlier classes. You helped me French trim a lamb rack.”

Minho frowns, visibly confused.

You smile at his reaction and continue, “That’s how I fell for you.”

Minho's eyes widen slightly, but he says nothing.

You lean your elbow on the counter, propping your chin in your palm. “All the other guys kept telling me I was doing it wrong, but you were the only one who actually showed me how.” A small, nostalgic laugh escapes you. “I was so nervous, I couldn’t even look you in the eyes.”

Minho’s lips twitch, the corners threatening to curl upward. He props a hand under his chin and asks, “So… was it love at first sight for you?”

You nod, smiling.

Minho's smirk deepens, the amusement clear in his gaze. “Really?” he presses, as if trying to tease a different answer out of you.

“Yes.” You nod again, this time more confidently. “That’s when I started caring about you.”

You pout slightly, feigning disappointment. “But you don’t even remember that day. You only started caring about me recently.”

Minho opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, a new voice enters the conversation.

Chris slides onto the empty stool between you and Minho, effectively cutting off your moment. He swivels to face you, giving Minho his back. “So,” Chris starts, his tone light and playful, “should we do something fun this weekend?”

Behind him, you hear Minho scoff, but Chris ignores it. “Is there anything you want to do?”

You think for a moment, then shake your head. “Uhm... not really.”

Chris hums, unfazed. “Then, maybe there’s somewhere you want to go?”

Minho lets out a sharp breath before finally breaking his silence. “Hey, Chris—Manager Bang,” he calls coldly.

Chris finally turns to face him.

Minho stares at him, unimpressed. “You seem rather pleased that I’m going to Italy.”

Chris shrugs. “You’re going to work at one of the best Italian restaurants. Of course, I’m pleased.” Then, with a grin, he adds, “And while you’re gone, I’ll take care of her for you.”

Minho’s expression darkens, irritation clear in his posture. Without another word, he gets up from his stool. “You two go ahead and talk. Do whatever you want,” he mutters. “Leave me out of it.”

Then, just before leaving, he shoots you a glare, as if blaming you for the entire conversation.

Once he’s gone, Chris leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “It’s not like him to leave us alone.”

You let out a dry chuckle and rest your hands on the counter again.

Chris watches you for a moment before sighing. “You’re right, though. I like that we don’t feel awkward around each other… but it must be different for you.”

You shake your head, quickly denying it. “It’s not that. It's just... I don’t get Minho sometimes.”

Chris gestures for you to lean in closer. Without questioning it, you do. Lowering his voice, Chris says, “I bet he’s not actually going to Italy.”

You blink, pulling back slightly. “Huh?”

Chris nods toward the direction Minho walked off in. “He hasn’t been acting like himself. It’s obvious to me.”

Your forehead wrinkles in confusion. “He doesn’t seem that way to me.”

Chris lets out a small chuckle before draping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close until your heads are touching. “If it were me, I wouldn’t want to go either,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t want to be far away from someone I love.”

The way he says it makes sense, but at the same time, it’s Minho. Who knows how his mind works?

Chris suddenly grins and holds his hand out toward you. “Come on. Let’s bet on it.”

You roll your eyes but ultimately shrug and take his hand, sealing the bet.

You don’t notice Minho carrying anything until the two of you step out of the car, and you see a paper bag in his hand. He doesn’t mention it, and you don’t ask, leading the way to your dad’s house instead. Letting yourself in, you call out for your dad from the foyer. When no response comes, you sigh and drag Minho inside with you.

Turns out, your dad is in the kitchen, busy preparing food. “Dad?”You call for him again, and this time, he finally looks up—first at you, then at Minho.

Minho quickly straightens, offering a polite nod and a greeting. “Hello, sir. How are you?”

Your dad doesn’t bother replying, only narrowing his eyes at you before grumbling, “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful.”

You roll your eyes but move to help, expecting Minho to follow. Before he can, though, your dad gestures for him to sit instead. You suppress a laugh at the way Minho hesitates, clearly uncertain, before reluctantly taking a seat at the dining table.

While you work, you sneak glances at them. Minho shifts uncomfortably in his seat before finally handing your dad the paper bag. “I brought this for you, sir,” he says. “It’s supposed to be good for your health.”

Your dad eyes the gift before scoffing. “I heard you're going somewhere?”

