#this dynamic makes me cry and I FUCKING MADE IT

[tojbnuy]

hey! Please could you write a little something where roommate sukuna is a little mean to reader and it’s a bit angsty but he feels bad and has to make it up to her with lots of cuddles

thank you for the request! i know it’s been a while but i hope this is okay :3 this is the same reader as part one and two pls do check them out <3

yours and roomate!sukuna’s relationship was complicated to say the least. complicated yet comfortable. your old dynamic was still up and running just with the addition of proximity. but that didnt mean things were always perfect, sukuna was still sukuna at the end of the day and he was far from perfect but he was trying.

bickering was common for the two of you, it was usually about guys or cleaning up mess but there were times were your heart was left feeling slightly shaken. you were a sensitive soul that was clear as day. sukuna was a lot more gentle with you than he was with his friends for example but sometimes the words left him before he could think about their repercussions.

today’s fight was a minor one to begin with. who had forgotten to unload the dryer and led a few of your clothes to become incredibly creased.

‘like seriously i need this shirt for tomorrow morning now im gonna have to wake up early to iron.’

‘im telling you kuna it wasn’t me, i would have remembered i always do.’

‘pssh yeah definitely.’

‘what does that mean?’

‘it means what more could i have expected from you of all people.’

‘if it was me i didn’t mean it.’

‘you didn’t mean it yet you’re always managing to do and say dumb shit. like seriously fucking grow up.’

immediately tears welled up at the harsh tone of his voice and the anger behind his words. you knew you weren’t as clever as some people but you didn’t think he found you this annoying, you had thought maybe there was even a bond developing between the two of you. comments from others about your sometimes unusual behavior and out of the blue remarks didn’t affect you as much, it was the ones from people who’s opinions you valued that tore away at your self esteem. stupid of you to think he would want to create a bond with someone as stupid as yourself when he has plenty of beautiful smart women at his hand. he would make random remarks about you being silly, maybe call you a dummy but you tried to not let it get to you, this however had tipped you off until you could no longer keep it inside. you were ashamed. ashamed to have done something so stupid.

sukunas hands were still inside the dryer, his focus on the task at hand so he hadn’t realised you hadn’t responded. then all of a sudden he heard the slight squeak of your feet on the tiled floor and a whispered sorry and only then did the guilt begin to situate. he himself was having a shitty day and the anger had built up so much so that the first inconvenience had him lashing out. at you of all people. he felt bad of course he did and he didn’t have the slightest clue as to how to check on you.

he made his way over to your room ready to be met with anger, that he could deal with. what he wasn’t prepared for was you hunched over, breathes coming out short and your shoulder shaking with how much you were crying.

‘baby? baby, hey look at me.’

you frantically wiped at your tears and attempted to stop the trembling of your hands. he hated to see you trying to act unaffected. he knew he was crazy about you before but seeing you like this, because of him was a pain he had never experienced before. the words were stuck in his throat, his pride always managing to ruin things for him.

‘you hate me.’

‘no i don’t brat, look what i said was out of line i was just mad i shouldn’t have said any of that. how could you think i hate you?’

‘because you’re always calling me stupid. i know im not like your other girl friends but you don’t have to be so rude to me all the time.’

sukuna had fucked up. majorly fucked up. what he thought was a harmless joke was actually hurting you. how could he care about anyone the same way he cared for you.

‘No, no i’m sorry baby i really am. i don’t give a shit about anyone let alone any girl the same way i care about you. i mean that doll from the bottom of my heart. i didn’t know it hurt you. i love everything about you doll. i look for you in everyone.’

‘do you think i’m stupid?’ you said with a sniffly nose and your hands gripping the comforter.

‘no doll i don’t think you’re stupid. i think you say some funny things sometimes but it makes you you. and i lo-‘ ‘i’ve gotten used to your antics by now brat’

‘i’m still a bit upset.’

‘yeah? what can i do to make it better?’

‘i think you have to cuddle me extra today.’

‘i’ll see what i can do’

immediately he folded you so you were pressed intro him. he was laying in his back against your pink fluffy cushions with you resting directly on his chest. he could feel your stuttered breathing against his chest, some tears still falling onto his shirt. he wanted so badly to tell you exactly what he was feeling but instead decided to stroke up and down your back, occasionally letting his hand roam down to your ass, softly molding you, patting you gently. your soft flesh under his palm was not only comforting to him but had you purring directly into his ear. he alternated between massaging your scalp, rubbing you back and patting your bum until your breathing had completely calmed.

‘really am sorry doll’ he whispered into your hair.

‘i know’ you whispered back with a little kiss to his chest.

he was really and truly fucked but this moment right here was one wherein he would die happy.

[mariahthelioness29]

Bless me if I am being too forward

jack abbot x nurse!latina!reader

Synopsis: You are a night shift nurse who is loved by everyone; however, you keep attending Dr.Jack Abbot at arm's length, and he confronts you about it, unraveling feelings that were hidden.

Warnings: SMUT, power dynamics due to rank ( attending, nurse), age gap ( mid 20s-30/Jack is in his 40s going to 50), Oral sex (f and m receiving), spanking probably inaccurate way on how to put a leg prosthetic ( I researched as much as I could), a smigde of brat tamer!Jack. Some inappropriate touching in the workplace ( some kissing). Probably inaccuracies on how nurses work Translation from Spanish to English at the bottom  DNI, interact with this fic if you are NOT 18+. If you are triggered by any of the warnings, please do not interact 

I got inspired to write about Dr.Jack Abbot, thanks to these beautiful blogs

@superhoeva @science-hoes @jackabbotsfakeleg @thatcorporategirlie @erwinsvow @ovaryacted @ozarkthedog

Shout out to Ryan on TikTok for answering some medical questions for this.

It is an uncharacteristically quiet night at the E.R., but Jack is not amused even though he should be. He sees you tending to one patient, a slash on her hand. 

