#right in front of my babygirl | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

anghimalaaynasapuso · 6 months ago

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PORN DIRECTOR KÖNIG

nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.

you never planned on doing porn.

you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.

but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.

you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.

camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.

you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.

but it worked.

you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.

then, your account blew up.

someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.

at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.

that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.

[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.

🔺14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment

u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf

🔺6.2k

u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment

🔺4.9k

u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life

🔺3.3k

u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?

🔺7.1k

your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.

the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.

suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.

new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.

"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)

"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)

"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)

the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.

demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.

for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.

you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.

but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.

you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.

something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.

you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.

she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."

you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.

valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."

you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.

you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.

he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.

instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.

his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.

he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.

he looks warm.

he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.

and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.

he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.

it doesn’t work.

“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.

oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.

his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.

you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.

“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.

he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.

“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.

you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”

könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”

you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.

the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.

it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.

and then your phone rings.

you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.

“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.

but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”

your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”

“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”

you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.

“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”

“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”

but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”

the line clicks.

he’s gone.

panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.

you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.

könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”

you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.

you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”

könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.

he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"

you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.

fuck.

you’re going to cry.

könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.

shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.

it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.

but there they go anyway.

because he's been watching you.

not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.

and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?

nothing personal. certainly nothing unprofessional.

but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.

watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.

könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.

‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.

and god, does he know you.

he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.

he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.

könig has jerked off to all of it.

not just once. not just twice.

so many times he’s lost count.

sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.

sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.

it drives him fucking crazy.

it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.

stop.

he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.

but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—

places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.

his cock twitches.

jesus christ.

it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—

and yeah.

he’s fucked.

his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.

"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.

but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.

"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."

he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.

his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—

"i can do it."

your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.

"what?"

könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.

"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."

he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."

it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.

it’s not like that anymore.

now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.

and this, you, would look incredible.

"are you-" you swallow hard, throat working, voice tight. "you’re serious?"

könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."

your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.

he notices. of course he fucking notices.

you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.

he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.

"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"

you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.

and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.

this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.

somehow, that makes it worse.

the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.

the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.

the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.

your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–

and there he is.

könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.

he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.

then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.

it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.

his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.

your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.

könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.

you swallow. "do i look okay?"

silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."

his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—

but god, he doesn’t stop looking.

you breathe out. "are we ready?"

that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."

you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.

"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"

a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.

he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"

"speed!"

he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."

his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’

you nod.

"action!"

the front door creaks open.

you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.

it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.

it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.

then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.

you move.

your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.

könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.

his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."

"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."

your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."

"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."

heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.

then, he kisses you.

and fuck.

it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.

"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."

könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.

his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.

then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.

"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."

his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."

könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.

he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"

his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.

his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.

you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."

the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.

könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—

slap.

he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.

you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.

"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"

your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.

chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"

"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."

your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.

"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"

heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.

"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.

he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."

you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.

he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"

könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"

your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"

"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.

your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."

your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."

so you do.

you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.

you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"

"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"

you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.

"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"

his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.

könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"

you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.

every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.

"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."

you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.

"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."

he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.

“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.

"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.

"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"

"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"

könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.

your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.

könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."

your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.

then he lets gravity do most of the work.

your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.

"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."

you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.

"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."

könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.

you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.

you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."

your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.

"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.

"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"

your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.

könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."

you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.

"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.

he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.

"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."

you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.

"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.

your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.

"kö-”

“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.

"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"

your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.

könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."

his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.

"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."

your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.

he notices. of course he notices.

"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"

your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.

"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."

you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.

"könig-"

"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."

your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.

könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.

he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"

könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"

your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.

his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."

his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.

his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.

your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.

könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.

"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.

he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.

"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."

he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”

“-and cut!”

10K notes · View notes

stellamarielu · 4 months ago

Text

on the job

joel miller x female reader

summary: you and joel are forced to work together, but neither of you can get past the others stubborn attitude or contractor!joel and interior designer!reader fuck in a walk-in closet

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, pre outbreak!joel, he’s kind of a huge asshole sorry, teasing, degradation, dirty talk, slightly dubcon, fingering, use of nicknames such as princess sweetheart and good girl, finger sucking, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex, sex against a wall, kinda public sex bc it’s on a job site?? pull out game strong with this one

author’s note: based on this lovely request. i made joel a little mean bc it felt right but at the end of the day he will forever be babygirl. also, i know very little about both of these professions so i apologize for any inaccuracies in that department

You liked to think that you were easy to work with, always polite and mindful— pleasant even.

You mostly kept to yourself, especially when you were working on a project alongside others, however, not everyone shared your cooperative mindset.

In fact, you had worked with a multitude of assholes. Men who thought they held some kind of power over you, who flourished under the opportunity to demean and mock your job like theirs was more important, but none of them even held a candle to Joel Miller.

Your paths crossed when you were hired by a pretentious, middle-aged woman in Austin to help design the interior of her new home— a home that was still under construction.

To make yourself familiar with the layout, you visited the site multiple times in the weeks before construction was scheduled to finish.

It was always an easy and uneventful trip. You greeted the workers, took a few pictures, wrote down some dimensions and then you were gone in twenty minutes tops; but that all changed the day you met Joel.

You waltzed into the house, waving to one of the men you had come to know from your previous visits and then you heard it, a deep berating voice targeted directly at you.

“Who the hell are you and why are you on my site without a fuckin’ hard hat?”

You stopped in your tracks as you were met with an unknown face.

“Uh sorry. I’m working on an interior design project for the Johnson’s. They told me I was welcome to come check out the space if I needed anything.” You didn’t know why, but your voice was coming out in compliance, the tone hushed.

The way this man approached you was incredibly entitled and unabashedly rude.

Normally you wouldn’t let some asshole like this get within two feet of you, let alone talk to you like that; but this guy had you questioning your morals for a split second. He was tall, and broad, and handsome. The southern drawl slipping from the smug curl of his lips and the flex of his biceps as his arms crossed over his chest, had your words stuttering.

“Well, until my job is finished, and the Johnson’s have the keys to their front door, I call the shots. And I don’t do well with unexpected visitors walkin’ around while my guys are trying to get work done.”

Your mouth nearly hung open at his words.

You’d barely said a word to him and he was coming at you with a disgustingly brash and assertive attitude. What the hell was his deal?

“Okay...” The word was drawn-out as it fell from your lips in annoyance.

“Well, it’s kind of funny, because this is probably the fifth time I’ve been here, and none of your guys seem to give a rats ass, so how about you let me do my job and I’ll let you do yours.”

Finally, you had gotten past the stranger’s criminally good looks and stuck to your guns.

There was no way in hell you were going to let him reprimand you for doing your job. Afterall, you had every right to be here.

“Yeah well, my guys will let you do whatever you want when you’re prancin’ around here in tight little dresses and high heels. You think they’re just bein’ nice for the hell of it?”

His irritation was masked by amusement as he looked you up and down, dramatically raking his eyes over your body.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but I’d really appreciate it if you could just drop the attitude and keep things professional.” The quality of your voice was stern, juxtaposing the way his eyes on your body had you suddenly feeling a rush of heat throughout your chest.

Anger.

The warmth was an angry fervor, definitely not one of lust or temptation. It was a burning irritation for the man standing in front of you, not a curious warmth for how his eyes clung to every curve of your body, taking his time drinking in any exposed skin.

His smile widened as he watched you falter under his stare. “I’ll drop my attitude when you drop yours sweetheart.”

“Listen, Mr-“

“Miller. Joel Miller.”

“Okay, Mr. Joel Miller. I have work to do, so I’m just going to walk past you, take a few notes and I’ll be out of your hair. Deal?”

“Fine. But if I see you back here again you better be wearin’ a hard hat. Don’t need any trouble because you trip and hit your pretty little head.” He let his eyes wander down your body once more, his voice full of sarcasm.

“Yeah yeah, got it boss.” You scoffed as you pushed past his broad frame. You didn’t turn to look back, but you could practically feel his eyes burning into you as you swayed into the entry way, hoping it was the last time you’d ever have to speak to him.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

You ran into Joel a few more times, each meeting more infuriating and demeaning than the last. He always had a smart comment on his tongue or a mocking intention in his voice.

Joel Miller had quickly become the bane of your existence; yet, for some reason there was a part of you, deep down, that always hoped to run into him when you went to scout out a new project for the house.

Maybe because he was undeniably handsome, always walking around with a charming smirk on his lips and a devious glint in his big brown eyes. It was almost as if he were challenging you— seeing how far he could push you before you snapped.

He continued to test your patience as you now stood in the giant walk-in closet off the primary bedroom.

You were trying to establish a color scheme sophisticated enough to fit Miss Johnson’s impossible to please pallet while Joel was making unnecessarily loud noises across the room.

He was far from graceful, the slamming and pounding of tools was all you could hear as he worked on one of the many intricate shoe shelves on the wall.

“I thought this side of the house was done.” You were speaking without looking in his direction, your eyes following the paint swatches on the wall.

“Was.” Joel’s voice was gruff as he continued working.

“Until the queen decided she needed more storage for all her designer shit.” He was chuckling at his own words, side eyeing you from his spot kneeling on the floor.

“You are genuinely the most unprofessional person I’ve ever met.” You dismissed his rude comment about the woman you were both employed by.

“That right?”

You refused to look at him, but you could hear the delight in his voice.

“Absolutely.” Your response was curt, a quick and straight-forward delivery.

“Good.”

As if you couldn’t hate him more, the word leaving his lips had you turning your head sharply in his direction, an appalled expression plastered across your face.

“God you get on my last nerve.”

“That right?” Again, his lips tugged into a smirk as he looked at you.

You raised your brows in annoyance with a single nod of your head at his question.

“Good.” His voice was taunting as he watched you shake your head in frustration.

You brought your eyes back to the wall in front of you, not giving Joel another second of your attention.

After a few seconds of silence his deep voice broke into the room. “You know, if you weren’t so uptight, maybe I’d ask you out for a drink sometime.”

It took you a minute to register his words. Was he implying that he wanted to ask you on a date while insulting you at the same time? What a fucked-up, backhanded compliment; one that had your chest stirring with warmth.

“Well, I guess it’s too bad I’m such an high-strung bitch then.” Sarcasm dripped from your words as you kept your eyes trained ahead, your head spinning from Joel’s implicit interest.

“I doubt you’d last one minute in the bar I’d take you to anyway.”

His comment had your head snapping back again. This time his eyes were already on you, waiting to see a reaction.

“And why’s that?” Your voice cut through the room at his assumption.

“Because it’s not exactly a five star establishment, and I think you’re just like all these pretentious fucks you work for.” He raised an eyebrow at you before turning back to the shelf in front of him, tending to a few finishing touches.

“Always so put together, walking around here with your shoulders high.” He was nonchalant as he criticized you, hands busy taking measurements, not even paying an ounce of attention to the dirty look you were currently shooting at him from the other side of the room.

“You think you’re better than everyone, but you’re just another pretty face with an overblown ego.”

There it was. The final blow that had your body tensing with anger.

You couldn’t believe that just a few seconds ago you were letting him flatter you, swooning under the smallest inkling of positivity he threw your way.

He was the worst kind of guy, the kind that built you up just to tear you down. The kind that wanted to make you feel worse about yourself so you would go running to him for a semblance of positive reinforcement.

Joel Miller liked the chase— thrived off being such a douchebag that women somehow ended up falling on their knees for him. But you, you weren’t going to be that woman.

“Me? Talk about a massive-fucking-ego, take a look in the mirror Miller. You’re the one always making sure I know my place around here, acting like a fucking sociopath. It’s like you get off on being an asshole.”

He stopped what he was doing and looked directly at you, his expression unreadable, like your cruel words caused a switch in him to flip.

“Maybe I do.”

“What?”

“Maybe I like gettin’ under your skin, watchin’ you get all flustered.” He spoke slowly, setting down his materials and standing to his feet.

“Think it’s kinda cute. You’re always tryin’ to act all big and bad, but I know I make you nervous. I can see it in the way you look at me.” He didn’t move, the smirk on his face causing your eyebrows to furrow in irritation.

You crossed your arms over your chest, standing strong on your opinion that Joel was the world’s biggest asshole. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting his words get to you.

“You can stop wherever you’re going with this. I’m not here to play your little bullshit games, I’m here to do a job and get paid.”

“Who says you can’t have a little fun on the job?” His voice was laced with a deep seriousness as he set his tools down on one of the many shelves adorning the walls. You watched him over your shoulder but kept your back turned, your body still facing the wall.

“Turn around.” The command left his lips and you wanted to laugh at his attempt of authority but the sincerity in his voice stopped you in your tracks.

“What? No-“

“C’mon sweetheart, I think we both know you like bein’ told what to do.” His voice cut you off, the signature smirk on his lips sending a buzz straight to your head.

You didn’t mean to, or maybe you did, but your body turned to face him, watching intently as he continued speaking. His broad frame emphatic as he stood across from you.

“I bet you like it, having someone boss you around. Makes you feel a little inferior.”

As the words left his lips he began walking toward you.

It was a casual stroll, not intense or threatening, yet you felt your pulse racing and your posture slumping at his advances.

“Oh please. You need a reality check Joel.”

“Wanna give it to me princess?”

You kept the appearance of control as he continued moving forward, but internally you were fighting feelings of complete disarray.

You wanted to be offended— maybe even slap him across the face for his wildly inappropriate nickname and the implication of his words. But instead, you froze, his body now less than a foot away from yours and his words ringing in your ears.

There was absolutely no denying the way his statement had your thighs clenching and your head spinning. Something in his delivery, smug and dirty with his eyes holding a perverted hunger and a promise of follow through, made you weak.

You kept your body from jolting when you felt the touch of his hand wrapping around your waist, finding purchase dangerously low on your back.

“Bet you’ve never done anythin’ like this.” His voice was sturdy— rigid with power.

The weight of his hand was rough, his palm resting just above the curve of your ass. His touch was heavy yet temperate as he held you, softly pulling you’re your body further into his.

“Lettin’ some guy you barely know put his hands all over you.”

You watched his eyes carefully, your lips parted but you couldn’t find any words to fill them. You weren’t sure if you wanted to tell him to stop or keep going.

“Bet all the guys you hook up with are just as prim and proper as you. Can’t imagine that those dipshits graduating from UT with a business degree are fuckin’ you the right way.”

His other hand came to the small of your waist, the movement sending a faint gasp straight to your lips. Your reaction had Joel smirking, reinforcing his grip on your body.

“Probably don’t even know how to get you off.”

“You’re disgusting.” Your voice was a whisper. The insult that you meant to hurl his way dissolved in a pitiful sigh at the way his fingertips were latching onto you.

“Am I? Bet you like that too.” This time he leaned in, causing his words to land directly in your ear, his breath warm on your neck.

“Bet you want someone a little rough around the edges. Someone to fuck you real nice.”

As he spoke, his fingers curled into your body. His grip on you constricting.

His frame pushed into yours, sending you shuffling backward until your back was met with the solid friction of the wall.

“Joel..”

You were searching in your mind, trying to form an articulate sentence to explain why this was wrong; why you couldn’t be in this position with him.

But he had you trapped against the weight of his body— big and wide and rough.

Every single rational thought in your head dissipated, replaced by an instinctual need to have him fuck you against the wall of this ridiculously expensive closet.

He was right, you’d never done anything like this and the excitement of it— the risk, had your entire body burning with white-hot desire.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” His hands were holding your hips, pressing you into the wall with his chest dangerously close to yours.

“But I don’t think you want me to.” For a single second you could see an indication of honesty in his eyes as he looked you over, searching for any sign of distress on your face. And when he couldn’t find it, his stare narrowed and his hands held tighter, rotating your body in his grasp until your chest was pressed against the wall.

“I think,” He leaned into you, your ass pushing against the bulge in his jeans as his hum landed on the skin right beneath your ear.

“You want me to lift up this pretty little dress and fuck you nice and hard right here, against this wall.”

His hands found the hem of your dress, bringing it up just enough to bunch at your waist.

Your lower half was almost bare, the only clothing keeping your cunt from being fully exposed to him was the little black thong encasing the dripping mess that had now built up between your legs. It didn’t stop him from reaching between your bodies, pressing his thumb against your clothed entrance.

“Fuck- you’re soaked princess.” The first word was a prolonged throaty groan, the rest of the sentence fumbling behind it.

“How long you been thinkin’ bout this huh? Me touchin’ you, makin’ you beg for it.” He was having too much fun playing with you through your panties, his thumb threatening to dip into you even with the lace still covering your entrance.

He pushed against it, moving between your clothed folds and marveling at the wetness seeping through the material.

“I’m not begging.” You managed to hiss out a response, turning your head to peer at him, your cheek nearly pressing against the wall.

“Oh, so she’s always mouthy huh?”

You watched the diabolical grin eat away at his face from the power trip of having you trapped under his weight.

You could talk-back all you wanted— be as bratty and uncooperative as possible, but it didn’t change the fact that he had you right where he wanted you.

“Keep talkin’ baby, go on.” He innocently raised his brows at you, his voice taunting as the weight of his thumb danced between your legs.

“I Know you want this too. You act like you can’t stand me, but I see the way you look at me…” Your voice was quiet but strong as you held onto the last bit of composure you had left, using it to defy the man at your back.

You were trying your best not to lose your train of thought as you spoke. You wouldn’t give up the fight that easily, succumbing to his tempting words and lewd touches. You could tell Joel was used to getting his way and every muscle in your body ached to challenge him.