Minho’s gaze flickers to you, just for a second, but it’s enough to make you feel guilty. You never told him you mentioned Italy to your dad. He nods politely. “Yes, sir.”

Your dad sets the bag aside, uninterested. “And what about the two of you?”

You cut in, setting the first dish on the table. “We’re still working together in Farfalle, dad,” you say quickly.

Your dad ignores you, keeping his focus on Minho. “So, you’re breaking up?”

You and Minho exchange an uneasy glance, but before either of you can answer, your dad presses further. “If you’re breaking up, why’d you come here?”

Minho clears his throat and forces a polite smile. “We aren’t completely breaking up, sir,” he answers carefully.

Not liking where this conversation is heading, you hurry to set the rest of the food on the table and put an end to it. “Let’s have dinner first,” you say firmly, patting Minho’s thigh under the table as a silent reassurance. He softens slightly, but his posture remains stiff, and you have to bite back a laugh.

Your dad nods. “Let’s eat.”

Minho, still tense, mutters a quick, “Thank you for the food, sir.”

Your dad doesn’t respond. Instead, he watches Minho intently as he takes his first bite. Minho chews carefully, clearly aware of the scrutiny.

Your dad leans back in his chair. “Should I cook it again?”

Minho’s eyes widen slightly, and he swallows quickly. “No, sir. It’s fine.”

Your dad clicks his tongue. “You can just say it.”

Minho shakes his head, taking another bite. “No, really, it’s good.”

Your dad smirks. “You can say no, but you can’t say it’s delicious.”

Minho chews faster, then swallows hard. “It’s delicious, sir.”

Your dad raises a brow. “So, did I pass your test?”

You groan, reaching over to squeeze your dad’s arm. “Dad! Can you stop?”

Desperate to shift the mood, you grab the wine and fill everyone’s glass, hoping it’ll help things settle. But of course, your dad isn’t done yet.

Halfway through dinner, he turns to Minho again. “What’s better about you than my daughter?” he asks bluntly. “Besides being a chef.”

Minho straightens slightly but doesn’t answer right away.

Your dad continues, “She’s going to be a chef too, eventually. And when that happens, you’re out.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Dad, please—”

Minho speaks up before you can stop him. “Not everyone can be a chef, sir.”

Your dad scoffs. “If everyone else can, why can’t she?”

Silence.

Your dad clicks his tongue. “I sent her to Italy to become a classical pianist, and what did she do? Went to culinary school behind my back. And now, after all that, she still can’t be a chef?” He shakes his head. “Pathetic.”

You stiffen, barely daring to look at Minho. You clasp your hands together under the table, feeling embarrassed with what your dad has just revealed to Minho.

Your dad chuckles humorlessly. “She didn’t have a problem not contacting me for years. I doubt she’ll have a problem being away from you.”

You glare at him, but when you finally sneak a glance at Minho, he’s already looking at you—sharp, unreadable.

Your dad sighs dramatically and gestures toward the liquor cabinet. “Bring me the bottle of liquor.”

You cross your arms. “You shouldn't be drinking, dad. It's—”

Your dad scowls. “Just do what I said.”

Not wanting to argue, you push yourself up from your seat and make your way to the cabinet, grateful for the excuse to hide—for just a little while.

It’s only been—what, five glasses? Maybe six? Minho isn’t counting, but he knows he’s one drink away from crossing the line into being properly drunk. Before that happens, he pushes himself up from his seat and mutters, “Bathroom.”

You glance at him before pointing down the hall. “End of the hall to the left.”

Minho nods and makes his way there, feeling the slight unsteadiness in his steps. Inside, he leans over the sink, twisting the tap and letting the cold water run over his fingers before splashing it onto his face. He exhales sharply, gripping the edges of the sink as he stares at his reflection. His head is buzzing, and he needs to clear it.

A few minutes pass before he leaves the bathroom, but just as he’s about to step into the living room, he hears your voice—low and sharp.

“You shouldn’t be drinking that much.”

Your dad scoffs. “Why do you care?”

Minho freezes in the hallway. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but then your dad’s voice lowers, his words slurring slightly.

“If you love him so much,” he mutters, “why are you letting him go?”

Minho’s fingers twitch at his sides. He should walk in. He should make his presence known. But he stays put.

There’s a pause before you reply, your voice quieter now. “Why? Do you not want me to lose him? Is that it, dad?”