He can hear you explaining to the patient how to treat the slash in Spanish. 

“ Si para esa fecha todavia  la herida  esta roja o tiene pus, tiene que venir para aca de una vez, okay, que tenga buenas noches y cuidese”, you smile at the elderly women. The elderly women nodded in agreement.

“ Ay que bueno que tienen una persona que hable Español, con el dolor, el Inglés me fallo,” they both chuckle.  They said their final goodbye. You go to the board, looking up at the screen, seeing that there is just one more person, but Henry, your best friend, is going to take it. 

You pass near him. You nod to him in acknowledgement, “Dr.Abbot”. He nods back with a smile. One that you don’t return. If Jack from the past saw that he is exasperated because the beautiful, extroverted, life of the party nurse puts a wall between them, he would tell himself to get over it. PTMC is not about making friends but about saving lives. Walsh hates his guts, and he does not give a fuck so why does it matter that you are not at least friendly with him. 

But he sees the way the Medical Assistants were with you. Those three stooges are trying to impress you, and you play along. The security, Ahmed. Shen and Ellis. 

Shen and Ellis are always chatting it up with you. You treat him kindly professionally, but not as part of your friend circle like the others. 

He thought he had made progress with you, the night of Pittfest. When you assisted with his methods. For someone who did not do Combat Medicine, you were on it. 

“Solid Work”, he smiles at you, feeling proud.

“That was all you and Dr.Mohan, I just assisted.” You bow your head a little and smile, too. 

Then you compose yourself, changing to that fucking kind professional but arms at length personality. 

You swallow “ -uhmm, I need to help dismantle all this, thank you for coming on your day off, Dr. Abbot.” You smile and then turn around and leave. 

You left  Jack tongue-tied; he wanted to tell you to take the win and maybe take a coffee with him. 

All the people are gathered at the station for Robby’s speech, but Jack can’t see you, so he looks for you. 

 “ There you are, Robby needs to say some words to everyone ”, he tries to look you in the eye, but you avert his gaze. 

He hears a small but discreet sniffle. It could be dismissed by everyone but him. 

“Hey, look at me”, he says softly when he finds you trying not to cry, composing yourself. 

You look at him, and your eyes are glossy. 

“How could someone do this?” you ask him, holding the tears in your voice. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“Violence just takes over. Come, don’t hold it back”. 

With that, he came closer and hugged you, and you let him, and you finally cried. He let you cry against his chest. You stopped crying shortly after. Jack comforted you, just rubbing his hand on your back. You soak up the feeling. He feels warm, safe, and his perfume is grounding you, but then you realize that you are getting too comfortable, so you part away from  him., 

He looks into your eyes and asks you, “Better now?” You nod

“Never feel shame for feeling for your patients, understood”. He nods. 

You nod.

He opens his backpack and gives you a small pack of tissues. 

You took the tissues and then again composed yourself.

“ I am sorry, thank you, I’ll see you at the nurses station”, he looks at you straighten up like seconds ago, you didn’t hug him, bury your face in his chest, and cry.

Henry finished with the patient and found you. 

“Seriously, I hope they fix the interpreter machine, ‘cause nobody is paying me the differential rate cause I know how to speak Spanish”, you roll your eyes at Henry. 

Henry chuckles at that. “ What are we betting about ?” you ask Henry

“How long until Dr.Shen says that q-word?”, Henry informs you. He is going to say it in 2 hours, and I’m bracing myself. You put the alarm on your watch.  Put the money where your mouth is”, Henry rubs his index and thumb together 

“ Let me go, get a 20 from my purse”, you say to him. 

Again, you pass near him. He sees you going into the locker, getting your bag, and taking out money. The bets. “He’ll participate. 

You go to Ahmed, and he has the money. He follows you there. 

“Hey Ahmed”, you smile

Ahmed smiles back, “I hope you don’t get all our money this time, cause it is scary how accurate you are”, he tells. You shrug,” You never know”, you laugh.” 

You do this often, Jack asks you,” behind you. 

You flinch and turn around. “Oh, Hi, Dr.Abbot, uhm, yeah, you know it’s just something silly we all do, your voice giving away your nerves. “ Uhm-Are you going to..*swallow* participate. 

“Yeah, here is my 40,” he says, giving the money to Ahmed. “I say, he says it in an hour and a half”. “May the odds be ever in your favor, he whispers to you. “Mhmmm”, you smile, tight-lipped, going rigid. 

Ahmed presses his lips in a thin line, trying not to burst into laughter at your nervous stare. “Don’t”, you mouth to Ahmed. 

 Ahmed just lifts his hands in surrender. 

Henry grabs you by the arm, you get startled.” Girl, I saw that”, he smiles maniacally. 

“Babes, you have to step your pussy up and tell him you like him”, Henry whispers making sure Abbot is not near. “ This is my place of employment, he is married, I do not want to be with a married man”, you whisper-shout. 

“I heard from Perlah, the day nurse, that she sometimes does double shifts. That she heard from Dana, the day charge nurse who comes and helps us from time to time, that he's a widower. The guy just loved his wife, and maybe he's used to it; that’s why he does not take the ring off.

Do with that info what you will. If I were you, that Dilf would’ve been fucked out on my bed tonight,stat. Your mouth stays agape.

 “Henry! You’re on a time-out”. 

“ How about you get some time out, get some good vintage dick, how about that ”, he answers with all the sass he has. You pushed him gently. “Go help your patients”, you cut him off, laughing. 

You see him, staring at you with an unreadable expression.  You feel your heart rate starting to go quicker. You look at him also with an unreadable face, waiting for him to say something, or come to you. 

Jack looks at you, but he thinks, “What the hell is going on?” You flinch near him. He needs to find out why. What is it about him that makes you so nervous? “Was it because he saw you so vulnerable after the PittFest? 

He comes to you, his face serious. “Could we talk in private ?” he asks you, but you know better; he is not asking. You nod nervously. The call room? You ask meekly. He just nods.