“The way your eyes are glued to my ass every time I walk past you.” You glared over your shoulder as the words drifted off your lips in a gentle accusation.

His dark chuckle filled the room as his eyes darted away from yours for a short second. Then his stare was back on you— more intense than before. The two of you watching each other, sitting in a pool of mutual revelation.

You both knew it.

You knew since day one that there was a shared attraction, an unspoken sexual tension hidden behind rude words and unsavory exchanges.

What was happening now was just a detonation of built-up pressure that had been stewing for weeks; evident in the wetness at your core and the bulge in Joel’s jeans.

“Anythin’ else you wanna say? Should probably get it all out before I have you all fucked-out on my cock.” His voice dropped to a low whisper as he hooked his thumb into your underwear, pulling the material to the side, not even bothering to take them off completely.

A soft gasp slid from your lips at the cool air meeting your newly exposed center, the slick pooling at your entrance only adding to the airy sensation.

“You’re so fucking arrogant.”

The words barely left your lips when you felt his touch meet your core, his fingers spreading your arousal.

You had more to say to him, you wanted to tell him how annoying he was and how you had lost every ounce of decency by letting him talk to you this way, but the words were caught in your throat as he pushed two fingers into you.

“Maybe I have good reason to be.”

Your eyes were squeezed shut at the unexpected feeling of him filling you with his fingers, yet you could hear the smirk dripping in his voice.

“You ever think about that sweetheart?”

His words were impatient, the initial drive of his fingers into your entrance was rough, but now they slowly worked into you. His movements were careful— cautious even.

It was as if he wanted to take his time, watching your body and listening to the shaky breaths leave your lips.

His hand worked between your legs, searching for the exact technique that would send you spewing profanities and crumbling against the wall.

He curled his fingertips at just the right spot, not too deep and not too forceful, just a gentle pulse that had an impulsive whimper pouring from your chest.

“Maybe I’m so arrogant because I know I’m good at what I do.” His words held a double meaning as he added a third finger to stroke your newfound sweet spot.

You almost yelped from the stretch, but you held it back as best you could, refusing to give him the gratification of your submission.

The position he had you in; back arched and ass pushed out, made it almost embarrassingly easy for the addition of a third digit as he watched them to sink into you.

You couldn’t help but hum in approval as he stroked you repeatedly, rubbing against the inviting drawl of your walls. You tried not to lose yourself at his fingertips, knowing from the familiar coil of pleasure in your core that he could have you coming on his fingers at any given moment.

“Thought you were gonna fuck me, huh?” Your voice was a string of moans as you tried your best to form a coherent sentence with his hand pushed between your bodies.

As much as you didn’t want his movements to stop, you also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you finish when he’d barely even gotten his hands on you.

Knowing Joel, he would never let you live it down. He’d ride around on his metaphorical high horse and crown himself the king of female orgasms. So instead of letting him bring you to the precipice of release, you met him with a phrase of defiance. But your challenging words were really just a gateway to get what you wanted. You could put on a tough act, but at the end of the day Joel was right, you did want him to fuck you in way no one ever had— hungry and hard against the wall, right here in your client’s house.

In fact, the thought of it had taken over every fiber of your being. The anticipation of feeling him rail into you was clouding your judgement and coursing through your veins at an alarming speed.

“Think you can take it?” His growl stuck in your ears as he pulled out of you. The lewd noises of his fingers plunging into the slick mess at your folds was quickly replaced by the sound of him fumbling with his belt buckle.

“How d’you want it, huh baby? You the sentimental type? Want it nice and slow and deep? Or d’you just wanna be ruined? Want someone to be a little rough with ya?” He was asking, but you couldn’t help but note the rhetorical quality of his words as you heard the rustle of his jeans pushing down his thighs.

“That’s sweet of you to give me choice, maybe you don’t like control as much as I thought- “

Your sarcastic remark was cut short at the abrupt stretch of Joel’s length slamming into you.

“Rough it is then.” His voice was a deep grunt echoing from behind you as he paused, giving you a split second to adjust before pulling back out and thrusting into you again.

“Shit princess, didn’t think you’d be this fuckin’ tight.”

His voice swam with amusement and pleasure as he watched the way his dick fully disappeared into you with each thrust of his hips.

Hands pulled at your waist as you felt Joel drive deeper with every breathless groan floating off his lips.

“Look at you, takin’ me like such a good girl.” The words weren’t sweet, instead they teased you, shooting out of his mouth with a mocking tenor.

You couldn’t keep your body from reacting to his praise, albeit contemptuous, the words still held a deep truth about the situation unfolding against the wall of your shared employer’s closet.

“Oh, you like that don’t ya? When I tell you what a good girl you are?” His voice was a broken growl of grunts and sighs as he fucked into you— vigorous and desperate.

His pace was unrelenting as he held onto your waist, pulling you back to meet him with every drive of his hips into yours.

He let one of his hands travel up your body until he was reaching for your jaw, tilting your head up and back until your body was arched at a sinful angle.

“See, I knew you just needed a good fuck.” His groan was right in your ear now that he held your head close to his, the grip he had on your jaw was firm.

It was becoming impossible for you to keep quiet, the strength and depth of his thrusts were causing explicit moans to skate past yours lips.

The hand that Joel was using to hold your face was now maneuvering to your mouth in an effort to muffle the obscene sounds rolling off your tongue. Two of his fingers pushed at your lips, hooking into your mouth.

“Knew that little attitude a’yours was all for show.”

You closed your lips around his digits as he railed into you, a guttural moan sliding up your throat and humming onto his fingers.

“Fuck.” His fowl groan was a direct result of your soft mouth sucking around his fingers, mimicking the way you had his cock encased between your legs.

You invited his touch onto your tongue, swirling around his thick digits and sucking him in deeper, earning a prolonged sigh from Joel as he fucked into you even harder.

Each stroke of his cock had your body pressing further into the wall— his pace was mean and unyielding, like he had something to prove.

With the hand not in your mouth, Joel reached around your body, his fingertips finding your clit and rubbing quick careless circles over the bundle of nerves.

Your body faltered under his touch, your knees slightly buckling, and if it weren’t for the weight of his body trapping you against the wall, you’d be a puddle on the floor.

He slowed his pace slightly, taking his time to find that spot along your walls again. The one that he discovered just minutes ago when he was three fingers deep in your dripping cunt.

Whines of approval vibrated against the pads of his fingertips still pressing down on your tongue. His hips began rocking into you at just the right angle— slow and deliberate, with the goal of feeling you coming undone on his cock.

“That it baby? Right there?” Again, his words were a sadistic tease, but his voice gave way to pitiful throaty whines.

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even think with the way he was working you toward your release.

Everything felt so overwhelming, his unrelenting thrusts hitting you in the perfect place, his touch on your clit, rough and impatient and his fingers filling your mouth— all of it creating the perfect storm of inconceivable pleasure.

A jolt of relief surged through your body as the pressure inside you snapped. You let yourself fall further into the wall as Joel’s name slipped from your mouth in a chant.

Hearing his name on your lips in such a distant and dazed voice, had Joel’s cock pulsing. Your walls were clenching from your climax, sucking him in deeper and he couldn’t handle the abundance of warmth enveloping him.

Both of his hands came down to your hips, fingers digging into your skin as held tight.

His thrusts were merciless as he used you to reach his peak, chasing the familiar buildup of tension in his core as he drove into you at a startling pace.

Then he pulled out abruptly.

One hand on his cock, stroking just twice before spilling onto the skin of your lower back, the other pushing your dress further up your body to keep it from becoming a jizz painted mess.

Silence filled the room.

Neither of you spoke as your hands pushed against the wall underneath your palms. You stayed pressed there, Joel’s body still behind you evident in the ragged breaths leaving his chest.

Still no words were exchanged as you felt Joel take a step back, the warmth of his presence fading just slightly.

You dared to break your pleasure induced trance to look over your shoulder, only find him pulling his jeans back up his body and tightening his belt without even sparing you a glance.

You began to move until you were reminded of the thick warm mess resting on your back, keeping you from pulling your dress down.

Before you could do anything, Joel was back behind you, hooking his fingers into the waist band of your panties and tugging them down your legs. He stopped at your ankles to tap against your skin, prompting you to step out of them.

Once the lacy material was fully in his grasp, he brought them up to your lower back, using them to gather his spend. He cleaned his mess with the lacy material then pulled your dress back down to cover your lower half. A sticky residue was left on your backside as a plaguing reminder of what had just transpired between you.

You turned to face him, watching as he crumpled up your ruined underwear and shoved it into his back pocket with a smirk on his face.

“How about that drink? Could meet you tomorrow night, should be done here around five.” He was back across the room in an instant, gathering tools and not bothering to look in your direction.

His invitation was genuine, but his words lacked interest.

“I’ll get these back to you then.” His hand came to rest on his back pocket, fingers tapping against the denim holding your used panties.

A self-righteous smile sat on his face as he shot you a look of pure deviance before his eyes were back on his hands as they worked to gather his materials.

“Yeah, okay.” Your voice came out more flustered than you intended as you smoothed out your dress over your thighs.

Joel was heading for the closet door, tool bag clutched in his hand as he gave you one last gaze of victory.

“It’s a date.” The words were a grumble from his lips, the same ones that were busy parading a smug smile.

Then he left you standing alone in the small room, your mind racing around itself and your legs still trembling.

A subtle grin rested on your face as you stared down at the floor, trying to find some sort of equilibrium before even attempting to move.

The giant walk-in closet still encasing a lingering heat of reckless choices as you prepared to go on with your day— business as usual.

my masterlist

#posting this on my lunch break lmao #enjoy a little afternoon delight from me to you #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

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idk-i-just-really-like-tsc · 1 year ago

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oh uh i know this is a very serious situation trust me i do not take that likely. but uh um this happened on shadowhunters .

#if i had a nickle for everytime someone nearly jumped off a balcony in front of Harry shum jr on a tv show #I’d have two nickels which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice right #like where is babygirl Alec lightwood #put Matt on greys tbh he would eat #put him as blues annoying best friend #shonda rhimes hire me #but like guys this happened to my bff Alec #Also in my brain #i was like ah he can save him w magic #but no

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joemama-2 · 11 days ago

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Loved & Lost — chapter one

pairing: gojo x f! reader

synopsis: Your marriage to Gojo Satoru was doomed from the start. You believed in fairytales, he believed in the past. Your futile attempts at gaining your husband’s attention and affection caused more anguish than rapture. And you’re starting to wonder if you can ever survive being compared to a dead woman forever.

tags/warnings: second wife trope, modern au, arranged marriage, heavy angst, smut, fluff, mentions of su*cide, mentions of infertility, pregnancy, societal pressure, elite circles, mentions of classism, drama, cheating (emotional & physical), gojo is an assjole, reader tries her best to make the best of things, character death, talks of mental illness. artwork by mercyerr. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.

wc: 8.4k

series masterlist < two

You’ve only seen Satoru Gojo five times before you married him.

You know close to nothing about the man, except for the fact that he was now the one you would be calling your husband.

The first time was years ago. You were only nine, and he was fourteen years of age. It was some sort of meeting between your fathers, one your own had brought you to after your persistent begging.

Never did you expect to see the young teenager with white hair and even brighter eyes standing beside his father and in front of you, holding his hand out for you to shake. Somewhere hidden in that day, an unfamiliar flutter bloomed in your stomach. It heightened when he bought you a drink from the vending machine as your fathers ushered you out of the room, insisting that you kids have some fun.

His fingers brushed yours, and your cheeks flared up, for some reason. Prepubescent and completely innocent, but confused as to the emotions he made you feel.

He didn’t even smile—more like apathetically frowning.

Still, it made you smile shyly, waving bye to him when your fathers were done with their discussion.

You remember your father lightly teasing you about it on the drive back to your estate.

“Does someone have a little crush?” he chuckled, smirking softly and grabbing your hand as you crossed the street for a pitstop at your favorite ice-cream parlor.

“Dad…” you murmured, hiding your face in his arm. “No, I don’t. He was just nice.”

“What did you two do while you were gone?” he asked, opening the door to the parlor. The young girl behind the counter greeted you both. Your father nodded politely and went up to order for both of you.

You pursed your lips, watching the employee scoop two spoonfuls of cotton candy ice-cream into the waffle cone, decorated with chocolate and sprinkles at the base of it. “I dunno, just random stuff. School and friends.”

Your father hums, releasing your hand to grab the two waffle cones with the cotton candy ice-cream. You both always ordered the same thing. You guys sat outside, enjoying the beautiful warmth the afternoon sun had brought you.

It was a silly, but wholesome tradition you both had. You were the only child who inherited your father’s sweet tooth, and your two brothers were at the age where they’d rather not be seen out in public with their embarrassing father eating…ice cream. You can see the disgust on their faces in your mind.

“Well,” your father prompts. “If you do like him, he needs my approval first.”

“Dad!”

“What?” he shrugged. “It’s true. Whoever you end up marrying, I need to make sure they’re with you for the right reasons. Not the wrong ones.”

You looked down at your swinging legs, bringing some ice cream to your mouth. Right reasons? Wrong reasons? You were too young to understand what he had meant by that. Shouldn’t every husband be with their wife for the right reason? And what are ‘wrong reasons’?

You had so many questions.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

That pulled a pout from you, looking up at your father.

He smiled—like any father would at their only daughter (his favorite kid).

“Trust me, babygirl.” He kissed the temple of your head, wrapping a large arm around your small frame. “You’ll know.”

The next three times you saw Satoru were sporadic throughout the years. Your crush on him had dwindled slightly as your maturity grew. You came to the conclusion that he was just very, very attractive. Not that you had a crush, per se.

He remembered you—somewhat.

But after that first meeting from when you were a kid, you never engaged in a lengthy conversation with him.

He was busy, getting ready to become the next CEO of Gojo Global Holdings. You were equally as overwhelmed with the preparation of taking an influential role in your family’s company, NovaLink Corporation.

You didn’t really have time for crushes, boys, kisses, sex.

Not that you wanted to, anyway.

You grew up sheltered. Very sheltered. Compared to your older brothers, who probably had years' worth of experience in the love department, you had none. Okay, well, maybe you french-kissed a boy from school one time in the supply closet. But that was it!

You could say you were quite traditional when it came to that sort of stuff. Wanting to save yourself for marriage—for your husband.

You daydreamed more often than not about who it would be. Would he be kind? Charming? Tall? Handsome? Where would you meet him? Would he love you dearly and make a big family with you?

God, you hoped so.

You were so giddy at the prospect of having a golden band on your left ring finger. At being able to say “I’m married” with a huge grin on your face.

You just couldn’t wait for the man of your dreams to pop into your life out of nowhere, sweep you off your feet, and give you the fairytale every young girl dreams of having when she’s older.

And the wedding. Oh, the big, beautiful, extravagant wedding.

The fifth time you saw Satoru, he was twenty. You were fifteen and just breaking out into the world full of endless possibilities.

And to your surprise, he had the gold band on his finger that you craved for your husband to wear.

You were shocked—extremely so. Questions floated in your head, each overlapping with the last. He’s married? To who? For how long? Isn’t this quite a young age to get married at?

All your questions abruptly came to a halt when you saw the way his eyes lit up. The smile on his face grew, his dimples showing. His cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, and his feet were moving before you knew it.

He said something. You couldn’t hear.

You just looked.

And a woman welcomed his eager embrace, kissing him briefly, but passionately, in the hall full of affluential people. You looked down at her hand and gasped softly.

Her ring—matching his—was bigger thanks to the humungous rock.

They conversed like a married couple who hadn’t seen each other in ages—when it was really just a couple of days.

You’ve seen her before, spoke a few times.

And that’s when it struck you.

No wonder he married her.

She was beautiful, kind, and extremely loving.

Your eyes followed their conjoined figures around the hall like a creep. But your hand was pressed to your chest, smiling, and you felt warm tears pooling.

That was true love.

That was the fairytale you desperately yearned for.

That was how you wanted your future husband to look at you.

Only now, that same husband—same man—doesn’t have that reverent sparkle in his eyes. He’s barely smiling, very obviously forcing one. He probably wouldn’t be at all if it weren’t for the insane number of people who appeared at the wedding.

Brief flashbacks to that fifth time floor your mind as you walk down the aisle in a long, beautiful white gown.

Only thirteen years later.

He looks handsome. Manlier than you remember, taller, and buffer. You can only imagine how he’s spent the past thirteen years.

You’ve been abroad for the last ten years, studying and living your life overseas. Never would you have thought that you’d come back home to an arranged marriage presented to you on a silver platter.

You only had about a month to prepare mentally and physically for your upcoming wedding to Satoru. Your dresses for tonight came out phenomenal—all thanks to the hardworking stylists and designers who worked extra hard to get them to you in time before the wedding.

Although you were told that you weren’t allowed to see Satoru until your wedding, you hoped he was anticipating and planning for this fateful day just as much as you were.

Perhaps he was raving about you to his friends?

You went shopping, spending vast amounts of money on anything that you could think of. Clothes, jewelry, shoes. You were unsure of your honeymoon or where it would be, but you were sure of the fact that you’d be going home with him the same night.

You shyly picked through a multitude of beautiful, frilly pieces of all kinds of lingerie. Some are more risqué than others. The colors ranged from a plain white to a fiery red—a red that you were sure most men adored. (That’s what you were told, at least. From friends and the media)

You even bought a set that loosely resembled his bright blue eyes. You heard men go crazy when their woman matched one of their articles of clothing—especially lingerie—to their eye color.

Alas, this was all for a man you hadn’t seen in ages. A man—whom you last heard of—was married to another woman.

You were briefly informed of the situation. Initially, hesitance and speculation flooded your being.