Your dad lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You’re not exactly a great catch.”

Minho frowns.

Your dad sighs heavily. “Someone has to take care of you when I’m gone. Who else would do that? Who else but Minho?”

Silence.

Then, your voice—soft, wounded. “Why would you say that, dad?”

Your dad exhales, long and tired. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I just… I miss your mother so much.”

Minho swallows, his chest suddenly tight. If he steps out now, he’ll be interrupting something—something raw, something unspoken between you and your father. So he lingers a moment longer before quietly making his way back to the living room.

The moment you see him, you straighten, forcing a small smile. “I’ll get my dad to bed,” you say.

Minho glances at your dad—head slumped, completely knocked out—and shakes his head. “I’ll do it.”

He carefully lifts your dad, guiding him to his room. By the time he returns, you’re already clearing the table, stacking plates onto the counter. Without a word, Minho joins you, gathering the empty glasses and wiping down the dining table.

You move on to the dishes while he puts the leftovers into containers. The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of running water and the occasional clink of plates. There’s an understanding between you, a rhythm in the way you move together, no words needed. But Minho speaks anyway.

“So...” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “You weren’t exactly slacking off.”

You don’t turn to him, but he catches the small smile on your lips. “Yeah,” you say. “I was juggling between music school and culinary school back then.”

Minho exhales, leaning against the counter. “And the guys everyone thought you were dating?”

You shake your head. “Friends from music school who helped me practice for recitals.”

Minho nods slowly, taking in the weight of these small revelations, these pieces of you he didn’t have before. He slides these pieces into place and it's all clear to him now.

Once the food is stored away, he steps closer. Without thinking, he slides his arms around you, pressing himself against your back. He dips his head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your head before murmuring, “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer right away. You just nod. But Minho knows better. Your silence says more than words could, so he tightens his arms around you, lowering his head to place another kiss on your neck.

You stop washing the dishes abruptly. The water continues running, but your hands are still. Then, in a voice so quiet he almost misses it, you whisper, “I can’t leave my dad... again.”

Minho doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. And in that moment, he finally understands.

Minho stirs awake, his eyes still heavy with sleep. The room is dim, the early light barely slipping through the curtains. He blinks up at the ceiling, exhaustion weighing on him—not just from lack of sleep, but from the thoughts that kept him awake through the night.

You’re curled up beside him, lost in dreams, breathing softly against his arm. He watches you, taking in the peaceful rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers are lightly curled against his sheets. And then, like every night before, the same question echoes in his mind.

Am I really going to leave this?

Just the thought of it makes his chest tighten. His arm moves before he even thinks, wrapping around you, pulling you close as if holding you tighter will somehow anchor him here, keep him from drifting away. The idea of losing you—it’s unbearable.

Minho exhales, pressing a soft kiss to your lips and in that quiet moment, he makes up his mind.

With another lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, he carefully untangles himself from you, slipping out of bed. He pulls on a shirt and pads barefoot into the living room. His eyes land on the envelope lying untouched on the coffee table, the same one he’s been avoiding. He picks it up, running his thumb over the edge before taking a deep breath and stepping outside.

He stops at a door next and presses the doorbell. It takes a moment, but soon, the door swings open, revealing Sara. She blinks at him, then offers a soft, knowing smile. “If you’re looking for her, she didn’t come home last night.”

Minho smirks. “I know. She’s with me.”

Sara flashes him a knowing smile and Minho doesn’t give her time to tease him before handing her the envelope. “Here. You should go instead of me. You'll be better at it,” he says simply.

Sara glances down, recognizing the weight of what he’s holding out to her. Her brows furrow, and when she meets his eyes, there’s disbelief in hers. “Paolo’s? Haven't you always wanted to work there?”

Minho shrugs. “Not anymore. I think I like Farfalle better than world-famous restaurants.”

Sara exhales a short chuckle, tilting her head. “Because of her?”

Minho’s answer is immediate. “It’s far more than just her.”

Sara shakes her head slightly, pressing the envelope to her chest. “Minho, I don’t think it’s a good time for me right now. Not when I'm... like this.”

His brows knit together. “What do you mean? Like this?”

Sara’s fingers tighten on the envelope. “Like this. All broken up.”