 You follow him to the call room. He opens the door for you and motions you to come in. He closes it. 

“I am going to be blunt, what is it ?” he crosses his arms and stands against the door.

You chuckled in disbelief. “What?”

“You avoid me, you flinch when I am near you, you just talk to me about the necessary. If I have done something to offend you, I am sorry.”Jack let his arms fall and came closer to you. “You don’t do this to anyone but me, Henry, Larry, Paolo, Ahmed, Patricia, everyone here laughs at your jokes, at the music you and Henry play in the breakroom. What are you so closed off to me? Is this about Pittfest ?” he looks puzzled. 

You freeze, looking like a deer in headlights. 

“I-”, you try to speak, but it does not come out. 

The few seconds of silence feel like hours, and you close your eyes for a moment. 

“Say something”, Jack urges 

“Alright fuck it”, you groan in annoyance. 

“This is so embarrassing”, you shake your head. 

“I like you, OK, it is very distracting, since the first moment I saw you, and I know you are married because you have a ring on your finger. But everything about you just gets me going. I thought it was some little stupid crush, but working with you, I realize it is not just a silly little crush, and since Pittfest, I have relived that hug in my head so many times. Happy”, you roll your eyes at him. 

You feel so embarrassed, you need to get out, so you move to the door, but he grabs your arm and yanks you to him. 

Jack smirks and looks at you, shaking his head. “I like you too, but you made me feel unwanted, you’re paying for that, just wait and see.” He takes your hand and intertwines it with his. “And don't you roll your eyes at me, brat”, he warns you, putting his index up.  I am a widower, I just wear the ring, just cause I feel naked without it”, you see his face soften with melancholy.

You let out a sigh of relief, but you still look at him like you cannot believe it. Jack kisses the top of your hand. 

“ I am sorry about your wife”, you say in earnest. 

He just shrugs with his head down. 

Then he pecks your cheek. You close your eyes at the feeling, feeling warm inside. Then he kissed the corner of your mouth. He gets so close that you breathe in his breath.

“ Give in”, he whispers while stroking your face with his thumbs, holding your face. 

“Just give in already ”, he whispers against your mouth

“It’ll feel good”, looks directly in the eyes and nods. 

You nod too, your lips parting, and then he kisses you so softly as if you are going to break. His kiss keeps getting momentum, getting a little tougher til he grabs you by the back of your head, swipes your lips with his tongue, and deepens the kiss. Your hands caressing his back, going to fist his curls. He moans at that, and you like the sound of it.  He lifts your leg, wrapping it around his waist, and he stops kissing, looking deep into your eyes. You don’t know what he is looking for in your eyes, but you look back at him, then he slowly goes and kisses your neck. You pull him closer to you, you are writing against him, feeling the hard-on he already has. 

You sigh a moan. You feel his hands going under your scrubs. His touch is soft but gruff. His hands tell the tale of a man who has been on the edge and lived to tell the tale. You keep enjoying that feeling and kiss some more, but you see the clock with the PTMC logo, and you wake up from the daze of his kisses. 

“We can’t…not here”, your voice sounded breathless. 

But you still kiss, sucking a little on his lower lip. 

“ Then stop...”, Jack dares you. 

But you kiss again, one last time, slowly enjoying his breath, the very hard and big hard-on he has, his sounds, the feel of his lips against yours, those curls in your hand before stopping.

“ I need to... our jobs.” You close your eyes and part from him. 

Jack bops your nose with his index finger. “ This isn’t over”, he makes it clear. 

“I know”, you acknowledge, the few seconds of silence sealing what is sure will happen after this shift or another. 

You laugh, “You have pink gloss. You swipe your thumb over his lips. 

He laughs softly and then licks his lips.�� I like it, cherry flavor”, he notices. 

He turns and rearranges his pants so that no one notices how hard he is. 

“Go, I am sure we’re needed”, you tell him. 

He goes to the door, but before he opens it, he comes to you and gives you another deep kiss, leaving you surprised. With that, he opens the door and goes.

You stay stunned for a second before mentally smacking yourself. 

You fish out your lip gloss and small mirror from the pocket of your pants 

You reapply your gloss, making sure that nobody knows you made out with Dr.Abbot, fixing yourself, your hair, and  you reach for the door

It is still quiet, some patients here and there. You do your rounds for the people still waiting for a bed upstairs.

In the nurse station, Dr.John Shen is sipping his Dunkin cold brew, he lets out an exasperated “Fuck, it’s quiet “ and everyone in vicinity groans. 

You look up at the ceiling and pinch the bridge of your nose while there is a beep sound from your watch. He said it in two hours, you win. “John Shen, I hate you and I love you. You kiss his cheek while speeding to Ahmed, leaving a confused Shen on your way to Ahmed.

You sing to Ahmed “ My hmm shaking ass with their hand out pay up .pay up”, while stretching your fingers out to him. He just shakes his head. He gets the money out of his pocket.  A neat wad of cash tied up with an elastic. 

You smile at him, “ winning, it never gets old, thank you, everyone”, you sing the last part. 

 Your celebration does not last long cause here come the people. 

You hear your charge nurse saying that patients are incoming. 

‘Thank you, Shen”, you grumble

“You’re welcome, without me, you wouldn’t have that money”, he smiles 

“Alright, you and me together”, Jack surprises you, but you don’t flinch. 

“Where were you?” You turn around.

“Calming down, taking care of what you left behind”, Jack breaths out. 

“These are the miracles of being a woman, no one knows,” you smile, biting your lip. 

You see the paramedics coming, you and Jack jumped into action. 

The hours seem to pass, accidents, drunk people fights, a stabbing, a burned patient, gun shot patients, by the time you have to chance to lift your head, it is 7 A.M Your feet hurt, you are exhausted, and you feel like a mess. 

You take your bags out of the locker and you feel someone, something staring holes behind your back, and you don’t have to turn around. You know exactly who. 