But then again, you were told that he was ready to move on.

That he chose you.

Which, when looking back at it now, causes a flicker of confusion behind your elated eyes.

Because, for a man who supposedly ‘chose’ you as his wife, why does he not look at you with the same awe as you do to him? Why does he almost hesitantly lift the veil off your face and behind your head? Why do his hands feel cold when they clasp yours?

Why do they tremble lightly when they slide the wedding ring on your finger?

Why does his jaw clench when you repeat the same action with his golden band?

Why is his voice not filled with passion, like most men, when he recites his vows?

Why does he kiss you swiftly and briefly, instead of long and reverently, like you’ve seen in movies and from those around you?

Why…doesn’t he look happy at his own wedding?

Nerves. Must be nerves. That’s what you optimistically chalk it up to.

There are many people in attendance—most you don’t even know.

You won’t deny the fact that you’re nervous too. Many of those here are business partners from your side and Satoru’s side. People you’ve only ever politely greeted and gone about your day.

Truthfully, you weren’t interested in them.

You were interested in making a good impression for your husband’s family and close friends—for your husband, himself.

When he said his ‘I do’s’, you were very much feeling the intensity of your current situation. You felt happy, giddy. Almost like that nine-year-old version of yourself when he first skimmed his fingers against yours.

Even if he was nervous or scared or whatever he was feeling, he made his sacred vows to be tied to you, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, and ‘til death do you part.

He committed to you. He’s your husband now.

“I wish we would’ve been able to meet up before today, at least. Sorry if it’s all sudden,” you timidly apologized, followed by a sweet smile. Your hand found the crook of his elbow, noticing the tensed muscles under his tailored suit.

His eyes look around, barely offering you a glance with his obligated smile. “Yeah.”

His short answer pulled a tiny frown at your lips. Again, he must be nervous and overwhelmed. You look toward the dance floor, an idea popping in your head to bring your husband out of this little funk he has going on. “Do you want to dance?”

“I’m grabbing a drink,” is all he said before getting up. Your hand slides off his arm, leaving you slightly perplexed at his sudden departure. You stand to follow him, but already see one of his best friends, Geto, stalking up to him.

You’ll let them talk for a bit. Maybe he’s congratulating Satoru on the new marriage.

You take a few steps toward the dance floor, already being squished into a tight hug by your oldest brother.

“Ah! Look at you! They grow so fast.”

“Ren, you’re messing up my hair,” you jokingly push him, pulling away to flatten down the small mess he made.

“Relax, you still look pretty,” your brother waves you off. His brown hair was already tousled, cheeks flushed slightly, and you could assume he had already had a couple of drinks in his system. There’s a dopey grin on his face, one that you reciprocate easily. “So, how ‘ya feeling?”

You pause for a second too long. “Happy,” you say, though your voice doesn’t carry the same certainty as your smile. “A little overwhelmed, maybe. But… it’s a big day.”

Ren raises an eyebrow, then glances over your shoulder toward the bar—where Satoru stands with Geto, head bowed and lips moving quickly in conversation. He hasn’t looked back at you once. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of happy I was hoping for.”

You laugh, too quietly. “You know how arranged marriages are.”

“I don’t, actually,” Ren says pointedly. “Because I’d never let Dad hand me off like a business contract.”

His tone softens when he sees the flicker in your eyes—the one you don’t quite catch yourself. “I’m sorry,” he adds quickly. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt.”

You bite your lip and shrug, casting a glance back at your new husband. He looks like a painting with glass in front of it, a sign that says ‘DO NOT TOUCH’.

Beautiful, distant, and not even holding the woman with his name now attached to hers. You would’ve thought you’d be glued to each other's side.

Maybe that was just naive of you.

“It’s okay, I’m okay. I’m happy. Excited for what’s to come.”

Your brother nods, eyebrow raising in suspicion. Even tipsy, he’s still as perceptive as ever. He lets it go, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Where you guys headin’ after this? Booked a hotel?”

“I think so. I haven’t really asked yet,” you scratch at your neck.

Ren sighs and nods, a smile creeping up his lips again. “Right, well. You know what they—”

“Oh god. Don’t,” you cover your face embarrassingly, shoving his shoulder weakly. “I know, I know.”

“Fine, I’ll save you the honeymoon advice,” he places his hands up in mock surrender. “Just…make sure he treats you well, got it?”

Your cheeks flush, nodding in confirmation.

Thinking about tonight makes you nervous—rightfully so. But in a good, excited way. You wonder what things will be like when it’s just you two. Maybe he’ll let his guard down since there’ll be no wandering eyes and prying ears.

He’ll feel comfortable once it’s just him and his wife.

That’s how it should be, right?

Right, you concede in your head.

You say bye to your brother, approaching Satoru from behind. Geto sees you before your husband does, quickly straightening and putting a warm smile on his face.

“Hey, Y/N. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you smile, accepting the small hug from him. You peer at Satoru, the drink in his hand already empty. “Am I interrupting something?” You ask, head tilting innocently.

Geto opens his mouth, but Satoru speaks first.

“No,” he says flatly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Just talking.”

There’s a strange tension in the air—one that makes your stomach twist, though you can’t quite name why. You nod, eyes flicking to his empty glass, then back to his unreadable face. “I was thinking we could have our first dance soon… if you’re ready.”

He hums, glancing back toward the ballroom where soft music plays beneath the chatter of guests. “Go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

That catches you off guard.

“I meant together,” you reaffirm, smile faltering just slightly. “You know… the whole ‘bride and groom’ thing?”

Satoru finally looks at you—really looks at you. It makes your stomach flutter. His lips are formed into a thin line, not exactly frowning, but not smiling either. A tiny crease between his snowy eyebrows. But his eyes are unreadable, glacier-cool and tired. “I said I’ll be there in a bit.”

It’s not angry. Not unkind. But it’s dismissive, and something in your chest withers quietly under the weight of it.

Geto clears his throat. “He’s just had a long day,” he offers with a kind smile, like he can feel the awkwardness you’re drowning in. “Big change, you know?”

You smile politely, nodding again as you retreat a step. “Right. Of course. I’ll… I’ll save you a dance, then.”

Satoru doesn’t answer.

You walk back toward the floor, hands fidgeting with the fabric of your dress. You hear footsteps from behind, and you hopefully look over your shoulder.

Only to find Geto coming up to you.

“We can dance, Y/N. If you don’t mind.”

You blink at the suggestion, head tilting back to where Satoru is ordering another drink for himself. “Oh—I—No, I don’t mind. Does Satoru mind?”

A stupid question, in all honesty. But that’s unbeknown to you.

Suguru shakes his head, offering his hand. “Nah, he’s cool with it. Promise.”

You carefully take his hand, noting the way he feels warmer than Satoru. He puts his other hand on the curve of your waist, and yours goes to his shoulder.

You engage in a small waltz of some sort, not entirely intimate, but still offering you his attention. One thing your husband isn’t doing. You try not to dwell on it too much.

“Is…Satoru okay?” You ask, looking up at the dark-haired man with a worried gaze. “He’s not feeling uncomfortable, is he?”

Suguru clears his throat, hesitating for a second before answering. “He’s okay. Just in his head, ‘ya know? But he’s happy to be here with you.”

A wide smile graces your lips, eyes sparkling under the lights. “He is?” You echo, hopefulness in your voice. Maybe you had been overthinking this all. You were one, after all.

There’s a twitch to Suguru’s brow, like he’s holding out on something. But he nods and hums. “Mhm. He is. Couldn’t stop raving about you last week.”

You giggle softly, a hand fluttering up to your cheek. “Really?”

“Mm,” Geto replies with a practiced smile. It's gentle, believable, necessary.

Your heart swells a little, even if part of you wonders whether Suguru is just trying to spare your feelings. Still, the idea that Satoru spoke about you—thought about you—makes your grip loosen, your body less tense in the gentle rhythm of the dance.

“That makes me happy,” you murmur, the smile lingering.

He spins you once, drawing a small laugh from your lips before pulling you back toward him. “He’s just got his own way of showing things.”

You nod, believing him. What other reason do you have than not to believe Satoru’s best friend? The man who knows him better than his own wife. You try not to glance back toward the bar again, but fail.

Satoru’s leaning back against it now, head tilted slightly like he’s watching the ceiling instead of his wedding.

“Guess I’ll just have to learn his way, then,” you mumble, the lace of your sleeve brushing Suguru’s wrist as you move.

He doesn’t respond to that.

Instead, he adds, “He’s lucky. You’re kind.” There’s a strange emphasis on the word, almost like it surprises him.

“Kind,” you repeat with a smile, unsure if it’s meant as a compliment or something else. “Thank you. My father taught me to be this way.”

He shrugs with one shoulder. “That’s good. Kind is rare around here.”

The song ends, and with a graceful parting, Suguru kisses the back of your hand, ever the gentleman. You thank him, cheeks tinged pink, your gaze still drawn—like muscle memory—back to your husband.

Still seated. Still alone. Still avoiding your eyes.

You return to your table in silence, fingers idly tracing the rim of your untouched champagne flute. The laughter around you fades into white noise, each congratulation a little more distant, like it’s meant for a version of you that exists only in theory.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been sitting alone until a soft weight settles across your shoulders—Satoru’s suit jacket, cool and faintly smelling of something expensive and distant.

“You’ll catch a cold,” his voice murmurs, low near your ear.

You straighten, surprised to see him so close. “Oh. Thank you.”

He sits beside you, long legs folding beneath the table, eyes flicking to the floor. You watch him for a long second.

“I saved you a dance,” you try again, voice softer this time. Not pleading. Just offering.

He stares ahead. Then almost imperceptibly, he nods.

“Later,” he repeats the same word from earlier.

Later must be his favorite word. Considering the fact that you never got your dance with him.

The words of praise and congratulations, the hugs and kisses from everyone else beside your own husband offered momentary distraction. He still kept up an image of holding his arm around your waist for pictures, smiling just a little too hard when your brothers and father approached you two later on that night.

It’s over before you know it. After the reception, Satoru doesn’t look at you when you both ride in the backseat of the Escalade, his driver up front.

Not even offering you a hand to step out when you park in front of his manor. His driver does that for you.

You thank the quivering man, holding onto your dress in order to keep it from dragging on the floor as you follow Satoru up the steps and into what would now be your forever home.

The foyer is grand—too grand, like it’s trying to distract you from how cold it feels. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and curated paintings with little meaning to you. Everything reeks of wealth, not warmth.

Satoru doesn’t utter a word as he loosens his tie with one hand. You follow slowly, your heels clicking softly behind him, fingers clenched around the delicate fabric of your gown. His jacket still worn by you.

“Your room’s down the hall to the left,” he gestures, not even looking over his shoulder. “Third door.”

Your room.

Not ours.

Not with me.

You stand there for a moment, lips parting, unsure if you’re meant to respond. But he’s already walking away, disappearing up the curved staircase with the grace of someone who’s done this before—welcomed a stranger into his life and left them to figure it out on their own.

You shake your head and quickly follow after him, stumbling over your footsteps. “W-Wait, Satoru. Won’t we be sharing a room?”

Your question makes him stop on the stair above yours, turning his body around to fully face you. His broad shoulders peeked from his ironed white button-up. He completely loosens his tie and unbuttons the top few buttons, all the while staring down at you like you’re an outsider in his safe space.

Like you’re a piece of trash that should be taken out.

“What makes you think I’d want to sleep next to you?”

You blink. “Um…well, we’re married. That’s what married couples do,” you nervously laugh.

“Yeah, normal married couples.” He spits out the words like they’re venom, lip curling in a distasteful sneer that almost makes you take a shaky step back from how repulsed he seems by you.

“W-Wha—”

“What do you have to complain about? You have a roof over your head, food on the table, and shoes on your feet. Haven’t you been taught to be grateful?”

His words strike harder than you expect. You’re not sure what wounds you thought would be spared tonight, but his voice finds them all—deliberate and unforgiving.

You swallow hard. “I’m not… ungrateful.”

Satoru scoffs, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to keep going. “Then act like it,” he huffs. “You knew what this was.”

“B-But I thought you wanted this. Everyone was saying how excited you were, how you were ready,” you stammer out, fingers wringing together, trying to come up with an excuse as to why you two should be sleeping in the same bed.

As if the very idea of a newlywed couple sleeping together on their wedding night is insane. As if you were an idiot for asking that question in the first place.

“I didn’t marry you for—” You hesitate. For money. For power. For safety. You wanted to say so much, to defend yourself. “I didn’t marry you for things, Satoru.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just cruelty laced with exhaustion. “Then you’re dumber than I thought.”

You flinch, lips parting in disbelief.

His words slam into you like a slap, and for a second, you just stand there—frozen. The weight of your gown suddenly feels suffocating, heavy like chains. You gulp hard, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“I—”

“Here’s the thing,” he cuts you off, turning to climb the stairs again. “I already had a wife. I already loved someone. And then you showed up in my life like some replacement part everyone insists will work just as well.”

A lump forms in your throat.

“I didn’t ask for you,” he mutters in finality, cutting into your thin-skinned being without an ounce of care. “And I sure as hell don’t want you in my bed.”

He disappears upstairs without a backward glance.

You’re left standing at the base of the stairs—unwanted, discarded, and utterly alone. In a house too big for two strangers, with wedding vows that seemingly meant nothing, and a name that now feels like a taunt.

Why is he acting this way? Why did everyone lie to you to save him? Or were they just trying to save you?

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. You’re confused, heartbroken, and holding back tears. What should’ve been a warm, loving, wholesome, unforgettable night is turning out to be the complete opposite.

Perhaps still unforgettable, due to how cold the king-sized bed feels.

Your room.

You knew of his previous wife dying six years ago. And you would never expect the grief to magically heal and go away. They say time heals, but time also hurts.

However, was it still normal for him to act so…loyal toward a woman who was no longer on this Earth?

Grief is one thing. You understand distance, guardedness, and even the occasional misplaced anger. But this? The rejection, the venom, the outright cruelty on just the first night of being wed? The way he looks at you like you’ve trespassed into something sacred—defiling her memory just by existing?

No one warned you it would be this bad. They told you he was complicated. That he needed someone kind. Someone patient. That maybe you could be the person to help him start again.

But no one told you he’d punish you for simply earning the title as his wife. His new wife.

Because it’s not just grief that grips him—it’s guilt. It’s the unbearable weight of loving someone he couldn’t save, and the shame of knowing everyone expects him to try again with someone new. With you.

You look down at the shimmering diamond that looks up at you, biting down on your quivering lip as tears blur your vision.

It’s just the first night, you tell yourself. Things could change; he could change. Maybe it’s not worth feeling these high levels of disappointment and sadness when your newfound marriage isn’t completely ruined.

You still have so many more experiences to be fulfilled as a couple together.

He’s grieving; it’s hard for him.

You shouldn’t make things about you tonight. Even if you just wanted a pair of muscular arms—your husband’s arms—wrapped securely around you after soft love-making.

You wipe your tears before they can fall, unwilling to let them stain this new chapter before it’s even begun.

He most likely just needs time. Space. Patience.

He’s hurting still, yes—but if you give him enough kindness, he’ll eventually meet you halfway. And hopefully one day, he’ll look at you and see more than a convenient alliance. More than a replacement.

You sniff quietly and take your heels off.

You’ll be the wife that’s expected of you. The wife he needs, the one he wants, the one he deserves.

Space. Patience. Kindness. Understanding.

All the things a good wife is supposed to give, right?

Even if it means swallowing your own pain just to make room for his.

You slide out of the gown you spent hours picking for him, looking down at the soft, lacy white lingerie you had picked out for this special night. Fingers running along the material, lips pursed at the sad thought of him never getting to see you in it.

Eventually, you crawl into the cold side of a bed that hardly feels like yours. You bury yourself beneath the plush duvet, hugging your own arms, pretending they’re his.

And when the silence becomes too loud, you whisper into the dark:

“Goodnight, Satoru.”

But there’s no reply.

The next morning you wake, you’re told by the cooks that your husband won’t be joining you today, as he left quite early in the morning without anything to eat.

All you could do was save face, nodding like it didn’t bother you.

The long, dark mahogany table only further intensified your feelings of isolation.

You sit at the end of the table, porcelain cup trembling slightly in your grasp as steam curls from your untouched tea. The morning light floods in through the tall windows, illuminating the polished surfaces and gilded edges of the room—a room too grand, too empty, too quiet.

Your breakfast is prepared to perfection: fluffy eggs, golden toast, fruit sliced with surgical precision. But every bite tastes like ash when there’s no one across from you. No husband. No conversation. No warmth.

Just you. A wedding ring. And a silent seat where love was supposed to be.

Later that morning, the movers came with all your personal belongings.

You didn’t miss the way they subtly eyed you with confusion as you told them which room to put your things in. Of course, you could hear their silent questions.

She’s staying in this room alone? Shouldn’t be sharing her husband's room? Aren’t they married?

None of them spoke up. Just diligently made the long trek up three flights of stairs many times. You offered to help, but they kindly denied your request.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Gojo. We’ve got this.”

Your new title brought a warmth to your heart, nodding.

It was around the afternoon when they finally finished up, saying their goodbyes. You thanked them for their hard work and gently shut the grand front door.

You sigh to yourself. Once again, you had the entire manor to yourself.

Your eyes wander around from one chandelier to the next, feet moving you from one room to the other in order to familiarize yourself with your new home.

It felt a tiny bit odd to be giving yourself your own house tour, but Satoru was who knows where, and you didn’t want to bother the cleaners or cooks.