Minho scoffs. “What’s broken? Your hands? Your tongue?” He nods toward the envelope. “As long as your hands and tongue are fine, what more do you need as a chef?”

Sara lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s tinged with something fragile. “I should at least be better than what I am right now.”

Minho gestures toward the envelope. “Then be quick about it. This spot won’t open and wait for you forever.” He holds her gaze for a beat longer, a silent challenge in his expression, before turning and heading back to his apartment.

Minho feels a lot lighter because it's all up to her now. Whether Sara takes it or not, he believes she'll make the right decision.

The moment he returns to his apartment, warmth settles in his chest. He walks into the bedroom and finds you exactly as he left you—still curled up, still lost in dreams. A small smile tugs at his lips as he sits on the edge of the bed, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

He tenderly cups your jaw, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek and suddenly, your eyes flutter open. The moment you see him, that familiar softness fills them, the warmth that makes everything else fade away.

“Morning,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. You lean into his touch and close your eyes for a brief moment.

Minho only smirks in response, but he keeps cradling your face like it's a fragile object.

You stretch slightly, then give him a lazy smile. “Breakfast?”

Minho raises a brow. “Are you asking me to cook breakfast?”

You shamelessly nod and grin, your fingers lightly tracing the evident vein on his forearm.

He scoffs. “Are you saying you'll never cook for your boyfriend?”

Still drowsy, you playfully reply, “Why should I cook when I have a boyfriend who's a chef?”

Minho huffs, amused, but the smirk on his lips softens as he leans down. He kisses you—slow, deep, lingering. A kiss that says everything he hasn’t put into words yet.

Then, with a sleepy smile, you murmur, “Not just a chef. My boyfriend is the best chef in the world.”

You don’t even seem to notice the way he falters. You just keep looking at him, all warmth and certainty, like calling him the best chef in the world is the simplest truth.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to brush it off. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.

You grin up at him. “I mean it. The best chef.”

Minho doesn’t know why that gets to him the way it does. Maybe it’s because he’s spent his whole life proving himself in the kitchen, fighting for recognition, never feeling like it’s enough. But you—you say it so easily, so sincerely, like you’ve never once doubted it.

He swallows, unable to stop the way his body softens against you. Instead of a snarky remark, instead of brushing it off with an eye roll, he just looks at you, something unbearably tender in his gaze.

And then he kisses you again. Slower this time, deeper. Like he’s sealing this moment, like he’s trying to make you understand that he’s here, he’s staying, he’s yours.

When he finally pulls away, he lingers, his lips ghosting over yours as he whispers, “I’ll cook breakfast.”

And just like that, he knows—there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Minho raps his knuckles against Chris’s office door before pushing it open, stepping inside without waiting for an answer. Chris barely glances up, finishing the last strokes of his signature on a document before setting his pen down and gesturing toward the chair across from his desk.

"Have a seat, Chef," Chris says, standing as Minho lowers himself into the chair. Instead of staying behind his desk, Chris moves to the single sofa facing him, his posture more relaxed than usual.

"I was just about to bring this up with you," Chris begins. "We need to start looking for new cooks."

Minho nods, his voice calm. "I’ll take care of it."

Chris tilts his head slightly, a sly smile creeping onto his lips as he leans back against the cushions. "Are you only going to hire men this time, Chef?"

Minho barely reacts, only giving a dismissive glance. "I told you, I’ll take care of it."

Chris hums, but there’s something sharper in his expression now, something more observant. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies Minho. "Does this mean you've decided not to go to Italy?"

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets a smirk play on his lips—subtle, but just enough.

Chris catches it immediately. His grin widens, and he leans back again with a muttered, "I win the bet."

Minho’s eyebrows pull together slightly. Of all the reactions he expected, Chris being happy wasn’t one of them. He tilts his head. "Did you just say something?"

Chris waves him off with a flick of his hand. "Nothing."

Minho eyes him for a second longer, but Chris shifts gears, settling back into his usual professional demeanor. "Chef, I know you have the authority to make the hiring decisions," Chris says. "I trust you with that. But I’d like you to keep me updated now and then."

Minho raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Chris exhales, resting an ankle over his knee. "I know the kitchen is yours, and I have no intention of interfering or challenging you. This is purely for the sake of the restaurant. From now on, let's be open about what kind of strategy you're running back there."

Minho narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. "Since when did you get so interested in what happens in the kitchen?"