“Congratulations, you won”, he says, giving you a small smile. 

“Thank you, but that money is going somewhere else”, you deadpan. 

“What a shame that money should be for you, he caressed his neck.

“Yeah, it is what it is”, you look resigned. 

Jack does not like that resigned look on your face.  

“ I didn’t see your car today,, He states. 

“I mean, I always hear it, thumping a good bass, I don’t know what type of music that is. He explains while he gets next to you. 

“My car is at the mechanic, I am taking an Uber,” you explain to him, while he leans against your locker with his military backpack hanging from one shoulder. 

Jack is pensive. He knows you won’t accept it if he offers to pay for your car.  He’ll convince you at breakfast. 

“No”, he blurts out.  

“ I’ll take you”, he offers 

“ You don’t have to, I am sure you are as beat as me”, you explain.

He gets just a little close and just shrugs, “ wasn’t asking”. 

“ You can’t just order me around”, you defy him, but there is a glint in your eye. 

Jack catches it. 

“ That was not what I saw in the call room, that girl was willing to follow my lead”, he quips back, tilting his head to the side. 

You sigh. “ I think if I go with you, we will continue, and I don’t want to continue, feeling like this, looking like this”, you gesture to yourself. 

“ You could wear a potato sack and still be gorgeous”, he looks at you up and down.

“Nothing will happen, just some breakfast at that cozy place near here, something to drink that is not coffee, then I’ll take you home and ask you for a date. He looks at you for confirmation. 

“O.k.” You just feel your face warm, and look at him barely. 

You walk together 

Henry crossed paths with you, and his eyes almost bulged out, but he quickly gained composure when he saw Abbot look from his phone to him. 

” Hi, Dr. Abbot, hey girl,, he greets.

“Hey, Henry, how are you?” Jack offers. 

“Another day in paradise”, Henry gestures to the room.

Abbot nods in understanding 

“Girl, I was looking for you to give you a ride”, Henry explains. 

“Thank you, Henry, but Dr. Abbot offered me a ride.” You act as if this interaction is not going to have Henry screaming at your messages later in the day.

“ Sure, any day, take care of her, Dr.”, Henry tells Jack jokingly, but there is an edge of protectiveness at the take care of her.

“ I will”, Jack answered with an unspoken understanding. 

“We'll talk later, we have some plans”, Henry wiggles his brows. 

“I see you around, girl.”,

“Bye, Henry.”

“Have a good day, Dr. Abbot”,

“Goodbye, Henry.” With that, Henry goes his way. 

“I am sorry about Henry, he is very protective of me”, you tell him. You felt the understanding between Henry and Jack. 

“ No, I like him, you two are good friends.” he takes your hand, and you get into the parking spot. He opens the door of his car and helps you to get in. 

The ride was quiet, short, but not uncomfortable. 

You look at the window, and you feel his hand on top of your thigh. 

“Penny for your thoughts”, Jack asks you.

“Nah, it has been a night from making out with you to seeing you cauterizing a patient. You huff. 

Jack gives you a tired smirk. 

“ I thought finally, we had a once-in-a-blue-moon quiet night”, Jack confesses.

“It’s the Pitt, I lost hope”, you laugh. 

At the coffee shop, you enjoy small coffees, cause at the start of the day, you need a caffeine breakfast with some orange juice.

The conversation flows between you. 

“ Why did you never say anything to me, that you felt as much as I do:, you ask him. Putting his hand on top of his. 

“ Well”, Jack takes a sip of his orange juice before speaking.  

“Look at me and look at you, I am an attending, you’re a nurse, young, I am old, greying hair, wrinkles, I don’t know what you see”

“Don’t say that, it makes you hotter”, you confess, licking your lips. 

Jack truly laughs at that. 

“Thank you, it has been a long time, someone call me hot”. 

“You’re welcome.”

You keep eating, talking in between about everything from his days in the military, your days as a nursing student, till the topic circles to his wife. 

“ I know the ring makes you uncomfortable”, he notices

“What?”, you look puzzled 

“I see you look at it”. 

“What if, like the way it looks on your hand”, you shrug

“I will take it off, for me, for you, this isn’t just some adventure to me, I know what I want”, he assures you. 

You nod, just taking it all in. 

“What is it that you want?” you answer, shifting a little forward

“You”, Jack answered simply, with no hesitation. 

“This, being together, being for one another, making you smile, that smile when you dip your head down, my favorite”, he explains. 

“ I come to realize, I don’t like seeing you upset, keep the money you won on the bet, I’ll pay for your car”, Jack states.

“Jack, this is barely a first encounter, and you want to pay for my car”, you question, but you’re amused. 

“Yeah”

“I’ll do it, give me your details, I'll send you the money, I’m not playing.”, 

“Alright, if you say so”, you are skeptical, but you give him your information and how much the damage costs. 

You finish eating, get in the car, and Jack, as the gentleman he is, opens the door of the vehicle for you. He takes you home.

“Home, sweet home”, Jack announces, putting the car in park. 

“Thank you for telling me that you like me”, he leans in and kisses you. 

The kiss feels soft but confident, his hand cupping your face. 

“ I can get a chef table at that fancy place everyone is raving about, I know the chef, saved his hand with Walsh, he promised me one chef table, 7:30, I’ll pick you up”. 

He kisses you one more time, sealing the promise of your date. 

“Have a good sleep”, you kiss his cheek before opening the door, but he stops you. 

“ You know the deal”, his face becomes stern. 

You close the door and let him open it again for you. 

You slump against the door, and when you close it behind you. 

“What a night, what a day”, you contemplate. 

You relive that kiss, the feeling of his hands, his caress, the way he wants to care for you. 

You hear a ping, and it is a Cash App notification from Jack with a message “for your car, and you, J.” Your eyes bulged at the amount.

During the days leading up to your date, you keep it undercover, as best as you can. There is always a discreet hand on your lower back, guiding you. A conversation. A stolen kiss when you least expected it, making sure no one saw. 