You moved through the house slowly, your fingers grazing polished banisters and cool marble columns. Each room felt like a museum—beautiful, curated, but untouched. Distant. You tried to memorize where things were: the library, the sunroom, the indoor garden that somehow still felt lifeless despite its blooms.

You wonder what secrets these walls had to tell.

Finally, you make it to the third floor. But instead of going left, where your room now is, you turned right.

Where Satoru’s room would be.

This side of the floor felt off-limits, for some reason. Maybe it secretly is. The hallway stretched quietly and undisturbed, the carpet plush beneath your feet as you walked slowly and cautiously, like any sudden movement might awaken lingering ghosts. At the very end stood a tall white door with gold accents—simple but grand, much like him. You paused in front of it, heart thudding in your ears.

Were you allowed in? Would he be furious if he found out? It was innocent curiosity. You’d never do any of this out of spite.

You just wanted to get to know your husband more.

And so your fingers moved before your doubts could catch up. With a quiet twist of the knob, the door creaked open.

Instantly, the air felt colder. Stiffer. You almost hesitated going in fully, but you swallowed hard and trekked further in.

There was an Alaskan King-sized bed in the middle of the large room.

Its crisp white sheets were tucked so perfectly that it almost looked untouched. Heavy navy curtains framed the tall windows, drawn shut to block the morning sun. The entire space felt lived-in, but sacred—like a shrine that hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Your slippers padded softly against the floor as you looked around, heart tightening the deeper you wandered. There were subtle traces of someone else here. A dusty perfume bottle on the vanity. A woman’s book on the nightstand, its spine cracked and pages worn. A framed photo, face down.

And beside the bed—on a small table that looked like it had been untouched for years—sat a single porcelain teacup, cracked along the rim. Dried flowers in a vase, long since wilted.

Your throat tightened.

You wandered over to the walk-in closet, switching the lights on.

On one side was his clothing. Mostly tailored suits, crisp button-ups and slacks, jackets and blazers. Beneath his clothes were his shoes. They all looked the same. Black and polished, some leather and others patent leather. From the brief looks of it, everything on his side was designer.

Louboutins. Dior. Alessandro Galet. Magnanni. Berluti. Tom Ford. Saint Laurent. Salvatore Ferragamo. Prada. Brioni. Zegna. Dolce & Gabanna. You name it.

Everything was arranged with meticulous care—color-coordinated, spaced evenly, not a single hanger out of place. Like he dressed not just with wealth, but with precision. Like appearance wasn’t just about style—it was power.

He even had his glass display of watches and dark sunglasses.

Classy.

But as you slowly looked over to the opposing side, you felt your stomach drop.

The other half of the closet wasn’t empty.

No, it was frozen in time. Almost like most of the house.

Delicate blouses in pastel silks and soft linens still hung neatly on gold hangers. Shoes—heels and flats alike—lined the bottom rack, their soles worn. A faint floral scent clung to the air: something powdery, something soft. Like roses pressed between pages of a forgotten book.

Her things.

You reached out instinctively, fingertips brushing the sleeve of a pale blue dress. It was beautiful—timeless, elegant. Expensive. The kind of thing a woman would wear for a brunch in the garden or a romantic dinner.

A thin layer of dust clung to the shoulder seams. Not enough to show neglect—just enough to confirm what you feared. He hadn’t touched anything. Hadn’t moved on.

She still lived here.

Not in body, but in presence. In perfume. In the lipstick-stained coffee mug still resting on the mirrored vanity table beside her jewelry box.

Was it wrong of you not to anticipate this happening? It's been six years.

Do most widowers have everything from their previous wife left, strewn about their house, even when a new wife now occupies the same space?

There were scarves still looped around hooks. Jewelry boxes unopened. A vanity tucked neatly in the corner with bottles of half-used perfume, like she might walk back in at any moment and spritz some on her neck before dinner.

And suddenly, you understood.

You weren’t just the new wife.

You were the woman who now slept in her house.

Used her dishes.

Carried her name.

But not her place in his heart.

That space was still sealed.

Untouched.

Untouchable.

“Mrs. Gojo?”

You jolt and whirl around, heart beating fast, until you realize it’s just one of the cleaners. You sigh in relief, hand to your chest. “Oh—I—yes?”

The woman offers a small, apologetic bow. She’s older, maybe in her fifties, with graying hair pulled into a neat bun and a feather duster clutched in her hands.

“I’m terribly sorry to startle you,” she mutters gently. “I didn’t realize anyone would be on this floor. Most don’t come up here. Mr. Gojo doesn’t permit any of us to come to this side of the hall…”

You nod slowly, eyes flickering back to the closet before glancing away again. “I was just… looking around. Familiarizing myself with everything.”

The woman hesitates for a moment. Her expression softens, eyes kind but filled with something unreadable—something like pity.

“I understand,” she nods. Then, after a beat, “Would you like some tea sent to your room, ma’am?”

Your throat tightens. You know what she means. She’s offering you a graceful retreat. A way out of this mausoleum of memories.

You swallow and nod back. “Yes… Thank you. That would be lovely.”

As you step out of the closet, you can’t help but glance one last time at the perfectly preserved side of the wardrobe. The woman it belonged to may be gone—but somehow, in this house, she still lingers in every corner.

You follow the cleaner, footsteps dragging slightly at the newfound information.

Doesn’t allow anyone else to come to this side of the wing.

You don’t know why, but that thought alone makes you feel things you probably shouldn’t. He’s still trying to preserve her memory, that much is obvious from his cruel words and his strict rules.

It feels like he’s forcing himself to offer up just a sliver of his safe space to a woman he doesn’t care for. Like it hurts doing even the bare minimum for his wife.

“Does he still love her?” You shock yourself with your own bluntness. Grimacing at the way the woman momentarily stops, eyes widened.

There’s a beat of awkward silence before she clears her throat and faces you.

“I believe Mr. Gojo…still has a lot of love for his late wife, if that is what you are asking,” she carefully responds.

Of course.

“But,” she continues after noticing your fallen expression, “he’s also had much time to heal and reflect. That’s why he married you. His heart is ready.”

You hum blankly, your mind too focused on the negative aspects of your new marriage. You can only hope she’s being truthful. You’ve never been a pessimistic person, but truthfully, it’s hard to stay so optimistic all the time.

All you can do is trust. Trust and listen. That’s what a good wife does.

“Thank you,” you kindly reply, smiling at the older woman.

She nods back before continuing to walk.

When he comes home, you’ll try to talk to him and see more of his side. You know he’s much more complex than your average man, but that will not deter you.

As your day goes on and as you gradually grow excited at the idea of your husband coming back home, you can’t stop the worried, lingering, tiny voice in the back of your mind that whispers to you.

Why does it feel like you’re still in a competition with a ghost who doesn’t even have to try to win?

Satoru didn’t get home until later that same evening.

When he woke up that morning, there was a small part of him that hoped last night was all a dream. That he wasn’t actually remarried already.

It fizzled instantly when he saw your door at the end of the other hall shut.

Something came over him. And then he found himself at her grave.

The hours passed by, but that didn’t stop the way it felt like he wasn’t there for long enough.

Satoru kneeled before the polished black stone engraved with Sayuri’s name. He traced the letters of his late wife’s name, a troubled expression on his face. The damp earth smelled faintly of moss and fallen leaves, and the steady drip of rain made the world seem washed clean, or perhaps just sorrowful.

“She’s not like you, Sayuri…” he sighed heavily, “she never will be.”

His jaw clenched. His mind raced with memories—fragments of laughter, whispered promises, and the fragile moments of a love that had ended too soon.

Somewhere deep inside, the ache for Sayuri battled with the cold reality of the woman waiting for him back at the manor—the one who wasn’t her but bore the same surname on her lips now, the same ring on her finger.

He closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard. The world was a blur of regret and doubt, and yet, beneath it all, a small spark of something unspoken flickered—a fragile hope, buried deep and unsure.

Because for the first time in a long time, he felt the unmistakable weight of responsibility. Not to the past, but to the present. To you.

Eventually, he rose, one last glance at the stone, a whispered apology escaping his lips.

As he climbed back into the car and the city lights welcomed him home, Satoru knew the hardest part was still ahead—facing the woman who had been waiting all along, in a house colder than any graveyard.

And he’d never be able to offer her the same love he had already given to another woman. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Because Satoru already had one love story. And it ended tragically. He vowed never to put himself through the same sorrow and heartache with another woman.

It would be beneficial for you to realize sooner rather than later that your marriage was nothing more than legal statements on a piece of paper. That your rings were just expensive accessories, holding nothing more than surface value sentience.

“Dinner?” He asked his personal chef, nodding to the array of ingredients that lay flat on the granite surface of the kitchen table.

The cook, a middle-aged man with a kind smile, nodded. “Yes, sir. Your wife recommended it.”

His brows twitch with an incoming crease, looking closer at just what exactly was being prepared.

Steak. Mashed potatoes. Grilled asparagus. It was simple.

He almost scoffed.

No, his wife would never eat something like this. Sayuri loved dishes that weren’t heavy.

Salmon was her favorite, cooked in the oven. With roasted Mediterranean vegetables on the side.

When he looked further to the right, it seemed the chef was readying homemade mozzarella sticks.

Again, his wife wouldn’t eat that. She hated mozzarella sticks, actually.

Satoru’s gaze lingered on the array of dishes, each one carefully selected and laid out with precision. The contrast between the simple, hearty steak dinner and the delicate, light meals Sayuri once adored felt like a stark reminder of the distance now between past and present, of the irreconcilable gap that separated memory from reality.

He stepped closer to the granite countertop, fingers curling slightly as if he could grasp the ghosts lingering in the kitchen air. The scent of rosemary and garlic mingled with the faint, comforting aroma of butter melting into mashed potatoes. It was all so ordinary, yet the weight behind it was anything but.

Satoru’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes momentarily drifting to the sleek dining room beyond, where the soft light cast long shadows against the polished mahogany table. There, in the silence of the manor, sat a reality he struggled to accept:

You.

By the time it got to dinner, he was silently dreading it all.

“Thank you,” you smiled at the chef as he placed the intricately cooked meals in front of you and your husband.

Satoru was seated across from you.

The setting felt more comforting compared to this morning when it was just you.

“Enjoy,” he nodded before quietly leaving the dining room.

Your eyes practically glowed with excitement at the delicious food. When you were prompted by the chef what you’d like to eat for dinner, you couldn’t help yourself from saying the first thing that came to mind.

Your favorite dish since you were a mere child.

You could only hope Satoru shared the same favoritism.

He didn’t.

Because he wasn’t eating the same food you were.

A simple pasta blessed his plate.

The contrast between your choices of supper was painfully obvious. It felt like even the smallest things—he did not want to share with you.

Even if that was a choice of dinner.

“Do you want some?” You broke the silence, pointing to the meat in front of you. “I probably won’t finish it all myself.”

“Ate earlier,” he simply muttered.

You pause. “Oh, you did?”

He nods.

“Before dinner?” A weak chuckle falls from your lips, half-joke, half-honesty.

He flashes his sharp blue eyes to yours, and you almost flinch. Again. “Is that a problem?”

You’re quick to defend yourself. Shaking your head furiously and stammering out. “N-No, no, of course not.” Your voice trembled under his gaze, your fingers tightening involuntarily around the fork you’d barely touched. “I was just curious.”

“Stop being curious, then.” The finality in his tone silenced you. No warmth. No softness. Just a dismissive command that left you feeling small and unworthy.

You bite your lip, feeling the sudden weight of the room grow heavier, as if the air itself thickened between you. The warmth from the candles flickers against the cold distance in his eyes.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you whisper, barely above the clink of your fork against the plate. “I just… I thought maybe we could share something. Even just dinner.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl around the glass of water, knuckles whitening. “You think everything has to be about ‘us,’ don’t you? Just because we sit at the same table doesn’t mean we’re the same people.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “That’s not fair.”

He scoffs softly, but it carries a bitter edge. “Fair? Since when did fairness enter this? I’m trying to keep things simple. Keep things separate. That’s the only way this works.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Separate. Right. Like we’re strangers who happened to marry.”

His eyes flash. “That’s exactly what we are.”

A silence heavier than before falls. You stare at your plate, feeling small, like the divide between you is widening into an ocean neither of you can cross.

“Why are you being like this? I know we don’t know much about each other, and I know that things may be hard for you. But I’m really trying to make the best of things.” The honesty in your voice makes it tremble.

You feel stupid for almost crying in front of him during your first dinner as husband and wife. But the way he regards you makes your heart ache. It makes you feel unworthy, just like every other part of this house does.

But he does it intentionally. And loudly.

Satoru doesn’t answer at first. He takes a long sip of water, as if giving himself time to swallow not just the drink, but whatever bitter thing was rising in his throat.

You wait, eyes locked on him. Begging, silently, for something. A crack. A shift. Anything.

Instead, he sets his glass down with a hollow clink. His voice, when it finally comes, is colder than before.

“You don’t get it,” he declared. “You think effort changes anything.”

You blink. “I’m not trying to change everything, I’m just—”

“You are.” He cuts in sharply. “You’re trying to make this feel real. And it’s not.”

His words sting more than you expect.

“T-Then what is this? Just a performance? A contract?” Your voice wavers, frustration just barely covering the wound splitting open inside you.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

“So I’m just a placeholder.” You stare at him, hoping for a change on his face that lets you know he’s feeling remorseful for his actions. Hoping that he’ll correct you. “Something to fulfill a requirement.”

“If that’s how you want to see it.”

“No,” you whisper. “It’s how you see it.”

Satoru finally drops his fork on his plate, jaw clenching. There’s not an ounce of tenderness in his appearance. Only exhaustion. Anger. Maybe even guilt, but if it’s there, he hides it beneath the same ice that coats every word.

“You want a partner,” he vocalizes, intonation like sharp glass, “but I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this.”

“And you think I did?” Your voice breaks.

Quietness again. But your words hang between you, trembling, like a thread caught on fire.

“I didn’t ask for any of this either,” you continue, voice cracking now, “but I showed up. I’m here. I’m trying to make this livable, Satoru. I’m trying to see you as someone I could—” you stop yourself, pain laced behind your tongue. “—someone I could maybe trust.”

His gaze drops to the table, his expression unreadable now. “Just don’t. Don’t make the mistake of trusting me.”

“Why? Because you’ll leave? Hurt me? Use me?”

He lifts his eyes slowly again, and this time—there’s something different. Not remorse. Not pity.

Resentment.

“Because I already have.”

That’s what breaks you.

You sit in stunned silence, a breath caught in your lungs that refuses to leave.

“I never asked for your kindness,” he finishes, standing up despite a full plate of food. “So stop offering it like it means something.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because all at once, the weight of this house, this marriage, him—it all collapses on your chest, and you realize:

He’s not building a wall between you.

He’s already buried you behind it.

He leaves you alone just like last night. You watch his back until you can no longer see him.

Your mouth opens and closes, like you’re trying to think of some rebuttal, even if he won’t hear it. But you come up short and speechless.

Because what exactly could you say? How do you convince him to just try to act like your husband? To try to make this work?

You can’t. Not simply, at least.

And it seems no matter what protest or reason you throw at him, he’ll flip it back around on you. And like a weakling, you take it.

You face it. You swallow it. And you continue.

You blink quickly to hold back the hot tears that threaten to spill from your eyes as you indulge in the now cold dinner. You force your wobbly hand to pick at your food, even though it tastes like ash on your tongue.

Because I already have.

He really knows what to say to make you feel like dirt, doesn’t he?

Your fork scrapes gently against the porcelain, the only sound in the room besides the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

A tear slips free down your cheek, then another, and soon you can’t stop them.

You feel watched. Not by him, but by the house.

A house that once had love between a man and woman. A house that holds many secrets, some you’ll never even know. A house that feels like a morgue in disguise.

These walls—lavish and suffocating—hold the echo of your vows. Empty words spoken for appearances. For families. For legacy.

Not for love. Never for love.

At least not love for you.

a/n: what did we think so far??? i’m honestly so inconsistent someone spank me—i mean lock me up!!🫣😼👅. anywho, i need to finish serial killer toji still 😹. hope you all enjoyed 💕

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date-everything-has-taken-over · 1 month ago

Note

Hi hi hiii I wasnwondering if u could do a fic thing where reader is basically dating most dateables n one day they (the reader) basically ends up feeling extremely sick from not taling care of theirself properly, running around to fix stuff, starting a new part-time job, going out with new friends. Could some of the characters included be dorian, eddie & volt, hector and whoever else? Pls and thank uu!!

Gonna add Barry and Betty because I think they'd fit in very well with this case (And they're my babygirls)

Dorian🚪

● One of the first to notice something was off

●After losing your job at Valdivian, you had gotten two part-time jobs to make up for it, and it was beginning to take its toll

●He was the kne to see you before you walked through the front Dorian. Before you would take a deep breath and put on your best, "everything's okay" face

●He'd try his best to convince you to give yourself a break and get some well needed rest, but you kept reassuring him you'd be fine

●Well, he was right. After one too many overtime shifts combined with coming home to help everyone with their problems resulting in many sleepless nights, you come home and practically collapsed in the front hallway

●"Right, that's it. You're taking a couple days off work and resting"

●Unfortunately, he's still the front door, so he can't take you to bed himself, but bedroom Dorian will take things from there

●If you thought he was like a bouncer before, you haven't seen anything yet.

●A dateable wants to see you. "Are you on the list?" "What do you need with them?" "You're not gonna cause a fuss are ya?"