Chris smiles—not his usual smug smirk, but something softer. "Since it became clear to me that people are more important than money."

Minho watches him for a long moment, weighing his words. He finds, much to his own surprise, that he doesn’t immediately feel the usual irritation toward Chris.

Instead, he nods, just once and maybe, just maybe, Chris is not as annoying as he thought.

The kitchen is alive with movement, the clang of metal against metal, the sizzle of hot oil, the rhythmic chopping of knives. Heat radiates from the stoves, from the bodies moving in sync, from the sheer force of effort that everyone is putting into the final push of the night. Minho reads the orders, his voice sharp and clear above the chaos, but beneath it, there's something deeper—something that makes his chest tighten as he shouts encouragements, urging them to finish strong.

The last dishes land on the chef’s table. Minho stabs the final ticket onto the board. The printer hums softly for a second, and then he turns it off. Silence washes over the kitchen—not complete, but significant. He looks around, at the people who have worked beside him, sweated through long hours, fought through exhaustion, and created something brilliant night after night.

"This is it," Minho announces, his voice carrying through the space. "This is our last order of the day—and the last in this kitchen for some of us."

His eyes find the entrée line—Seojun, Seungwan, Hyunwoo. Soon, they'll be gone, off to Italy to study, to chase something bigger. Minho lets that reality settle for a moment before continuing.

"Before we close for good tonight, I want everyone to prepare their final dish for our VIP guests." He looks at each of them, his gaze firm but full of meaning. "Make it your best."

A chorus of voices rises in response. "Yes, Chef!"

The energy shifts—not somber, not sad, but determined. Minho calls out the orders, listing the best of what they can offer, then gives the signal. "You may start!"

And just like that, the kitchen comes alive again.

This time, as Minho walks through the stations, it feels different. It’s not about control or perfection—it’s about seeing them, about feeling the weight of everything they’ve built together.

He stops by Felix’s station, watching as he twirls fresh pasta in a pan with practiced ease. "Looking good," Minho comments.

Felix grins, focused but pleased. "Thank you, Chef."

At your station, he watches you work, the effortless way you shake the frying pans, flipping the ingredients with precision. You meet his gaze, and he gives you an impressed smile. Before he can say anything, Taesoo, watching you in awe, blurts out, "Chef, can you teach me to shake frying pans like that?"

Minho raises an eyebrow at him. "That depends on you."

Taesoo groans. "Just say yes or no!"

Minho flicks his forehead hard enough that Taesoo yelps in pain.

You chuckle at Taesoo’s pout, murmuring, "Don’t worry, I’ll teach you."

Minho moves on, observing Seungwan carefully garnishing a tuna salad, Hyunwoo pouring clear soup with the kind of care most people reserve for handling delicate glass. At Seojun’s station, he pauses. "I’ll help."

Seojun shakes his head. "I got it, Chef."

Minho doesn’t budge. "Let’s do it together."

For a second, Seojun hesitates—then he shifts, making room. Side by side, they cook in unspoken understanding.

Seojun murmurs, "The beef is good today."

Minho smirks, seasoning his own cut of meat. "It is."

And just like that, the dishes are sent out. The kitchen exhales, the weight of the night lifting. The finality settles in.

Minho lets out a breath. "We’re officially closed for business today."

Taesoo starts clapping, and soon, the entire kitchen follows. It’s not just for the hard work tonight—it’s for everything.

People scatter, exchanging hugs, handshakes, pats on the back. The air is thick with something bittersweet, something profound. It’s an ending, but it’s also a beginning. The entrée line will leave. Minho won’t work with them in this kitchen again. But they’re going toward something greater, toward dreams they’ve worked for.

As the kitchen quiets, Minho turns to them. "Good luck on your studies."

Seojun steps forward first, surprising him. He extends his hand. Without hesitation, Minho grips it firmly.

"Thank you, Chef," Seojun says.

Minho nods, a rare softness in his expression. "You’ll do well."

He moves to Seungwan and Hyunwoo next, shaking their hands, exchanging quiet words of encouragement. When he lifts his head, he sees you watching him from across the room, a fond smile playing on your lips.

And for the first time, as he stands here, surrounded by the people who have built this kitchen with him, Minho feels it—this is where he belongs.