The day you both are off comes. You are getting the last touches of your makeup and putting on more perfume for your date with Jack. You hear your phone; it's a message from Jack: “I’m here.” 

You open your door, and there is Jack with flowers in his hand.

“Flowers? Did you step out of a romance book?” you say while taking the flower from his hand and giving him a small peck on the lips. You invite Jack in. 

 It’s been a very long time since I went on a date, last I knew, women like flowers”, he explains. 

You pick a clear vase that you had on your table.

“You look”-Jack puffs out his breath

“You like it? Just something I put on”, you gesture to your dress. 

“You look beautiful”, you see him admiring you. 

Jack looks around. The apartment is small, but you made it yours, cozy.

He sees putting the vase with the flowers on the table. 

“Ready ?” he asks you.

You nod, “Ready.”

The restaurant was gorgeous, and your table was separated from the rest.

Of course, Jack opened the chair for you. 

You see him anxious. You have to laugh. 

“ I am going to be blunt, what is it ?” you ask him. 

“ Nothing, is just that, I haven’t done this in a long time, I am rusty”, he admits 

“ The man, who took me to the best restaurant in the city, brought me flowers, paid for my car, gave me money to buy this dress, has been nothing but a gentleman, you call that rusty, I can’t wait when you’re smooth”, you take a sip of your wine. 

Jack just takes a breath and also drinks from his wine. 

“Just wait and see”, he assures. 

The conversation flows between you, and by the time you notice, you are the last in the restaurant. 

You were telling him about your first day without a preceptor and how chaotic that day was. 

Jack laughs, “Now that was baptism by fire, baby”. 

Ughh, so embarrassing”, you shake your head, still cringing from that day. 

“Holy shit, we’re the only people in here left, they are praying to every entity for us to go”, you realize. 

Jack paid the bill, gave the server a nice cash tip, and went back to your apartment. 

He parks, and he just looks at you, and he intertwines your fingers with yours and brings his lips to the top of your hand. 

“Thank you”, he breathes out. 

“You're welcome, I haven’t had this much fun in a while”. You bit your lip, smiling. 

“ Want a nightcap ?” you ask him. 

“ I would love to”,  Jack confesses.

You open your door and then enter. 

“ Make yourself at home”, you tell Jack while you take your heels off. 

You sigh in relief, taking them off. 

“ Want a massage ?, Jack offers “Sure, why not? , you accept 

Jack is sitting on your couch, and he sees you go to your room and come back with lotion. 

 You sit at the other end of the couch, letting your feet rest on his lap, and throw the lotion at him. 

He catches it.

He put lotion on his hands and put it on the small table next to the couch. 

He began to massage your feet, making sure all the stress leaves your feet. 

You moan tossing your head back “fuck, you’re good at that”. “Ouu, don’t say it like that, I can be good at other things”, Jack warns you. 

“What other ways?” you ask, feeling warm on your chest. 

“I'd rather show you than tell you”, Jack licked his hips, and he kept massaging your calf. 

“I would like that”, you whisper, feeling your brain short-circuit a little. 

That was all Jack needed you to say.

He lifts one of your legs and kisses your ankle. 

“Come here”, he beckoned you with his fingers. 

You get off the couch, then come to stand in front of him. 

He grabs your hand and tugs you to him and makes you straddle him. 

“God, you’re beautiful”, he whispers, caressing and groping you before kissing you. 

His kiss takes you by surprise; he deepens it as soon as he can, his hand wrapped around the base of the back of your neck, stabilizing you, pulling just right on his center. You writhe and grind, feeling him under his pants. You take a breather, parting just to breathe. He slides the straps of your dress, takes your bra off, throwing it, not caring where it lands. 

You feel him peppering kisses all over your chest before taking one of your breasts into his mouth, looking up at you, while grabbing the other in his hand. 

 You look back at him, biting your lips, trying to stifle your moans, and also getting your fingers on his greying curls. 

He stops and grabs you tightly by your hips. 

“Either you let me hear it or I stop”, he warns you.

You nod, and he looks at you one more time before putting his hand again on your breast and sucking on the other one. You keep grinding against him and he keeps alternating between your breasts, sicking, licking, and giving them a bite. You stop him so that you can take his shirt off. You unbutton his shirt in a hurry, impatient, and you both work on taking it off, and you also throw it on the floor. 

Now you're the one, taking over, raking your nails over his back, while kissing his neck. He hisses and grunts, throwing his head back. You kiss his shoulders and also stop to admire the freckles that adorn his arms and his shoulders. 

“I like these”, you admire the freckles on his shoulders. Your hands go to his belt, unbuckling it. 

Then you see in his eyes, the way he went rigid, his breath stuttered a little.  

“Hey, look at me”, you grab his hand and give his lip a little peck. 

He doesn’t say anything, just averts his gaze. 

“What is it?” his eyes are closed, and he takes a deep breath. He was stuttering “-my- le-

“Jack, I don’t care about your leg, it’s part of who you are and I fucking like everything about you “, you are the one looking for his eyes. 

He closes his eyes and then looks at you again.  He just nods. 

He lets you help him with taking his pants off, and you see him, just in his boxers.

You stand in front of him, letting the dress fall off you. 

“Let me take them off”, he said, looking at your lace panties. You get closer to him and stretch your hand to him.

“How about we take this to the bedroom ?, you prompt 

He takes your hand and helps himself get on the couch. 

He follows you to the bedroom. 

In your bedroom, you go on your knees and slide his boxers off, letting his dick spring free. 

You can’t disguise the shock on your face. Jack chuckles at that.  “Now, how is that going to fit?” you wonder out loud. 

“ Don’t worry, it will”, Jack assured you, making you look up time by grabbing your chin between his thumb and index.

“Sit at the edge, get comfortable”, you point at the bed, and he does that. 

It is a short distance, so you crawl to him, never taking your eyes off him. 