●He even contemplates moving the hanks downstairs. Sure, they're usually in your room, but they're so loud. He gives them a stern warning (which scares them just a bit) and let's them stay

●He makes sure the house is safe and that your room is the pinical of peace

●"Autherized personal only" Dorian blocks anyone trying to get in, but especially the more rowdy members of the house

●"Darling, you never believe what I heard about Hoove!" Scandalabra tries yelling through Dorian, which was followed by a suspicious thud (I'm sure it's nothing to worry abt)

●Until he sees you're 100% better, Dorian doesn't let you out of his sight (not that he does that anyway). Going to the kitchen for chicken soup? He's got an eye on you just in case

●When you actually do recover, he's making sure you don't get yourself in the same issue and makes you promise not to push yourself

●"It's not just my job to keep you safe from the outside world, love." He holds you close to him, enveloping you in a warm hug. "I will always be there to keep you safe from all danger"

●Even after you're better and going back to work, he's checking on you every chance he gets, reminding you to eat and sleep at a reasonable time

●He may not woo with words as much as other dateables, but he shows how much he loves you every day by being a safe and reliable presence for you

Eddie & Volt⚡️

●Work was short-staffed, and with it being busy season, you were picking up extra shifts almost every day

● They know overworked when they see it, so when you show up to the club, noticeably tired, they clock you right away

●Volt takes a seat next to you, placing his lips on the side of you head

"You know we're always happy to see you, live wire-"

Eddie cuts him off

"-But you look dead tired, go to bed"

● Volt chuckles, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you onto his lap

"Our live wire doesn't need to leave to rest, do they?" He brings you closer. "You can relax right here, live wire"

●After that night, Eddie stopped letting you help out around the club

"Don't worry about it, alright? You look like you're about to fall over anyway"

●Eddie acts tough, but he's checking on you and bringing you water every time you visit the Breaker Box after work

●When everything catches up to you and you actually do end up getting sick enough to take a couple of days off work while stuck in bed, they're both worried (and a little pissed)

●They've seen you running around the house helping everyone, fixing things around the house, settling arguments between other members of the house so they have a pretty good idea of how you ended up like this

●They check on you every day to make sure you're doing alright

●If you're not awake when they come by, you'll wake up to find a glass of water, Nyquill, and a note

'Rest well, live wire -E&V

●After a couple of days of bedrest, you return to the club, and they're happy to see you doing well

●They've both accepted you're too nice to say no to helping everyone in the house, so how do they remedy this?

●By practically keeping you hostage in the club for the next couple of days (Can't get exhausted again if they just keep you at the Breaker Box)

●Eddie still refuses to let you help out even if you insist

"And you get on me for not taking a break," he sets a glass in front of you. "Little hypocritical, don't ya think?"

●He places a gentle kiss on the top of your head, keeping close for a moment before going to the back to do maintenance

●They may be busy running the club, but never too busy for you, and they make sure to remind you

Hector💨

●Also, very quick to notice

●He was very worried when he noticed how much slower you seemed lately

●Asks how you're doing multiple times a day. Never believes you when you say you're fine but he doesn't wanna push it and upset you

●Fully panics when he sees you collapse after walking through front Dorian

●The temperature spikes for a moment until he calms down

●He doesn't leave your side for a moment

●Takes extra care to keep the temperature at a comfortable level for you

●You don't even have to say anything. Ate you pulling the blanket closer to you? Heat up. Are you kicking away the sheets? Air on.

●He so badly wants to be there with you. To hold you and comfort you. But he's still terrified to leave the vents

●He's slightly soothed knowing Betty is taking very good care of you (but also kinda jealous)

●In the middle of the night, when he's sure everyone is asleep, he sits beside your bed, watching as your breath rises and falls

● He brushes your hair aside, admiring your beautiful face (even though it's sick and sweaty, he doesn't care)

●Before leaving, he gives your forehead a kiss. "Feel better soon, my love."

● If someone tried disturbing you or kept you awake, he'd turn the heat up in the room they're in to be petty

●When you're well enough to get out of bed, he's overcome with both joy and anxiety

●Joy because you're well enough to see him in the attic now. He can hold you again (and you can watch him turn bright red as you kiss his face)

● But anxious because, what if this happens again? What if the human keeps pushing themselves? What if it's WORSE next time?!

●He begs you to slow down and not push yourself too hard. To give yourself more free time and rest more often

●The look he gives you is like a kicked puppy, and you just can't help but hold him close and promise to take care of yourself better

●He clings to you for a bit before you leave the attic to go to bed "Rest well, my love."

● When you finally go back to work, he anxiously waits for your return, watching Timmy just a little too closely

●When you finally return, he observes your every move to see if you look tired or overwhelmed

●If not, good. But if you look any kind of distressed, he's whisking you away to the attic to cuddle, then practically dragging you to bed at the end of the day

●You're honestly a little surprised since he's normally not this bold face-to-face

●Even long after recovery, it becomes a new routine. If you come home tired, he's attaching himself to you koala style

Barry💄

● Well, technically, he noticed pretty quickly when he'd see you so exhausted every morning, buuuuut then he forgot and would notice all over again each morning

●Feels terrible when you come home sick and remain bedridden for days

●He's almost too nervous to visit you, scared you'd be mad at him

●"Are you feeling alright, darling?" He peeks into your room, "Anything I can do to help?"

●When you tell him you'd just like to hear his voice and that you love it when he goes on little rants about whatever he's obsessed with at the moment, his whole face turns red

●"Oh! W-well, that's, um, very n-nice, darling." He laughs nervously. He takes a moment to compose himself. "I 'm-I'm glad you enjoy hearing me talk. I'm happy to keep you company, darling."

●Since you're stuck in bed with nothing to do, Baeey is happy to keep you company while you recover

● He'll talk about just about anything that interests him at the time. Makeup, toucans, history, lions, movies. He's also happy to listen if you have anything to yap about

● If you're not able to shower, he'll brush your hair so it doesn't get too knotted while you're sick, taking care to be extra gentle.

●It's so soothing you send up falling asleep. He brings the covers over your body and turns the lights off, letting you sleep peacefully

●Before leaving, he leans down to kiss your cheek "Goodnight, darling."

● You may or may not have woken up with a lipstick smudge on your cheek, but you certainly didn't mind

●When you're feeling better, Barry helps you through your post-sick self-care routine. Warm bath, skin care, hair care

●Helps you with your bath so you don't fall asleep, definitely not because he wants to rub your soapy body noooo definitely not

Betty🛌

●She noticed right away. You've barely been sleeping and even when you do, you toss and turn all night.

●She tries to get you to come to bed early, but you're busy helping around the house. Then she tried getting you to sleep in, but you got called into work early.

●This repeated a couple of times until you stumbled into your room and fell onto her.

●She's happy to be able to spend so much time with you, but she wishes it weren't under such conditions.

●She holds you close, your head just under her chin and your face against her chest (awooga). She's somehow the perfect temperature for when you're cold or overheating.

●She'll gently stroke your head and hum softly until you fall asleep.

● When you wake up, she looks down at you and brings a hand to your cheek. "Good morning, lover." She presses a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I'm afraid I can't let you go anywhere until I'm sure you're better." Her gentle voice makes it seem like a joke, but you know she's serious.

● You wouldn't have thought to leave anyway, you could barely move, and your whole body felt achy but more importly Betty was just so damn sweet and comfortable.

●Ngl it's mostly sleeping and cuddleng with you and occasanaly getting food

●When you finally felt better, she convinced you to take an extra rest day with her "just in case"

Sorry, Betty's is so short! I couldn't think of much for her

#date everything #date everything x reader #visual novel #date everything eddie #date everything volt #date everything dorian #date everything hector #date everything barry #date everything betty

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billiereid · 5 months ago

Text

Jealousy: Haikyuu! x Reader

Warnings: Rated X. This content is intended for readers ages 18 years or older. Minors, do not interact.

Featuring: Tetsuro Kuroo. Kenma Kozume. Kotaro Bokuto. Keiji Akaashi. Fem!Reader.

Contains: Posessive behavior. Jealousy. Fingering. Oral sex (F receiving). P in V sex. Edging. Praise. Exhibitionism. Public sex.

Summary: The boys all know that you love them. Your relationship is special and important, and you've never given them any reason to distrust you. But even still, everyone has insecurities. Everyone gets jealous sometimes. Here's how they react when that jealousy starts to flare up over you.

Author's Note: This is written post-timeskip. All characters are written to be adults.

Tetsuro Kuroo

Kuroo is one possessive motherfucker. At least, compared to the rest of the people on this list.

He’s happy to always let you have your space, your friends, anything you need.

But the moment he feels like another guy might end up in first place?

Absolutely the fuck not.

There was no reason for Kuroo to worry. He knew it. You knew it. But the moment one of your coworkers started giving you a ride home, he decided things were getting a little too friendly.

And he would never demand 100% of your time, your attention. That just wasn’t the kind of guy Kuroo was, and it wasn’t realistic anyway. You were a person. You deserved to have your friends, your family, your space, your fun.

But you were his. And he was going to make sure it was drilled into your head before the night was over.

“Please, Tetsu–” you all but whined. You didn’t know how long you’d been underneath him at this point. Your entire body was flushed with pleasure. You couldn’t think straight, couldn’t even come up with words. You had gotten so close at least a dozen times. A dozen edges that felt like a hundred.

All because of his hands.

Kuroo had his fingers buried inside you now. He’d had them on your clit just minutes ago, though after edging three times it certainly felt like hours. Now, he had your two favorites stuffed inside you, pressing against all your inner buttons and making your head spin.

“Aww, baby’s being so patient, aren’t you?” Tetsuro purred on his knees in front of you, his free hand pinning your hips to the bed with a bruising grip. “What do you think, princess? If I let you come right now, ‘re you gonna make a mess all over me?”

You knew what he wanted, knew that he wanted you to squirt. But you had only ever done it once for him, and it was a long time ago, when you were both a little too tipsy to care about having to change the sheets afterward. But now? Now, you weren’t sure if you could.

“You’re still thinking too much, babygirl,” Kuroo said, his voice low and nurturing despite the filthy squelching sounds that his fingers were making inside your ruined pussy. “Eyes on me, princess.” It was a command disguised as a gentle coaxing. Your eyes, glazed over with pleasure and the effort to hold back your orgasm, finally met Tetsuro’s. “There’s my pretty girl,” he purred.

The imaginary cord inside of you was wound so tight over and over, and you could tell it was about to snap, permission or no.

“Whose are you, sweet girl?” Kuroo asked. He needed to hear you say it–to make you say it.

Your eyes widened a little bit as you realized, he really might not let you come. “Tets–”

“I said, whose are you?” he repeated. When you still couldn’t seem to find the words, his eyes darkened in that dominant way that only his could manage. “Answer, or I’ll edge you again.”

The edges of panic crept into your mind. You couldn’t handle being edged again. You were already so sensitive. “Yours! Yours, Tetsuro, I’m yours,” you chanted frantically, hoping that this time he’e actually let you come.

“That’s fucking right,” Kuroo praised. “Now, come. And make a mess all over this fucking bed.”

Kenma Kozume

Honestly, Kenma’s not usually a jealous person.

He knows you love him, and you’ve never given him a reason not to trust you.

Just like anyone else, though, there are little insecurities.

And rather than getting possessive or angry, he just finds himself reminding you of all the reasons you keep him around.

It should’ve been such a simple interaction, really.

You’d left your wallet on the train when you were on your way home. Someone had found it and had been kind enough to meet up with you in a coffee shop and return it. Kenma had even agreed to go with you, even though there wasn’t much he could’ve done in the way of protecting you. He had seen the entire interaction happen. There was nothing suspicious. You hadn’t even touched the man who came to return your wallet, hadn’t seemed to flirt or even bat your eyes in his direction.

But he was tall. Extremely tall. Not that it normally mattered. But he also might’ve been handsome to some people, Kenma guessed, and his voice kind of sounded like warm butter when he spoke. And he was so kind, and your smile was so pretty when you looked up at him. But your smile was always pretty, especially when you were looking at Kenma. And it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Kenma wasn’t even really aware of what he was doing. But he spent the rest of the day doing whatever you wanted, his entire focus on you. He took you for lunch, then ice cream. He took you to your favorite little used bookstore, and he even stopped for a coffee on the way home.

And now, as the sun was setting outside your shared apartment, he was kneeling on the floor in front of your couch with his lips attached between your thighs. Kenma suckled sweetly on your clit, fingers kneading the squishy plush of your hips. His tongue dipped inside to taste your wetness before his lips returned to your clit. You’re his, you’re his, you’re so his.

He wasn’t really sure if he was convincing you or himself.

Kenma fully moaned against your pussy as he tasted you, completely enraptured by the sight of your back arching in response to the pleasure he was giving you.. His tongue always made you dizzy. Your hands carded through his hair, continuously brushing it out of his face for him as he devoured you.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” you moaned, your voice barely above a whisper. The desire practically rolled off of you in waves. The buildup was completely delicious, making time seem to slow down around you.

“So good… So perfect…” you told Kenma, looking down at him between your thighs. Your voice was husky, dripping with your need, and the words poured out of your mouth before your brain could even think to stop them. Not that you would’ve stopped him anyway. Kenma was perfect, and you were going to let him know that.

Kenma whimpered under your praise, his tongue flickering over your clit in that way he knows you love so much. Your back arched again–fuck, you were pretty when you did that.

“Baby… please, don’t stop…” you begged, your voice little more than a breathy moan as you got closer to that high you needed so badly.

But he pulled his lips away. Your head fell back against the sofa cushions, and you let out an extended whine. “Not yet,�� Kenma said, his breathing heavy and his voice raspy. You watched him let his pants and boxers fall to the floor, his dick hard and aching like you’d never seen before.

You whimpered again at the sight. “Kenma,” you whined, “I was so close.”

“I said, not yet,” Kenma said again. His cock slid through your folds, coating himself in your liquid arousal. “This pussy is mine. And I’ll do what I want with it.”

Kotaro Bokuto

When Bokuto gets jealous, he just gets unbelievably sad.

He’s not usually a possessive guy.

But he just loves having all of your attention.

So sometimes, when you’ve had your attention on another guy, he just needs to be reminded that you love him, too.

Was he fucking pouting?

You’d been out with your boyfriend all day, seemingly having a good time. And then you struck up an extended conversation with the barista at your local coffee shop, someone you’d become very friendly with because of your frequent visits. He’s a little too cute for Bokuto’s comfort.

Really, he wasn’t trying to be short with you. It was just a few comments that came out harsher than he intended. Some indifference here, some feigned boredom there. It was a recipe for disaster, you thought. And you couldn’t figure out why. You’d been having a perfectly normal day together. Actually, it was one of the better days, because there was no practice, no travel. Just the two of you, going out grocery shopping.

It wasn’t until after you got home that you realized what exactly was going on. When you were watching TV, Bokuto laid his head in your lap, his arms clinging to your waist, his face buried into your stomach. You laced your fingers into his hair and called him cute, and you saw the tiny, proud smile that he tried to hide by nestling further into your belly.

That was how you ended up here.

You straddled Kotaro’s lap, his cock buried inside you to the hilt. He was sitting on the bed, his back propped up against the headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good,” you said, starting to move your hips in your need to relieve the pressure low in your belly. “You fit me so perfectly.”

Bokuto’s hands gripped your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh on your hips. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you rode him, your pace slow and deliberate, as if making some sort of point. But fuck you were so gorgeous, your tits bouncing ever so slightly as you rode. Your hands perched on his shoulders to keep your balance. Your eyebrows pinched together. Your lip was caught between your teeth. Tiny little whimpers were escaping your lungs. Everything about you was so beautiful and gorgeous, and you were undeniably his and–

Oh, he thought.

But the thought didn’t stop him, didn’t make him falter for even a second. His hips started rising to meet yours with every thrust, forcing you to ride him faster. “That’s it,” Kotaro said through his teeth, one of his strong hands sliding up your side and gripping your breast. “That’s it. Keep goin’, yeah? Keep fuckin’ yourself on my cock.”

Bokuto’s lewd ramblings made you dizzy as his dick hit just the right spot inside you and kept hitting it. You let out absolutely the most sinful moan as you got closer to the high you wanted, the one you needed him to give you. “Fuck, don’t stop… Need more,” you moaned, leaning your forehead against his.

“I’m not stopping. You close?,” Bokuto says, still flexing his hips to fuck up into you, forcing his own pace over the two of you. You nod in answer. “Yeah, that’s it. Come for me. That’s my girl.”

Keiji Akaashi

Akaashi is an overthinker.

So while he isn’t necessarily jealous or possessive, he definitely does overthink things a lot.

And he isn’t afraid to call you out when he thinks you’re being a little too friendly with someone else.

Not that he thinks you would ever leave him. He’s just going to remind you why.

Thinking back on it, you could see why Akaashi did what he did.

You’d been out to dinner. Not just any dinner. Your anniversary dinner. He had made a reservation. You’d gotten dressed up. He was ready to wine and dine you all evening, to spoil you all night the way you deserved.

And then he showed up.

Some guy you’d gone on a couple of dates with before Keiji was even in the picture happened to see you from across the room. And the idiot had the audacity to come speak to you like Akaashi wasn’t even there.

And he wasn’t angry at you. God, no. Akaashi let you handle things your way. You were short in your responses, and when you finally introduced Keiji as your boyfriend and mentioned it was your anniversary, the guy finally left the two of you alone for the night.

It didn’t stop him from overthinking the entire evening though.

If things had been the other way around, if one of his exes had shown up on your anniversary date, he would’ve told her she was ruining his date. He would’ve said she needed to learn to read the room. He would’ve kissed you right in front of her for good measure.