You step into the locker room, not expecting anyone to still be there. But there he is—Seojun, standing by his locker, his fingers grazing the nameplate on the door with a wistful look in his eyes. He doesn’t notice you at first, lost in thought, but when he hears your footsteps, he turns and smiles.

You hesitate for only a moment before stepping closer. You didn’t get a proper chance to say goodbye earlier, and now that you have him alone, you take the opportunity. “Good luck on your studies, Sous-chef,” you say sincerely.

Seojun turns fully to face you, his smile widening.

“You should travel a lot while you’re there,” you continue. “Don’t just stay at school. Go beyond the fancy restaurants—find the small pasta shops tucked away in alleyways. There’s so much to learn from the locals, from the people who’ve been making pasta their whole lives.”

His eyes brighten, as if he’s already imagining it. “I’ll remember that. Thanks.”

Then, as if something just occurs to him, he reaches up and tugs at his sous-chef necktie. In one swift motion, he pulls it free and extends it toward you.

You blink in surprise, staring at the fabric in his outstretched hand. It takes a moment to register what this means. When you finally take it from him, your fingers curl around it carefully, reverently.

“Chef will decide on the new sous-chef,” Seojun says, “but I’m giving my vote to you.”

Your heart swells. You’re proud of him, proud of everything he’s accomplished, but you’re also deeply grateful. The weight of his support, of his belief in you, settles warmly in your chest. You look up at him, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much, Sous-chef.”

Seojun waves you off lightly. “You deserve it.”

He turns back to his locker, reaching for the door handle—but then he pauses. A second later, he pivots to face you again, something unreadable in his expression.

“And oh, you must be happy.”

The words catch you off guard. You frown slightly. “About what?”

His lips curve into a knowing smile. “That Chef is staying in Farfalle.”

Your breath stills.

It’s news to you. And what’s even more surprising is that you’re hearing it from Seojun rather than from Minho himself.

You manage a small nod, masking the mix of emotions swirling inside you. “Please, tcare of yourself, Sous-chef,” you say, shifting the conversation back to him.

Seojun smiles, giving you a final nod before turning back to his locker.

You move to the other side of the room, gripping the sous-chef tie a little tighter as your thoughts drift elsewhere. Minho isn’t going to Italy.

You should be upset that he didn’t tell you first. But that feeling is eclipsed by something else—something impossible to ignore.

Minho is staying.

The dining hall is packed, the room filled with chatter and laughter as the cooks and staff gather around long tables. The scent of freshly prepared food lingers in the air, plates and bowls scattered across the tables in a feast prepared with care. Tonight is a farewell party for Seojun, Hyunwoo, and Seungwan—the three chefs who will soon be leaving for Italy.

They sit together at a table near the front, joined by Minho and Chris. You’re seated nearby with Felix and Taesoo, the three of you sharing quiet conversation between bites of food. In the crowd, you spot familiar faces—Minji and Yura, who must have been invited for a reason.

A sharp clink rings through the air as Minho taps his wine glass with a spoon. The noise settles as everyone turns their attention to him. He remains seated, but his voice carries through the room with ease.

“Before we begin the party, I’d like to propose a toast,” Minho announces. “To the people who made this feast with their utmost care and skill.”

A round of applause erupts as everyone cheers for the three departing chefs. Seojun, Hyunwoo, and Seungwan nod in acknowledgment, their expressions a mix of pride and gratitude.

Minho shifts his gaze to them, his tone steady yet sincere. “Good luck. Take care of yourselves. Let’s all meet again in better shape, okay?”

“Yes, Chef,” the three of them reply in unison.

Satisfied, Minho sits back down, and Chris takes his turn to speak.

“I have another announcement to make,” Chris begins, his voice brimming with anticipation. “Since a part of our kitchen family is leaving for Italy, it’s time to welcome new members who will be filling those empty spots.”

At his words, he gestures toward Minji and Yura. “Stand up, you two.”

Minji and Yura exchange confused glances before slowly rising from their seats.

Chris continues, “After careful consideration—and after consulting with Chef—we’ve decided that no one would be better suited for these roles than you two.” He smiles, then extends his hand toward them in invitation. “So, Minji, Yura—please accept our offer to work at Farfalle, starting next week.”

All eyes shift to the sisters. Minho raises his glass slightly, watching them expectantly.