Jack knows he is a lost man when he sees you crawling to him; he has to have to touch himself for some relief. 

You caress, his thighs and begin to lick the tip while he continues to jerk his dick. Seeing you on your knees kissing his tip,  he needs to look up or otherwise he’ll cum. You keep doing that kissing, lick his tip, sucking it on that part that make his thigh shake and his moans stutter. 

You take over, pushing his hand away, your head bopping up and down, and your hand also massaging his balls. Jack becomes a puddle of just moans, growls, and whines when you take him as deep as you can. 

 You look up to him, teary-eyed, your eyes have lust written all over them. Jack needs to stop you so he fists your hair in his hand and yank you away from his cock and brings you up to him, kissing you stealing whatever breath is left. 

“ I don’t want to cum yet”, not letting go of your hair. 

“Lie across my lap, we've got things to settle”, he tells you while manhandling you so you can lie across my lap. 

You lift from him a little, and he slides your panties off. 

He gropes your ass so that he can see how wet your are, how you are pulsing around nothing. 

“Oh, baby, all of that for me?” Jack says with a faux-surprised tone. 

Jack caresses your ass cheek before striking, taking you completely off guard. 

Your yelp ends in a moan. 

“That’s for keeping me at arm’s length all this time”, he confesses, and he starts to insert one finger inside of you, hissing along with you. 

You felt him teasing you from the inside, you feel your breath getting stuck in your lungs, then he enters another one, and that's when you feel that electric feeling buzzing all over, and you let out your loudest moan yet. 

“Atta girl, that’s where it is, baby ?” he asks you

You nod fast, you can’t answer, not with him making his fingers touch that spot. 

You can hear your wetness, and it should make you feel self-conscious, but you revel in it instead. 

With his other hand, he grabs you by the neck, firmly.

“Answer me”, he slows the speed of his fingers 

“Yes, that’s where it is”, you answered back, all slurred and with a mewl. 

He takes his fingers out and just licks them. He makes sure you hear it. 

You press your thighs together. 

He began the sweet torture of spanking you and fingering you until you’re about to cum and repeat. 

“Fuck, it makes me jealous when you kissed Shen on the cheek”, he spanks you again. 

You’re so pent up, you whine. 

“ I like the sound of that”, he manhandles you, getting you off his lap. 

You're on your back, and you are surprised by the way he just manhandles you. 

“I want to taste you, sit on my face”, he grunts 

Jack-, you chuckle a little, taken aback. 

“Don’t overthink it, just do it”, He yanks you closer to him and gives you kisses from pecks to deep ones with tongue until he lays flat on your bed and makes you straddle until his mouth is right aligned with your pussy, he grabs your hips making you sit on his face. 

He starts slow, calculated, but still relentless, you see him reach for his cock, eating you out while jerking himself off. 

You ride his face in pleasure, your moans and his groans, moans mix.

You lift off his face to let him breathe. He stands up, putting you on his side, and takes your ankle, dragging you to the edge of the bed. You giggle and let him do it. And he goes on his knees.

“Oh, look at her just waiting for me, just perfect”, he is more talking to himself than to you. 

You are supported by your elbows, looking at him, dipping down and begin to kiss your inner thighs, giving them playful bites, before he goes and makes out with pussy. He is ravenous, and you don’t know what to do; your hand flies to his hair, tugging him closer, riding the waves of pleasure.

He loops his arm around your thighs, and you can’t close your legs even if you want to. 

He puts pressure on you clit, sucking it, licking it. 

You are seeing stars when you feel his fingers slip in, while he sucks on your clit. His finger does that come here motion non-stop, his moans, the way he looks at you, you feel the pressure in your stomach, you feel your brain go fuzzy, you want to feel it, but at the same time, you are squirming away. 

He puts his hand on your lower stomach, making you stay still. 

“I don’t think so, he reprimands you. 

 Just let it happen, give in, sweetheart”, he pleads with you. 

“I want to see it”,  he grunts, going steadier and faster with his fingering, and that’s when you gasp and see your release flowing out of you, your thighs shaken. 

You say his name over and over in a dazed, slurred state, and Jack knows he is an addict. He will make you do this anytime he can. 

“Fuck, yes”, he groans in arousal

Not caring how you wet his chin, the sheets, his hand.

He stands up and hovers over you with one hand holding him up, and you take his hand and suck his fingers, looking at him, moaning at your taste. 

“Good girl”, he breathes out before kissing you as if he tries to find your taste still on your tongue. 

“I need you, I have condoms but they're in the living room”, he whispers against your lips.

“Right nightstand, second drawer”, you caress his back. He gets up and goes there to pick up a condom. He rips the packet and puts it on. 

You feel your nerves skyrocket. 

He hovers above you, you kiss again, softly and deeply, consuming you before he lines up with your entrance and goes in. You both got your moans stuck in your throats. 

You feel him so deep, making space for him just for him. He starts moving slow, kissing your neck sucking on the pulse point, making your legs tighten around him. You feel lightheaded. 

“Fuck, she’s sucking me in, you want me that much, baby?”, he whispers in your ear, his tone laced somehow with a little bit of cockiness and disbelief. 

It is so hypnotizing, his voice, the way he moves in and out of you, it just slipped out in a whisper “daddy”, your eyes beginning to roll. Ecstasy all over, but then you realize, gasping, covering your mouth, trying to get him off of you. 

But he just put more of his weight on you, with that smirk 

“ What did you say to me ?” He asks you, grabbing your face 

You shake your head, 

“Say it”, he says, kissing your neck again, angling his hips so that he hits that spot. 

“Let me hear it”, he whispers 

“Daddy”, you whisper 

“You want me to be your daddy, huh? I’ll be your Daddy from now on”, he groans with a grunt he pulls out. 

He grabs one of your pillows, placing it under you by your hips. Making you lie flat, he caresses your back your legs, your ass, admiring the curves your body. 