He supposed that wasn’t what would’ve actually happened. And he supposed you probably just didn’t want to make a scene in the middle of the restaurant. So he wasn’t really angry with you. God, he was never angry with you, especially once you flashed him that pretty smile…

After dinner, he brought you out to the parking lot, supposedly to drive you home. But he smirked and guided you into the backseat, where he pulled you onto his lap and kissed you like you were the only oxygen in the entire world.

It wasn’t long until you were a tangle of limbs and tongues and teeth. Akaashi had pulled your dress and bra down, your pebbled nipple caught in his mouth. He had pulled his cock out of his pants and shoved it inside you, pushing your panties aside and thrusting into you in one fell swoop.

God, you were pretty like this. You were pretty always, Keiji couldn’t deny that. But your face was heated from the pleasure. Your dress was hiked up around your waist. One of your tits was hanging out of your dress. And fuck you felt so good wrapped around him, your hands perched on his shoulders as you awkwardly rode him in the back seat of his car.

“Keiji…” you whined, the tone of your voice betraying just how good it felt to have him inside you. “I’m… so… close…”

Akaashi only hummed his approval against your nipple. He wouldn’t dare stop now. Not when you were right on the cusp of coming on him in the middle of this parking garage. Fuck, you were so hot. He kept rolling his hips to meet yours as you rode him, his tongue delicately swirling around your nipple.

What you didn’t see was Akaashi locking eyes with the man who interrupted your date earlier. Your eyes were screwed shut and your head was thrown back in as you reached your peak. So your ex knew it was you, but you never got a chance to see him.

As the guy walked away, Akaashi let go of your nipple and replaced his mouth with his hand, his thumb circling your peak. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s my girl.”

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tender-rosiey · 7 months ago

Note

What about sukuna with his shy babygirl when reader goes away for a week and hes left alone to take care of her?

I ABSOLUTELY ADORE YOUR SUKUNA WITH HIS SHY BABYY

silence speaks — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: my favorite duo ever and this is really centered around them cuz they so cute but you do make multiple appearances also BIGGGGGG thanks to @bluebell33 for beta-reading <33

sukuna rarely concerns himself with trifles. the great and feared king of curses has no patience for the mundane.

yet, when it comes to his daughter—his little, bashful shadow—he finds himself tackling challenges he never imagined, especially now that you’ve gone to visit your ill mother for the week.

and left him alone with her.

you had reassured him it would be fine, and he had sneered at the implication that he couldn’t manage a child for a mere seven days.

but now he finds himself cursing you as he stares down the wide-eyed girl standing in the middle of the courtyard.

she’s clutching her favorite stuffed fox, her tiny fingers squeezing the fabric tightly as if it’s her only anchor in the world.

her big eyes flit up to him and then dart away just as quickly, cheeks pinkening as she retreats into herself, the same way she always does when the world feels too big.

sukuna huffs, scratching the back of his head. “what?” he grumbles, his voice rough, but she doesn’t flinch.

not anymore. she’s long since grown used to his tone, his presence, his towering frame. still, she doesn’t answer, only fiddles with the hem of her little kimono.

he exhales sharply through his nose. “if you’ve got something to say, spit it out.”

her lips purse into a small pout, and her voice comes out barely above a whisper. “...hungry.”

of course.

sukuna crosses his arms, his four hands resting against his broad chest as he glances toward the kitchen.

he knows how to prepare a meal in theory—he’s watched you do it countless times—but actually doing it? for her?

“fine. sit,” he commands, gesturing toward the veranda.

she shuffles over without a word, sitting cross-legged with her fox in her lap, her gaze following his every movement like he’s some kind of unapproachable deity—which, to most, he is.

the kitchen is uncomfortably quiet without you bustling about in it.

sukuna’s hands work awkwardly, chopping vegetables with precision but lacking the rhythm you make it look so easy to achieve.

he scowls as he tastes the broth, finding it bland despite his efforts. still, he’s not about to admit defeat.

when he finally places the bowl in front of her, she looks up at him with wide, unsure eyes. “you made it?”

“who else, brat?” he snaps, though there’s no real bite to his words. he sits down beside her, his knee brushing against her tiny one as he watches her cautiously take a sip.

her lips curve into a small smile, and her voice is soft but earnest. “it’s good.”

he grunts, looking away to hide the faint twitch of his own mouth. “damn right it is.”

the next day, sukuna finds himself in the garden, sitting on the terrace with his arms crossed, watching his daughter as she toddles around, her fox clutched tightly to her chest.

she sticks close to him, circling the area but never straying far, her wariness of the world evident in her every hesitant step.

she pauses by the small patch of wildflowers, her tiny hand reaching out to pluck a bloom.

with the flower in her grasp, she shuffles over to him, her gaze flickering between the flower and her father’s intimidating figure.

“what’s that?” he asks flatly, raising a brow as she stops just short of his shadow.

“for...you,” she mumbles, her voice so soft he almost misses it.

sukuna narrows his eyes, leaning back against the wooden pillar as he watches her extend the flower toward him with trembling hands.

“what the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he scoffs, though his voice carries no malice.

her lips press into a nervous line, and she steps closer, holding it out insistently.

her little brow furrows in determination, and for a moment, she looks so much like you that it pulls a rare flicker of amusement from him.

he grunts, snatching the flower between two of his massive fingers as if it’s an inconvenience.

he twirls it once before tossing it onto the porch beside him, his crimson eyes meeting hers. “now what?”

she fidgets, her gaze darting to the ground. “it’s...pretty,” she whispers.

he leans back further, waving her off. “get out of here before you start thinking I’ll entertain you all day.”

she scurries off, her fox in one hand and her quiet laughter trailing behind her. sukuna glances at the discarded flower, its petals soft and vibrant against the wooden boards.

with a grunt, he flicks it off the edge with his finger, muttering under his breath. “ridiculous.”

the days that follow are...strange.

sukuna quickly realizes that his daughter is quiet by nature—content to play alone, to sit with her little fox and hum softly to herself.

she doesn’t demand his attention often, which leaves him both relieved and unsettled.

he’s used to people begging for his time, his favor, his mercy.

but she? she seems perfectly content with the simplest gestures—a pat on the head, a rare smile, his presence alone.

it’s on the third day, however, that she tests his patience.

the rain starts in the afternoon, a light drizzle that quickly turns into a downpour. sukuna is inside, reviewing a scroll, when he hears it—a soft, hiccuping sob from the other room.

he’s on his feet instantly, his massive frame filling the doorway as he finds her curled up in the corner, her fox clutched to her chest, her face buried in its fur.

“what the hell are you crying about?” he asks.

she sniffles, peeking up at him with tear-streaked cheeks. “it’s...loud,” she mumbles, her voice trembling.

it takes him a moment to realize she means the thunder.

he sighs, running a hand down his face before crouching down in front of her. “you’re afraid of a little noise?”

she nods hesitantly, her bottom lip quivering.

“pathetic.”

but instead of leaving her to deal with it alone, he picks her up, her tiny body fitting easily against his broad chest as he carries her to the main room.

he sits down on the tatami mat, cradling her against him as the storm rages outside.

she buries her face in his chest, her small hands clutching at his robes, and for once, he doesn’t push her away.

“you’re fine,” he mutters, his hand smoothing over her hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. “it’s just noise. nothing can hurt you while I’m here.”

and somehow, she believes him.

by the time the week is up, sukuna is more than ready for you to return.

he won’t admit it, of course, but the sight of you walking through the gate fills him with an odd sense of relief.

your daughter, however, is the one who reacts most visibly.

“mama!” she cries, scrambling out of sukuna’s lap and running to you.

you scoop her up, laughing as she babbles about everything that’s happened in your absence, her words tumbling over each other in her excitement.

sukuna watches from the doorway, his arms crossed as he leans against the frame.

“well?” you tease, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “how’d it go?”

“she’s alive, isn’t she?”

you laugh, stepping closer as you shift your daughter in your arms. your free hand brushes against his arm, a small, fleeting gesture that he doesn’t pull away from.

“she is,” you reply softly, tilting your head as you study his expression.

he’s looking past you now, crimson eyes sharp but distant, his gaze lingering on the garden beyond the estate gates.

it’s quiet for a beat too long, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.

“did you miss me?” you ask, your voice light and teasing, but there’s a genuine curiosity beneath it.

he scoffs, his lips curling into something that’s not quite a smirk.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters, but he turns his back to you, and you can’t help but feel it’s to hide a specific thing.

you smile knowingly, shifting your daughter higher on your hip as she snuggles into you, her fox tucked safely in her arms. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will make you drink pure ginger

check out my buy me a coffee!

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cherrygarcia-07 · 5 months ago

Text

The HR Meeting // Spencer Reid

In which you get called out for your flirting by HR in front of the team (yes it’s the HR meeting scene from season 9)

genre: idk this was just in my head and made me laugh to think about

pairing: spencer reid x (kinda flirty) bau! reader / established relationship

word count: 1.3k

(references to sex)

masterlist

———————————————————————————🍓—————————————————————————

‘So, let’s talk about sexual harassment.’

You let out a tired sigh as the HR representative continued on. You were trying to pay attention, really you were- it seemed an important topic- but you were just so damn tired and her somehow both shrill and monotone voice was making you zone out. You straightened your posture in an attempt to wake yourself up, shoulders brushing Spencer’s as he stood next to you leaning on the desk behind you both, but it was of no avail. Glancing over at him, you cursed him under your breath- it was his fault you were so worn out this morning in the first place.

‘Sexual harassment isn’t always a quid pro quo arrangement.’ You stifled a yawn. ‘maybe it’s a conversation between two coworkers that makes you feel uncomfortable.’ Curiosity cut off your yawning as you wondered what scandalous conversations you might have missed to warrant this talk, eyebrows raising without you meaning for it.

Looking around the room, you spotted Penelope nodding along to give off the impression she was listening intently but you knew she was wondering the same thing as you. Alex sat next to you to your right, chin resting in her palm as she listened earnestly- ever the professional- whereas JJ beside her seemed more on your wavelength and you flashed her a look of pure nosiness which she reciprocated.

‘Maybe these coworkers use phrases like ‘babygirl-’

No way. You bit back a laugh as you watched Penelope’s eyes widen and her head shoot to Morgan to her left, who mimicked her actions.

‘Chocolate thunder-’

This was too good. Morgan’s eyebrows were raised now too, a wary expression on his usually smug face.

‘Where’s my big black twelve pack?’

She dragged the phrase out, her voice laced with disapproval and quite frankly, disbelief. You had to look away, turning your head towards your shoulder pretending to cough in a desperate attempt to stifle the laughter threatening to spill out. Even Alex’s stoic facade had faltered, an amused look in her eyes as she tilted her head at Penelope who seemed positively mortified whilst Morgan simply shook his head, exhaling with an uncharacteristically embarrassed look taking over him.

‘And that creates a what? Hostile work environment.’ The woman turned to face the board behind her momentarily and you leaned forward to sneak a look at Spencer’s reaction. Despite the things you’d heard him say alone, you knew these types of conversations made him sheepish, but it seemed his not-so-secret affinity with gossip was stronger. He was trying to keep his expression unreadable, neutral but you knew him and you could tell in the way his brows shot up, his eyes narrowing beneath them with that mischievous twinkle, that he was loving this just as much as you were. Your eyes snapped back to the board as she turned back around.

‘So messages like… more cushion for the pushing- NOT appropriate,’ a scattered series of chuckles echoed throughout the room. ‘I’ll be Coco to your Ice-T- NOT appropriate’ oh you were so going to give Penelope shit for this later.

‘Flarpy Blunderguff…’ You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A loud laugh escaped you as if beyond your control and your hand shot up to your mouth instinctively to muffle the sound. Across the room Rossi’s lips pursed, a curious look on his face as he stared down at Morgan. A grin stretched across your face as you thought back to Penelope telling you all about ‘flarpy blunderguff’, about the paint and the food and the thought of her being caught discussing this was simply too much for you.

You giggled uncontrollably, and in an attempt to hide your juvenile glee, you leaned over and pressed your face into your boyfriend’s shoulder. Big. Mistake. The woman’s eyes shot to you. She called your name.

‘I wouldn’t get so comfortable if I were you, agent.’

Oh no. Your smile slowly dissipated and your face contorted in a mix of confusion and dread and you slowly pulled yourself up from Spencer’s shoulder, ignoring the highly entertained look he gave as he looked down at you. To your side, you heard a chuckle from JJ.

‘Likewise, phrases like-’ she turned back to the board, clicking a remote that highlighted your shame in big black letters before your coworkers, ‘Doctor Sexy.’ Breathing in, your eyes closed and your lips drew into a thin line, beside you Spencer became annoyingly unreadable. You only called him that as a joke, one time! Or two… or a few…

‘Love to watch you leave, pretty boy.’ Eyes still closed, you thought back to that day. He’d worn pants a little tighter as the result of a joke Morgan had made about him being, quote, ‘flat as a pancake back there’- not that Spencer would ever admit that’s what he was doing or why. You weren’t shy about how you felt about the way they hugged him, about how they made his waist look so pretty and how they made the rest of his lower half look even prettier. You’d been teasing him all day, revelling in the way he squirmed and lost his breath and as he turned to walk away your eyes dropped to his pants once again and you just couldn’t help yourself. Back to the present moment, Penelope’s eyes were now on you, mirroring the look you’d given her only moments ago.

‘Save the handcuffs for later.’ A blush rose on your cheeks and you could feel Morgan’s gaze on you, not needing to look at him to know he was wearing that devilish grin of his and planning a million ways to make fun of you. You hadn’t meant it seriously. Not really, anyway. It was just a joke that spilled out after making an arrest one night as you watched him tuck his handcuffs away, just something to lighten the mood… and maybe set one for later. You risked peeking a look at Spencer next to you and were shocked to find a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his eyes wide and twinkling with amusement, you’d have thought him to be wishing the ground to swallow him whole by now.

‘Talk dirty to me, genius.’ Okay that one was completely out of context. It had been a sarcastic response to one of his infamous spontaneous tangents, only this one had been on the lovely topic of ants and parasitic fungi. To your right, cackles pierced your eardrums and your head snapped around to see JJ burying her head into her desk while Alex covered her face with her hands, eyes giddily darting between the two of you still leaning against the desk. This whole ordeal had turned your team into a bunch of immature school kids, you thought, ignoring the fact you had been acting the exact same way not even 5 minutes ago.

Feeling your embarrassment radiating off of you like heat from a fire, Spencer exhaled the last of his laughter and placed a hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. Mistake number two. Exasperated, the HR representative locked her eyes onto him.

‘PDA and physical touching between coworkers also create a what?’ She asked again, her voice shooting through you. ‘Hostile work environment, Doctor Reid.’

He froze, eyes widening even further as his mouth opened and closed until his jaw simply fell open in that way it did so often (‘you’re going to catch flies in there’ you’d tell him before threatening to kiss it shut- an offer which he would happily take you up on). Hastily, he snatched his hand back and placed it in his lap as he felt a flush race up his neck. You turned to him, and despite the humiliation and the scolding and the inevitable endless teasing the two of you had coming, you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered as you watched the flush reach his cheeks, his flustered, pink complexion matching yours.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid drabble #mgg #matthew gray gubler

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angelluvsrafe · 2 months ago

Text

just a bet

- based on this request

rafe had been distant, he’d went from seeing you very often to barely responding to you. you guys weren’t the closest but you still saw him a lot and you really liked him.

therefore, you decide to let him do his thing when you realise he’s being distant. you didn’t want to ruin this.

you were working at the country club in the afternoon when you see topper, rafe’s friend.

“hey topper” you smile and start making him the usual drink he orders.

“hey. how you doing?” he smirks, leaning against the bar.

“yeah, okay. you heard from rafe recently?” you look up at him from the drink. doesn’t hurt to ask, right?

“yeah, went golfing with him this morning” he replies casually.

“oh… did he mention anything about me and him? he’s being real distant” you ask quietly and topper frowns.

“what do you mean, honey?” he tilts his head.

“like did he say anything about me?” you repeat, handing him his drink.

“nah, he got his 50 bucks. he doesn’t need to talk to you anymore” he chuckles.

your heart drops and your chest tightens.

“what…?”

“you didn’t know?” he scoffs. “was it not obvious?”

you shake your head, tears immediately brimming your eyes.

topper awkwardly leaves and returns to the table he was at as you try to blink away the tears.

later that day when you get off work, you immediately go over to rafe’s. you’re still wearing the stupid uniform, a skirt that’s way too short and a polo shirt that’s way too tight.

you knock on his front door, holding back tears.

your heart pounds at your chest as he unlocks the door and swings it open.

“hey, you good?” his face immediately contorts to a frown when he sees your nervous body language.

“are you fucking dumb?!” you push his chest, he doesn’t budge.

“what?”

“i was a bet! you fucking dick!” your tears finally fall down your cheeks.

“baby- i- let me explain myself” he catches your wrists.

“go on! explain why you’d lead me on like this!” you pull your hands away from his grip.

“i do wanna be with you. i swear, baby… yes it started off as a bet but- i want to continue this.” he looks you in the eyes, a firm expression on his face.

“why didn’t you tell me, rafe?” you wipe the tears off your cheek.

“i- well i didn’t want this to happen… i didn’t want you to doubt my love for you.” he steps forward and wipes away the remaining tears.

“you should’ve just told me… i was fucking scared when topper told me. i thought you would- like fully cut me off or something” you sniffle and he wraps his arms around you, rubbing your back.

“i’m sorry, baby… i didn’t know how to tell you. so i just thought keeping it a secret was better for you…” he murmurs, his lips pressed against your hair.

“but i’m glad the bet happened…” he adds softly.