Minji and Yura share another look—this one filled with silent understanding—before Yura breaks into a wide smile. “We’ll be ready next week, Chef!”

A satisfied nod from Minho while Chris grins in reaction. “Then it’s settled. Now, let’s enjoy the feast.”

Cheers rise again as glasses clink, laughter spilling into the air. The party resumes, but as you glance back at Minho, you catch a flicker of something rare in his expression—contentment. Maybe even pride.

Minho has been searching for you all over the restaurant. The locker room, the kitchen, the back entrance, even the steps where he always finds you when you need a moment alone—you’re nowhere to be seen. He exhales sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek in mild frustration.

It’s only when he’s walking toward his car that his phone buzzes in his pocket. A message from you.

Meet me at the bar.

Minho doesn’t need to ask which one. He already knows. It’s the same bar where he first met you.

When he arrives, he spots you immediately—sitting in the exact same seat as that night. The memory surfaces effortlessly, but Minho pushes it aside, stepping forward, approaching you from behind. He leans in close, just enough for his breath to ghost over your ear, and murmurs, “That’s my seat.”

Slowly, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze. “So what if it is?”

Minho smirks, sliding onto the stool next to you. He gestures to the bartender and quickly order a drink. But as he waits, he reaches for your drink instead, taking a slow sip before setting it back down.

You watch him with amusement. Then, without a word, you pull something out of your bag, holding your hand out to him.

The sous-chef tie.

Minho’s eyes flick to it for a second before he looks away, feigning indifference. “What’s that?”

You bump his shoulder, playful yet insistent. “You know what it is.”

Taking back your drink, you sip from it before tilting your head toward him. “Now that I’m a sous-chef, I want to go back to the pasta line.”

Minho lifts his own glass, taking a sip—and immediately gasps at the aftertaste. He glances at you. “Who says you’re a sous-chef now?”

You pout at that, eyebrows knitting together in protest. “Sous-chef Seojun gave me his vote. Now I want yours, too.”

Minho clicks his tongue and daringly gaze into your eyes. “How dare you argue with your chef?”

You narrow your eyes at him, boldly. “How much more do I have to prove to you, hug? What else do I have to do?”

He leans back slightly, meeting your gaze with that unreadable expression he always wears when he’s making you work for something. “Be good at everything.”

You groan. “And when do I get to be good at everything?”

Minho shrugs. “Why are you asking me? That’s up to you.”

You huff, pressing further by grabbing his arm and make him looks at you. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Minho watches you for a moment before he simply says, “You’ll find out tomorrow.”

Your lips part, ready to argue again, but this time, Minho smirks. The way you’re whining, the way you’re pressing him for answers—it reminds him of how he met you. How things have unfolded ever since.

So he leans in, close enough for your noses to almost brush. “Let’s do it.” His voice drops slightly, lower, more deliberate. “Go out with me. Date.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, instead of answering, you take him by surprise—pressing your lips against his in a kiss so sudden that he barely has time to react.

Minho is still for only a second before instinct takes over, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw. The first kiss is hurried, almost clumsy, but when you start to pull away, he stops you. Fingers curling against your skin, he brings you in for another kiss—this time, slow and deep. Proper.

When he finally pulls back, he lingers there, eyes fondly gazing into yours, flickering with something unreadable, something softer than before. The years of tension, the push and pull, the battles fought in the kitchen and beyond—they all led here, to this moment. A quiet certainty settles in his chest.

Minho has always believed that food tells a story. Every dish holds a memory, every flavor carries a feeling. And if love were a taste, he thinks it would be something like this—bold yet familiar, unexpected yet deeply satisfying. Something that lingers long after the last bite.

His lips brush against yours as he mutters. “You know, I think you might be my favorite dish after all.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but he catches the smile you try to hide. “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

“Stay. Have another drink.” His thumb grazes over your cheek, his smirk unmistakable. “Let’s see where this goes.”

Instead of answering, you smile before leaning in for a gentle kiss and then reach for his hand. Your fingers brush against his, a quiet gesture, warm and certain.

For once, Minho doesn’t have anything clever to say. He just laces his fingers with yours, holds on, and lets the moment settle.

Tomorrow, the kitchen will still be loud. The work will still be demanding. The challenges will still come. But tonight, there is just this.

A beginning wrapped in an ending. A promise folded into a touch.

And for Minho, that is more than enough.

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