“So pretty”, he whispers in awe, while he is on his knees, straddling you from behind and making your hips raise a little. 

He is in you and all over you. You can only let out choked moans while he puts some of his weight on you, wrapping his arm around your throat, but not choking you, just for you to feel him. 

“Fuck”,  you moan all drawn out. 

He just grunts and moans in your ear. 

“You’re mine, he breathes out against your shoulder. 

“I’m yours”, you tell him, while your lips barely touch. 

He feels you tighten around him, thrashing against him as best as you can in this position. 

You mewl.

“Give me what’s mine, sweetheart”, he encourages you, tightening the grip on his arm around your throat with expertise, 

You feel the air leave your lungs at the same time, you’re coming.

You feel every nerve sing, pulse, while you pretty much howl and moan, grabbing the sheets beneath you.

That’s what does it for him. He doesn't stop, he fucks you through your orgasms without a shadow of mercy. You’re babbling, moaning.

He knows he is there ready to cum 

“Oh, fuck, I-”, his voice trembles before his grunts and moans cut his sentence. 

He comes wishing he didn’t have to use a condom, wishing he could feel you. 

He moves his hips against you till he spends and drops on top of you, trying to control his breathing. His breath fanned the side of your face, and you liked his weight on top of you. 

“Mmm”, you close your eyes, with a dopey smile. 

He is getting off of you when you stop him.

“Noooo, just a little more”, you whine

“Sweetheart, I am crushing you right now”, he chuckles a little winded. 

“Don’t care”, you say, a little muffled 

After a couple of seconds, he slips out slowly with care. 

He stands up and takes the condom off carefully,

You turn on your back. Seeing him naked, going to your bathroom to throw the condom away. 

You are so screwed, it should not make you that giddy, seeing him prancing in your room naked. 

“ What are you so giddy about, huh ?, he asks, getting back on the bed and pulling you so that your head lies on his chest and your leg is over his hips. 

“You have a nice ass, Dr. Abbot”, you hide your face 

“Well, my face is not much, so I have to do something else”, he says, all serious. 

You both laugh at that. 

“You need to take that off”, you remind him, pointing at the prosthetic. 

Jack nods. 

“Would it be bad if I say I was going to do it when you were asleep ?” he confesses. 

“I want to help you, I know you’re always used to do things yourself, but sometimes people want to help, I want to help you, this part of you, if we’re going to keep doing this- you kiss him softly but feel of promise- then I have to take care of you, just like you take care of me”, you tell him. 

He kisses you again, and there is a glow in his eyes like he wants to cry, but he is not letting it. 

“C’mon, let's sit you down.” You let him sit up again. 

You get in front of him.

“There is a valve a the bottom, unscrew it, he instructs you, and you do as told. 

You hear the air releasing. 

Pull slowly, he further instructs you.

You keep doing as he tells you, waiting for instructions

Pull the sleeve slowly, he bit his lips, taking a deep breath. 

You do as told. 

You check his skin for any redness or irritation. You have the lotion ready to massage his stump, and you do that, 

then you clean the socket and sleeve with a cleanser. You put the prosthetics next to the side of the bed he is on. 

He takes a deep breath, swallows before saying “thank you”,

“You’re welcome”, you smile and lift yourself to kiss him again. he cups your face and then puts his forehead on top of yours. 

You help him lie down, and he makes you rest on his chest. He kisses the top of your head. 

It is silent yet not uncomfortable; it feels as though it is meant to be. Jack feels a warmth in his chest. He looks at you, you were tracing his freckles with your fingers, but you fell asleep while doing it.

He still can’t believe he’s here in your apartment, on your bed, without his leg, and you want him, all of him. 

Jack hasn’t felt so vulnerable in a long time. He kisses the top of your head again. 

You woke up looking at Jack splayed out on your bed, sleeping without a worry, and you like that look on his face. You get up and go to the bathroom and see the state Jack left you in in the mirror. 

You take a bath, clean yourself, and put on something comfortable. 

You step out of your bathroom into your room, and you see him still sleeping.

You pick all your clothes, shoes, both yours and his, from the living room and the bedroom, and put them on the chair in your bedroom

You go back to your kitchen and start thinking about what to cook with your phone. 

You get the ingredients out of the fridge, you’re going to cook for two. You put on music on the phone, some Latin music your mother used to hear. 

And you start prepping, cooking, not noticing Jack is in his boxers, with his leg on, watching you dance, singing in Spanish with a spatula. 

Jack does not need any confirmation; his new goal in life is to wake up like this, just you singing, being happy. 

translation Spanish to English:

“ Si para esa fecha todavia  la herida  esta roja o tiene pus, tiene que venir para aca de una vez, okay, que tenga buenas noches y cuidese” If by that date, the slash is still red or has pus, you need to come back here at once, okay, have a good night, and take care.  Ay que bueno que tienen una persona que hable Español, con el dolor, el Inglés me fallo Oh, what good, that there is a person who speaks Spanish, with the pain, English failed me

[xylatox]

Out of my Hands! || pjs

Hehe reading my 2nd fic from berry :3 shes such a cutie guys, and im so excited to read this because i fear I’m slowly going to get into F1 

I love that is an established relationship so it honestly makes the entire dynamic even cuter and the fact mc hasnt said anything to him in 2 days, poor Jay </3 Wait but the reason she hasnt talked to him omg :::(

In the way his fingers tighten around his gloves like there’s something else he wants to hold. In every look he shoots me when he thinks I’m not watching, eyes full of ache and apology and that quiet ‘please’ that he never says out loud but I hear anyway.

Oh my god this line, I love that in every way possible the guilt is so present

Also super unrelated but there’s so much jargon that my brain cant even comprehend but its so cool

“I miss you,” he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. His lips trembled as they moved gently, pressing a tentative kiss to my wrist, then my palm.

I fear I would fold so easily

“Jay,” I gasped, my voice barely recognizable as my own. He looked up at me through his lashes, lips wet and parted, swollen. “Don’t stop.”