“why?” you pull your head back and look at him.

“well i wouldn’t have realised how much of a great girl you are— and you’re pretty great.” he chuckles, cupping your face with his hands.

you chuckle too, unable to wipe the smile off your face that was once a frown.

“i love you, rafe…” you smile, without thinking about it.

rafe freezes, this is the first time you’d said those three words.

he sees your face slowly drop when he takes a while to answer and kisses your forehead with a soft smile.

“i love you too, babygirl” he chuckles.

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vampzity · 6 months ago

Text

pretty tears | BC

★ DAY THREE : DACRYPHILIA WITH BANGCHAN ★

pairing: husband! bangchan x f! reader

did you really think it was a good idea to bug your lovely boyfriend at a sophisticated dinner of all places? to think that you’d actually get away with it just because he can’t react then and there? you’d be extremely mistaken. he’ll show you exactly what whining and teasing gets you— in fact, he’ll have you whining at his mercy.

[warnings]: MDNI 18+!!, literally no plot, dacryphilia, dom bangchan x brat reader, slight spanking, rough unprotected sex, cursing, pet names (slut, whore, baby, babygirl), hair pulling, some fluff at the end, chan is a whole different person in bed

word count: 1.7k

“I’m sure Bangchan buys you all the finest jewelry, isn’t that right?”

You raised your eyebrows smugly, glancing at Bangchan’s “you better not” look. You smiled at him, taking a sip from your glass.

“Well it has been a little long since I’ve received any jewelry.. you would know, right Channie?”

You bat your lashes at him, watching as his face turned red from embarrassment. Some of the guest at the table snickered, others staying silent at your response. You didn’t mean anything rude from it, in fact you knew the reason why you haven’t received anything from Bangchan in some time. You didn’t care for the jewelry or expensive gifts, as his love was enough to hold you over, but boy did you love to play with him like a toy.

Only because you knew what it would get you later on.

“Baby, you know why I haven’t..” he turned to look at you, holding your hand under the table and giving it a gentle squeeze.

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from your glass. Chan gave a hesitant smile to the group, soon moving his hand to your thigh and giving it a tight squeeze.

“Why it shouldn’t be hard to provide for your lady. You make more than enough to sustain the both of you.”

You looked up at Chan’s right hand man in the business world, crossing your arms and nodding. Bangchan gritted his teeth, his nails digging into your thigh as you struggled to now hold back a yelp of pain.

“I say, treat her to something lovely, something containing 18 carat gold, with a pretty rock in the middle.” The younger looked at the woman next to him, admiring her beauty.

“As I always say, nothing but the best for my wife.”

Bangchan stood up from the dinner table, grabbing your coat and pulling you out of the chair. You furrowed your eyebrows at his sudden change in character, getting up from your seat.

“Well it has certainly been a nice evening with you all.” He helped you put on your jacket. “I’ll see you Monday, yeah?”

He waved goodbye to everyone, dragging you out of the house silently. He opened the car door for you, still nothing but silence between the two of you. You both sat in the car for a moment, allowing the quiet of night to engulf you two before you spoke.

“Did I upset you Channie? You know I was only joking, right?”

You ran your fingers across his cheek, making him turn away from you as he started the car. He refused eye contact with you, driving away from the house without saying another word to you.

“And I’m sure you know by now that this bratty behavior doesn’t reward.”

— ✧⁂✬ —

You both walked into your shared bedroom, Chan taking off his blazer and setting it aside in on the desk. He was still silent as ever even after what felt like the longest car ride of your life.

You kicked off your heels and placed them in the closet, turning around to be met with Chan right in front of you. You met his eyes as they were filled with both lust and rage. Bangchan was always good with hiding his emotions around others, especially when you were the cause of them, but being alone with you was a different story.

“Bed. Now.”

Your breath hitched for a moment, feeling a cool chill run up your back. His face was stern and cold, but it wasn’t unfamiliar to you. Bangchan never appreciated your brattiness, especially not in front of others, but boy did he love to put you in your place for it. You were sure that he knew you enjoyed it as well.

“Or what, I’m not scared of you Channie.” you crossed your arms, smugging as he furrowed his eyebrows.

He grabbed you by the waist, pushing you toward the bed and bending you over. His hands slipped beneath your skirt, attempting to rip your panties off only to find that you had a thong on. Bangchan sighed, pulling your skirt up just enough to show your bare ass to him.

“You fucking slut.” he gritted his teeth, smacking his hand against your ass. You yelped out in pleasure, hands gripped at the bedsheets as he fondled with your ass.

“Wearing this little thing for me? You must want me to mess up this pretty pussy of yours, yeah?”

Another rough smack rippled through the room, leaving a tingling sensation against your skin. He grabbed your hair, pulling you up to meet his level. He smirked at your painful expression, his other hand rubbing your reddened skin.

“Not so bratty now, huh? What happened to that necklace you wanted so badly?”

You attempted to turn your head away, only for Chan’s grip to tighten. You hissed in response, your cunt already leaking in arousal from how rough he was with you.

“Maybe if you’re good for me, I’ll think about getting you one.” he looked at your bare ass, tilting his head.

“What did he say? 18 carat? With a pretty rock?”

He let go of your hair, undoing the buckle to his pants and pulling them down with ease. He pressed his bulge against your ass, groaning softly as his hands squeezed your skin. You moaned quietly as he pressed himself against your clothed folds.

He pulled your thong off, letting it drop to your ankles and soon pulling out his cock. He rubbing his tip against your folds, throwing his head back at how wet you were.

“Since you wanna be a brat,” he shoved his dick into you without warning, watching as you attempted to catch your breath.

“Why don’t we get you begging over that necklace, hm?”

He pulled your hands behind your back, holding them down as he rammed into your aching cunt. Your whimpers filled the room, unable to get a break as he grazed your sweet spot over and over. Your face dug into the bed, letting out countless cries of pleasure as Chan manhandled you.

“Channie, fuck!”

His nails dug into your waist as he held you tightly, slamming into you with no remorse. He left go of your hands and grabbed onto your hair once again, pulling you back against him. You winced in pain as Chan came down to your level, kissing your temple softly as he continued to fuck you.

“You like that, baby? Huh?”

A loud smack rippled against the walls, your asscheek tingling once again. You yelped in pleasure, nodding your head as tears began to spill down your cheeks. You moaned aloud, not even caring to wipe the tears that ran down your face.

“Aw look at you, not so bratty anymore hm?”

He kissed your tears, pulling out of you and flipping you onto your back. You met his lustful eyes, a good kind of fear instilling within you as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He rubbed the head of his dick softly against your folds, groaning as his tip leaked. He leaned forward, kissing you gently before pushing himself back into you without warning.

“Gonna fill you so good..” his thrusts grew hastily with every push. ��You’re so pretty when you cry baby.”

He leaned over your body as he fucked you roughly. His eyes piercing into you like a knife while he watched your helpless tears escape you. A smug smile painted his face as he held your arms above your head.

“Whose pussy is this, hm?” he grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Answer me when I talk to you, yeah? You know how I feel about you disrespecting me.”

He threw his head back and groaned as his tip grazed your sweet spot. You could barely take him in, let alone when he fucked you this roughly. All because you wanted to embarrass him in front of guests.

“Yours, it’s yours!

Chan smiled at you, his thumb coming down to rub against your clit softly. You let out a deep moan, back arching as he never stopped his harsh movements inside of you. You felt your eyes roll to the back of your head as your climax reached an all time high, suddenly rushing over your body and spilling all over his cock.

“Fuck, baby.” he threw his head back, holding your legs up as he pounded into you.

Tears continued to escape you as you begging him to slow down, but unfortunately for you he was too close to stop now. His thrusts got faster, harder as he felt his own high approaching, desperate to release into you. His hands dug into your thighs as you whimpered, small marks being left on your skin as a reminder of the behavior that earned you this type of treatment.

“Gonna, gonna cum.”

He leaned closer to your body, his head burrowed in your neck as his final thrusts were aggressive. A loud groan left his mouth as he released himself into you, pumping his dick into you a few more times to make sure you were stuffed. He kissed your neck gently, wiping the stained tears from your cheeks as his body came down from his high.

He gently pulled out of you, kissing your stomach softly as he pulled your skirt back down. He fixed himself up and sat next to your limp body, his hand rubbing your thigh.

“You learn your lesson, baby?” you looked up at him with doe eyes, nodding quietly as the last of your sniffles came. Chan smiled at you, ruffling your hair and getting up.

“Good. Want me to start a warm bath for you?”

You met his kindhearted eyes, the ones you adored just as much as his piercing ones. You smiled and nodded, playing with the hem of your skirt. Chan took you by the hand, guiding you to the bathroom and helped you undress as the water ran. Once you sat in the tub, he offered to wash you up, also bringing you some company while you relaxed.

“Thank you Channie.”

He kissed your forehead softly as he grabbed a warm towel for you, laying it on his lap as you laid in the water.

“Anything for my babygirl.”

back to valentine’s masterlist

a/n: OUU railway still has the craziest chokehold on me to this day man… neways 🌝

taglist: @dvrktvnnel @scarfac3 @jjongibears @h4untedgrl @rvereri @joonezra @yyaurii @hwasddeongbyeoli @mingtinysworld @tiredlittlevirgo @honeyhwaaa @evidive @inniesfanblog @bluesungology

★ comment to be added to the taglist or fill out the form here!

#—♡vampzity #—♡︎vamp’s valentines #—♡︎vamp’s hard hours #stray kids #stray kids x reader #bangchan x reader #bangchan smut #skz bangchan #skz smut #skz stay #skz x reader #skz x reader smut

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miupow · 1 year ago

Text

★ ── OTHER THAN THE BED... ? ⸝⸝ [ HYUNG LINE ]

skz hyung line and their favorite places to fuck ! ♡

[ ⟡ ] ── NSFW, MDNI! ⭑ fem!reader, dom!skz, mirror sex, couch sex, riding, doggy, light primal play, talk of exhibitionism, name calling, spanking, wall sex, degradation, manhandling, possessive behavior

੭ ⭑ 𓂃⠀⠀⠀⠀[ 0.7k ] ⭑ [ m. list ] ⭑ [ reblogs and feedback appreciated! ]

⟡ 방찬 BANG CHAN -> bathroom mirror.

chan grabbed a fistful of your hair, tugged hard so you lift your head to face him-- or rather, the mirror in front of you. he had you bent obscenely over the bathroom sink, fat cock pistoning in and out of your dripping cunt from behind, his thrusts so hard and deep that the sink digs painfully into your hips and you keep narrowly missing hitting the mirror with your forehead. "look at you~" he cooed so sugary sweet, nasty and condescending, the smacking of skin and the wet squelches from your cunt nearly drowning out his voice, echoing against the bathroom tile. "look so pretty like this, babygirl." you hardly recognized the person that stared back at you in the mirror; your mouth hung open, unable to contain your moans and shrill cries of pleasure, drool leaving your chin spit-slick and shiny. your eyes were blown out, dazed and unfocused and utterly debauched. you wanted to avert your eyes, but chan wouldn't let you look away. you can see his handsome, sweaty face and his pretty smirk behind you in the mirror, his tanned skin pink and his hair sticking to his forehead. "go ahead, pretty girl, tell me what you see."

⟡ 민호 MINHO -> the floor.

"such a tight fucking pussy, so good for me--" minho rasped, panting like a dog; the pace of his hips made you throw your head back and wail, his pretty cock hitting so deep inside you were seeing stars. you had been being a brat all night, pushed minho's buttons until he snapped and put you back in your place-- he had pushed you down onto the living room floor and mounted you right there like some kind of animal, held you in place with his long fingers pressing blooming purple and pink bruises to your hips and neck. "gonna make me cum soon, fuck baby... gonna let me cum inside? let me fill you up?" your knees burned from the carpet but you couldn't find it in you to care, not when minho was fucking you this good. he goes faster, harder, enamored with the way your ass jiggled fom his thrusts, the way your moans only got higher, more pathetic and whiny. he slapped your ass, hard, and snickered to himself as you choked on your scream. "you like it when i fuck you like this, huh? whore. right here where anyone could see you? see how good i give it to you? fuck, my girl's such a nasty slut."

⟡ 창빈 CHANGBIN -> the wall.

"who's pussy is this?" changbin growled into your ear, calloused hands folding you in half as he pounded you against the wall. "hm? who's pussy does this belong to? since you don't seem to fuckin' remember." your legs swung uselessly over his shoulders, bin's white-knuckle grip pressing your knees up against your chest-- his thick fat cock hit all of the right spots, kissed your cervix with every rough thrust, filled you up so deliciously you were rendered completely speechless.. "i-i'm sorry!" you warbled, scratching uselessly at his bulging biceps, unable to say much else with his thick fingers sliding down your thigh to rub tight circles against your swollen, aching clit. you could hardly focus, greedily drinking in eyefulls of changbin's big arms as he flexed to keep you firm against the wall. "it's yours! i'm yours!" "damned right," he grunted, huffing breath unsteady, his thrusts growing slick and sloppy as he neared his climax. "fuck yeah, you're mine, all mine."

⟡ 현진 HYUNJIN -> the couch.

"i just want to cuddle, baby," he had sworn with a smile, patting his lap so invitingly and beckoning you to come sit, but you knew he was lying straight through his teeth-- in no time at all hyunjin had you stripped naked and bouncing up and down on his cock, helping you set the pace with his hands gripping tight on your ass, alternating between squeezing and slapping the flesh, his evil grin widening with every whimper and gasp he managed to get out of you. his big long cock was so deep it made your head spin; you could feel him in your tummy, his hips meeting yours with deafening smacks... "jinnie, jinnie, i'm gonna cum!" you squealed, your nails digging crescents into hyunjin's shoulders; he just bounced you harder, fucked you deeper, threw his head back against the couch cushions when your wet gummy walls spasm and flutter around his shaft. "shit, baby, gonna cum for me? gonna make a mess?" he goaded eagerly, lopsided grin and unfocused eyes making your pussy clench hard around him. "go ahead baby, cum on my cock~"

#skz hard thoughts #skz hard hours #skz smut #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids hard hours #stray kids hard thoughts #stray kids smut #bang chan smut #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #lee know smut #changbin x reader #changbin smut #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin smut

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pizzapottah · 8 months ago

Text

legitimacy

summary: “Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense,” it is said that the Wandering Princess reiterated once she heard of her uncle’s accusations. “My late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate.”

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 4.5k

warnings: mentions of killing off someone🥰, reader is pro-blackwood, reader has some kind of anger issues, oscar is my babygirl and my babygirl only, language as always

author's note: an update of the heir and the wolf? in this economy? also pls don't comment about tagging, click here and join the taglist so that it's easier for me to tag everyone

previous | next | series masterlist

You’re sure you are going to kill every man and woman in the Riverlands till only their fantastic wine — without which you wouldn’t have made it this far — and vineyards remain, so that you can drink in peace without dealing with… the consequences.

Lord Bracken has been sprouting nothing but insults and curses towards the Blackwood family for what feels like the last three hours. He surely hasn’t talked without being interjected, as Alysanne Blackwood has been responding to all his insults with doubled hate.

You stare over at Oscar, sitting beside you, with an unamused expression. “Once we get out of here, I’ll make sure to break your legs in half as punishment for having me subjected to this torture,” you hiss, hand clenching around your goblet. He shrugs. “Didn’t you say to ask you if I ever needed anything? I needed help just this once, or else I would’ve cut my ears two hours ago.”

Of course Lord Tully had to fall ill when there were matters to resolve, leaving his eldest grandson in charge. You wish Kermit was born first, so that you wouldn't have to sit here and hear all of these people complain.

You huff. “Better your ears than my sanity.”

The thing that worries you the most is the fact that they seem to have no intention of stopping yet — and they’ve been going on for ages, accusing each other of heinous crimes committed by their ancestors or something. You’re not quite sure about that, as you’ve stopped listening to their rants about ten minutes in.

You glance at the servant standing by the door of the council chamber, who’s about to turn the hourglass for the fifth time now. When he does, it’ll officially be two hours and a half into them talking about their centuries-long feud. You have to do something, or else you’ll go mad.

You cough loudly, and the two sides of the discussion shut up, looking at you. The table is rectangular and long, wide enough so that nobody can smack the person in front of them with ease. You sit at the end of it, a map of the Riverlands in front of you, Oscar sat to your right. “So,” you start, “have you all got it out of your systems? Can we start now?”

Both sides look at you puzzled, and for a moment you fear they might go back to screaming, but they don’t. “Lord Samwell, Lord Amos, could you both raise your hands for me? I forgot your faces when you started screaming because I thought I was back in Dragonstone with my younger brothers having a tantrum about a toy — they are six and three, by the way.”

Red-faced, both lords raise their hands; Lord Amos is a bit older than Lord Samwell, his face sickly and hair grey, a high contrast to the Blackwood's dark brown hair and plump face. “Good. Now I would like you two to choose a spokesperson that will talk in your places.”

Lord Samwell raises an eyebrow, “Pardon me?” he says, as Lord Amos raises from his seat. “This is an outrage! Why should we choose someone else to talk in our place? We can definitely settle this matter once for all alone!”

You raise an eyebrow at his antics, motioning over a guard to make him stand back down. “Well, if you could settle this matter alone I wouldn’t be there, would I?” you ask him with a short laugh. “Besides– don’t you still have the scar Lord Samwell kindly gifted you back in the days where my mother was looking for a husband? I don’t want the two of you to settle your matters alone if it means someone being stabbed again.”

“We would be perfectly capable of doing it now–”

“Choose a spokesperson or don’t speak, Lord Amos, as you have already talked enough for my likings. The choice is all yours.”

The guard now stands behind him, hand on the pommel of his sword, and the lord begrudgingly sits back down. “I shall name my uncle, Ser Lothar,” Ser Lothar is an old man with white hair and no beard, who looks like he’s seen the rise and fall of all the Gods in the world and death herself.

You don’t say anything, even if you’d like someone who doesn’t look like he’s a night away from dying. “Lord Samwell?”

“My sister, Lady Alysanne,” is his resolute response. Ah, the lady who was screaming at Lord Amos earlier. She's young and thin — no doubt close to your age — with black hair to match a raven's feathers.

“Rubbish!” is Ser Lothar's not-so-smart response. You notice now that he’s missing three teeth and speaks horrendously — as if their accent already isn’t helping. “How old is she? Seven and ten? She should be in the birthing bed, not in this council chamber!”

Everyone stares at him, bewildered — even his own kind. Maybe if you weren’t there, the comment would’ve been overlooked, but seeing as the council was being literally held by a six and ten year old girl, it wasn’t the smartest comment he could’ve made. You can feel from your seat the murderous intent that comes from the Blackwoods — thankfully you made everyone leave their weaponry outside. You just hope nobody has a hidden knife somewhere in their breeches.

“For your information, Ser Lothar,” you speak up before things can escalate, “I am six and ten and perfectly able to run a council on my own. I’m sure Lady Alysanne will manage just fine.”

He squints his eyes at you, like he’s just noticed your presence. “I will be listening to no cunt!”

You blink at Lord Amos, who’s red in the face, as calm as ever. “Would you like to change your mind, Lord Bracken? I’m afraid Ser Lothar will be too preoccupied with being my dragon’s breakfast to be here with us as we discuss this serious matter.”

Lothar screams obscenities as the guards take him away to the courtyard, where Nādrēsy is staying for the time being, and Lord Samwell has a smug look on his face — no wonder happy that his sister has had justice. “Lyle!” Lord Amos roars, making a boy no older than twenty jump from his seat. “Y– yes, my lord!”

You intertwine your fingers in front of you. “Good. Now that the table has been cleaned we can actually start.” you ask them to take the seat of their lords, so that they’re near you and you three can talk more clearly. “I want to make sure that it is clear that I don’t expect your houses to be friends after this council. My only purpose is to end the brotherly blood shedding that in the last centuries has exasperated the Riverlands to the point that Ser Oscar Tully here had to ask for the Crown’s help to put an end to it. I just want your houses to stand each other.”

You sigh, pointing to the map with their territories traced out in front of you; you push it towards them so that they have some reference. “This was the outline of the territories that King Jaheaerys’s ambassador drew the last time there was a council like this. Peace lasted only for about two years — my goal is to make it last at least twenty, so that when the Lords die their heirs are of age.” you darkly jest. Lord Samwell sends a glare to Lord Amos: he was six when his father was killed in a Bracken ambush.

“Obviously, it is not. My goal is to make it last. So, I would like you two to outline the territories that are most important to your houses that as of now are owned by the other. Then we’ll see what we can do about it — see if we can make it a fair exchange to avoid spilling more blood.”

The two nod and immediately get to work. You are surprised to see that they do not speak to each other — not even a little nag or tease. They seem to be more mature than their elders, a thing that strangely you do not find weird at all.

You didn’t expect for it to be an easy negotiation, but Seven Hells if you had underestimated it. They would be competing for the entire Riverlands if there weren’t any other houses, you’re sure about that. And before you know it, it’s been a sennight and you’re still staying in Riverrun, hoping that some god takes pity on you and strikes you down. Sure, you had them choose their spokesperson, but that doesn’t mean the others don’t protest when you say something they don’t like.

“I’m thinking about arranging a marriage,” you say to Oscar one evening.

You’re in the guest chambers, the ones you’re staying in. The chess match in front of you is basically forgotten, replaced by a discussion about peace treaties and ways to stop feuds. Your friend snorts, taking another sip of his wine. “My ancestors have tried before. It always ends up in a massacre before the bride can even receive the groom's cloak.”

You shake your head. “I’m thinking about Olyver Bracken and Alysanne Blackwood.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “A drunkard and a hunter? Weird choice. Don’t know if I feel like ruining a lady’s promising future.”

“Think about it.” you lean over, elbows on your knees. You take two pawns, placing them on the table. “He is Lord Amos’ heir, and he is useless. Meanwhile, she would be able to run Stone Hedge like it was the fucking Night Watch. We could make them marry, then maybe right after she already gave birth to a boy, an heir… a terrible accident could happen.” you knock down one of the pawns, “A tragic fall from the horse, a bad fever… you name it. And suddenly Lady Bracken is free from her preposterous husband and can raise his heir however she wants.”

You take two other pawns and place them near the others. “Then we marry small Benjicot Blackwood off to Cressida Bracken. They are still young, younger than Olyver and Alysanne; if Cressida is sent to live with the Blackwoods as soon as the engagement is announced, she may not feel the same hate towards him as any other Bracken would.”

You sigh, rubbing your hands together. “Give it twenty years, and the heirs to the Blackwood and the Bracken territories will all be cousins. What kind of cousins would ever start a war against each other?”

Oscar blinks at you. You blink back. “I mean what kind of cousins that aren’t in my family, Oscar.”

“Oooh. Oh, yes, that makes sense now.” he tilts his head to the side, looking at the pawns. “You plan on killing the Bracken guy?”

You shrug. “Only if Alysanne finds him annoying. I would never force the poor girl to stand him, knowing I wouldn’t even be able to wait to have an heir before I got tired of him, so if she manages to do it, I will gift her a new set of arrows and a bow. Closing an eye on his mysterious disappearance would be the least I could do, if the rumours about him are true.”

Hearsays say that he’s insufferable and that he spends more time in brothels than in his own bed, but ultimately he’s pretty defenseless and has gotten his ass beaten in pubs more times than his father is able to count. Oscar snorts, “Let’s see if there’s no carnage during the wedding, then we can actually talk about it.”

The next day comes, and you dread the moment you’ll be sat at that fucking council table again, and will have to announce not only one but two betrothals. It’s for the best, at least, or that’s what you tell yourself when Alysanne Blackwood looks at you like you just sentenced her to death. The whole table protests against your decision, but you’re unremovable, and you’re telling them beforehand just because you feel nice today. Your mother would’ve probably arranged the marriage without telling anyone anything until the day of the wedding.

“You can’t just do that!” Samwell laments, red from anger. It seems he doesn’t like the thought of his sister being married off — quite thankfully, honestly. You’re happy that you’re not the only sister who has brothers who care about her.

“The thing is, Lord Blackwood,” you reply, “that I can and I will. As ambassador to the King my word is his, and I’m sure he would agree with me in this decision. You lot have killed enough men, women and children in this feud of yours; the whole RIverlands are tired, as honestly am I, of hearing of your endless feud and your constant blood spilling. I say we put an end to it.”

They don’t seem to care; they yell at you, then at each other, spitting venom and curses, talking over each other so loudly that you don’t understand anything. You clench your hands, rage rising inside you; you wish you could just make Nādrēsy burn their beloved castles down to the ground and call it a day, so that there aren’t any more territories to fight about, but unfortunately it isn't exactly diplomatic. Is this how your grandsire feels when he holds court?

You stare at the map in front of you; the distribution of the lands has changed, even if the number of acres both families own has basically remained the same. You have either split the territories in question or gave one to the Brackens and another to the Blackwoods, trying to be as fair and equal as you could be — but of course none of them would be happy; they both wanted the other’s whole territory.

You feel like you’re looking after all your little brothers who can’t agree for the life of them. Aegon will say that a toy is his and Viserys will reply that it’s actually his, even though they both have no idea where that toy came from in the first place nor that it was actually yours a decade ago.

“Children!” you shout over the voices of the lords, shutting them up real quick. “You are behaving like children — except you are grown men! And I am disgusted by you all! Your families have been in these lands for centuries, and not only have you never managed to overthrow one another, but you also have to make it everyone’s problem! Aren’t you ashamed? Don’t you have just a bit of remorse for all the suffering your hatred is causing? How many men, women and children have to die before you–”

The door bursts open, a servant barging in, “Princess–!”

“What?” you yell, enraged, turning to look at him. He cowers, trying to make himself as small as he can, knees trembling under your furious gaze. “I… I–”

“Talk before I cut your tongue out and let her talk for you,” you spit. You would never do that, of course, it’s just that you have found in the last few years that a threat here and a threat there get the job done far more quicker and easier.

The servant gulps. “A raven from King’s Landing,” he squeaks, “It’s from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.” He hands you the letter and opts to run as fast as he can, away from you, shutting the doors of the chamber behind him.

You look at the letter, confused, only to rip it open and read it. The men at the table watch you intently, hoping that it’s some kind of good news so that your mood lightens up — maybe the princess is pregnant again? Maybe Prince Joffrey has managed to mount his dragon for the first time?

All their hopes are crushed when they see you get redder and redder in the face from anger as you read; if your dragon happened to be in the same room, they are sure that the paper would be burned down to ashes. Oscar leans to your side, peeking at the letter and reading what he can, frowning once he understands what your mother has written. “Wha–”

“A petition!” you roar, outraged. “And they didn’t cut his tongue when he started talking about it!”

“Madness,” Oscar sighs, “pure madness.”

You tear the paper into pieces, making the lords flinch. “The council is dismissed,” you declare. “The terms of the negotiations remain the same; Lord Tully will make sure that you all agree and the deal will be sealed tomorrow. Or else,” you lean down, placing your hands on the table, “I’ll come back once my matters are settled in King’s Landing and make sure that you all agree, in one way or another.” The threat is subtle, but they all understand that if they refuse to bend to the treaty, you’ll visit them in their beloved lands — with your very hungry dragon, surely.

As the lords start to leave the room, you look over at Oscar, “You’re coming to King’s Landing with me.”

He blinks, “I am?”

You snort, unamused. “You are. Vaemond Velaryon’s petition holds no sense, as my late father always recognised my brothers as his trueborn sons. Whether they look like him or the Baratheon and Arryn side of the family does not matter: they are legitimate. I’ll need you to keep me sane during the whole ordeal, Oscar. My ears did not bleed without a price during the last sennight.”

“But I’ve had no time to prepare– gods, let me fetch the servants, they need to start preparing my bags–”

“Tell them to bring your finest dresses and gowns,” you grunt, “wouldn’t want you to make a bad impression to the whole court, my dear Lady Oscar. Where else will you go to search for a husband otherwise?”

You shake your head right after, not in the mood to jest, “Be fucking serious, Oscar; bring a change or two and let it be done. We’re not going to King’s Landing to have fun, it’s a trial.” your expression is dark, stare truce. “And a death sentence, if we’re lucky.”

Your mother will never make it out of the trial unscathed is the green wench sits or her father sit on the throne; she needs you. She made that very clear in the letter, and you have no intention in turning your back on her.

Oscar departs immediately, calling for the servants and his brother Kermit, and you follow right after, not surprised to find Lady Alysanne Blackwood out of the room, waiting for you. Even if she was half as smart and hard headed as you thought her to be, she’d probably still be waiting out the council room to talk to you about the half-wit she would marry per your orders. Poor girl.

“If you wish to talk, we can do so as we head to my rooms,” you say before she can open her mouth, “I have matters in the King's Landing to tend to, and I can’t afford to waste time.”

She grimaces, “Didn’t you come here to attend this council? Weren’t you here to help our families?”

“First of all, I was ambushed by Ser Oscar,” you clarify, “Second, yes, I was. And I did.”

She looks downright haunted. “You are a woman,” she murmurs. “You are a woman and you have sold me as no man had ever dared to do before.”

“You were bound to be sold off, Lady Alysanne,” you reply, tone calm. You can imagine her rage right now, but she must know that with her place in her family, she could have never possibly found the freedom she surely wants. You understand that by not living in the Crownlands, she had more hope for her future, with the freedom she was clearly given growing up; but you have grown in the Crownlands, and you have seen younger girls being married off to worser men without being able to escape. “I just did the honors.”

“I will slash my neck open before that brute can even think of touching me,” she boldly says.

It makes you stop to take a better look at her. She’s tall, taller than you, and a tad bit older. It’s kind of sad to see her with tears in her eyes. “I know what an unhappy marriage is,” you inform her. “In the Keep we’re full of them. My own mother was in one with my father.”

You lower your voice, leaning your head, “But you have me on your side. And I wouldn’t be against… a little violence.” at her confusion, you explain yourself. “I wouldn’t refuse to turn a blind eye to a hunting accident, let’s say.” At her joyous face, you relent, “Not on the night of the wedding, Alysanne! At least we need one heir, or the feud will never end. Lord Bracken is old and sick, and it’ll be a year or two before he dies, hopefully — I'll see if I can help the process go faster. Then his son might accidentally die, too, oh, he was so young, leaving his pain struck wife and son behind,”

She snorts, “A tragedy, wouldn’t it be?”

You laugh grimly. “Ohh, you get it.”

“What’s this smell?” Oscar yells over your shoulder, trying to make himself heard over the sound of the wind and the flapping wings of your dragon.

“That’s the capital for you!” you reply, already missing the fresh air of the RIverlands. “The weather doesn’t help Flea Bottom’s odour. It’s been like this since forever.”

He gags, “Don’t understand how you manage. Smells like piss.”

You shrug, “You get used to it. Trust me, there’s lords in court who smell far worse than Flea Bottom does,”

Nādrēsy roars unhappily: a full day of travel and it’s only to get back into the dirty streets of King’s Landing. You lightly slap his side, yelling over his laments, “Ilagon, valītsos!” Down, boy!

Oscar, behind you, shakes like a leaf as your dragon replies by roaring with vigor — no doubt, that equals to at least ten curses in dragon’s language. “How can you talk to him like that? He’s going to eat you alive one of these days and you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

You snort. “I’d like to see him try.”

The Dragon Pit is more animated than usual: some Keepers are holding back Vermax, who screeches and spits fire, while others bring Syrax back in her cave, her belly swollen, her step slow and cautious. Caraxes follows right behind, shaking his wings to throw the dirt off of them.

The Keepers greet you and your dragon, sending a weird glance towards Oscar. One of them — Kilya is her name, you believe — comes near, shouting so that you can hear her. “Īlin umbagon syt ao, dārilaros.” she says, “Aōha muña gīmēdegon īlva hen aōha māzigon.” We were waiting for you, Princess. Your mother warned us of your arrival.

You nod; you had no time to reply to her raven, but she must’ve guessed that there was no way you wouldn’t have come. “Se eman māstan.” And I have arrived, “Gūrogon Nādrēsy naejot zȳhon ripo, eman gaomon naejot imāzigon.” Bring Nādrēsy to his cave, I have matters to attend.

You help Oscar get off; he yelps as the chains around his ankles are unfastened and yells as you help him down, where the Keepers promptly catch him before he falls on his backside. You jump off your dragon’s back, landing perfectly fine, and opt to pat roughly Nādrēsy’s back, just as he likes it. “Sȳz sōvegon, valītsos.” Good fly, boy. He roars back happily.

“I’ll never understand that language,” Oscar mutters, standing back up straight, a frown upon his face. “It’s like you don’t want your secrets to be known. Why won’t you teach me High Valyrian?”

“Iksis ziry doru-borto?” the Keeper asks. Is he stupid? You shake your head, then think about it and snort, relenting. “Mērī mirrī.” Only a little.

Your friend pouts, sticking out his tongue at you. “Is that what I get for being your bestest companion?”

You laugh, walking off the Pit and to the entrance, where a carriage is promptly and not surprisingly waiting for you. “My bestest companion? Didn’t know you had wings and were named Nādrēsy.”

He gasps, dramatically grasping his chest, “You wound me!”

You both get in the carriage, and you look at him seriously. “Before we enter the Red Keep, there are some rules you must abide by.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Rules? I was raised well, you know, I shouldn’t need those. I hope the King knows that.”

You shake your head, “No, those are my rules for you. Let’s say that it’s what you’ll need if you want to go back home unscathed from the Keep’s snakes.”

Oscar gulps, “Go on.”

“First, don’t talk to the Queen. Then don’t talk to her sons unless I’m in the room. Avoid Larys Strong — he’s the guy with the crippled leg and the corpse face, you’ll know it’s him instantly — and avoid the councilmen.”

“What, you want to keep me a secret?” he asks, bewildered. “Is there someone I’ll be able to talk to? Is there a reason why I have to avoid all these people?” he gasps, “Am I your whore? Is that why you want to keep my mouth shut?”

“If you were my whore, I’m pretty sure I would want your mouth wide open and working,” you mutter, “but no, that is not why. Truth is I would rather make sure that you stay out of their claws; it’s better to keep away from their schemes.”

The actual truth is that you don’t want them to speculate something about history repeating — your mother was already rumored to have a lover from the Riverlands; the last thing this family needs is another princess said to have an affair with yet another lover from the Riverlands. They would wonder if it actually was some kind of preference that was passed down from mother to daughter, and even if the only thought of being attracted to Oscar makes you laugh, you’re sure the councilmen definitely wouldn’t be amused by it.

“Besides, you can talk to Mushroom,” you add.

“Who’s Mushroom?”

“The court’s jester. He’s insufferable, small and will try to steal your gold, but you can talk to him.”

Your friend grimaces, “Why do you keep him in the castle if he steals the lords’ gold?”

You shrug, “He makes me laugh.”

Slowly, the carriage rattles to a halt, a page opening the door for you. “Ready to see the Red Keep for the first time?”

He nods, “Ready to face your evil step-grandmother?”

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