Oh my god.

Honestly, never thought about sub jay but I think I need this in my life.

He stood there in front of me in full gear, helmet on, waiting. Not for the gloves. For something else — for the kiss.

Oh this so fucking cute ill cry. Berry youve made Jay so cute oh my god I cant😭

Jay shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to glance down at me, confused and a little alarmed. “What’s so funny?” he asked, voice still rough around the edges, hair a total mess.

I bit my lip, still grinning. “I forgave you like… maybe ten bouquets ago.”

Shes so cruel I love her

I stepped in close and lifted myself just enough to lean in, lips pressing against the visor in a kiss — right where my lipstick always left its mark. “Be safe,” I murmured, letting the words settle between us. “And win.”

This is so cute, I am so soft I cant

He smiled, forehead resting against mine, sweat-slick and beaming, his eyes shining. “Yeah,” he breathed, “you’re right. I don’t need luck.” His lips brushed against mine, soft and sure, “I need you.”

Oh my god the end :::( Berry this was so freaking cute oh my god. I genuinely loved every minute of it :)) 

Out of my Hands!

Synopsis: In the high-pressure world of motorsport, an engineer and her star driver at Ferrari fall into a connection as electric as the circuits they race on. But when one mistake on his part threatens to fracture everything between them — on and off the track — the race isn’t just for championship, it’s for redemption as well…

Pairing: F1driver!enhypen jay x engineer!reader

Genres: “second chance” romance, established relationship, forced proximity, F1 driver AU (?)

Warnings: jungwon mention lol, possible F1 racing inaccuracies, sun (jay) x moon (y/n), sub!jay x dom!yn, contains smut (mdni), is actually v smut heavy lmao i used this as an excuse to write subby jay (i love him sm), smut with plot, rom com if you squint, happy ending i pinky promise, angst-smut-fluff (in that order), body worshipping to the fucking max, fucking a closet, oral (f!rec), hes a munchhhh, hes v stupid but v adorable, jay is so unbelievably in love, yn is a little mean tbh sorry (not sorry), will probably add more 

Word count: 7.6k 

a/n: here's the little request from my anon hehe i hope you like it hun <3 just a reminder for all my girliesss it's unacceptable for your partner to forget your anniversary! This is pure fiction!

Taglist: @seungsoftly @xylatox  @orxngebloods @yooonjnng @jaehoodies @hoonieyun @heesmiles @hoonsluvr @flowerwinds  @cunty4hee @bambieheeseunglee @luvashli @eczlipse @sunnygirl-kait @leehsngs @enhaeil @bxcndd @firstclassjaylee @sumsumtingz @heekolazz @amazzwon  @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @hazelira @princesslenars @heestoleurgirl @stariekis @morganaawriterr @luvashli @heekolazz  (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

Two days.

That’s how long it had been since I last spoke to him, not a single word. Just silence — sharp and deliberate, the kind that crackled louder than any screaming engine. The smothered quietness was louder than any fight we’d ever had. And yet, duty calls — making us stand in the same garage, breathe the same air, surrounded by the same chaos that usually held us together. But this time, everything was unraveling faster than he could hold it together.

The Ferrari garage buzzed with preparation for the Monaco Grand Prix. The hum of telemetry monitors was constantly glowing with live delta updates, ‘+0.156 vs. previous lap’ blinked on screens with clinical precision. Other engineers around me murmured about tire temps and brake wear.

“The front-left’s still running hot, Y/N,” one of the newer engineers reported, eyes flicking between the tablet in his hands and the tire data streaming across the screen. You could hear the respect in his tone, but also that nervous edge — the kind that comes with not quite knowing if you’re allowed to speak yet.

“Mm, I see it,” I said, already scanning the heat map on my own monitor. The wear pattern wasn’t dramatic, but the temperature spike had been creeping session by session. “We’ll swap compounds for FP3,” I added, calm but decisive. “Harder mix should stabilize temps, and I want the pressures adjusted by half a psi.”

He nodded quickly, already tapping in the update as the mechanics rolled out tire trolleys and the metallic clatter echoed off the concrete walls. The chaos of the usual pre-race rhythm filled the garage — sharp, fast, alive. It was the soundtrack of our lives, something that usually settled in the bones like second nature. But today, it pressed down heavier, as if even the noise knew something was off.

I kept my usual composed self — steady, measured, always perfectly in control.” Which is the exact opposite of the storm brewing inside Jay, who stood a few meters away, shifting on his feet while being suited up in red. But I could feel his gaze, I always could. 

His arms were crossed over his chest like he was holding himself together with the tension and friction alone. I knew it hurt him to see me speak to others like everything is normal but not utter a word to him. The reigning world champion, the golden boy of Formula One — millions in sponsorship deals and beloved by fans — is completely helpless. 

The low hum of monitors and the muted chatter of engineers, mechanics and technicians filled the garage — numbers updating in real time, tire compounds being swapped, heat maps pulsing across displays. The sharp scent of hot rubber and engine oil hung in the air. And still, none of it seemed to register with him. Not the car. Not the lap deltas. Not even the swarm of cameras lingering by the paddock entrance, hoping to catch his shiny-boy smile. They’d get nothing either way because he wasn’t really present with them. He was somewhere inside himself, unraveling slowly, quietly. And I knew exactly why.

Because I hadn’t said a word to him in forty-eight hours.

I could feel his stare occasionally, lingering like static on my skin, but I didn’t turn. My eyes stayed glued to the downforce distribution map in front of me, fingers casually adjusting the torque simulation overlay, just going through the motions like I wasn’t breaking my own heart. 

If I looked at him, I’d remember every part of him I still ached for — like the way his smile would start slowly, tugging at the corner of his mouth before blooming fully, blinding and boyish. How he always leaned into me just a little when we talked, like his body couldn’t help but reach for mine. And the way his hands trembled after a race, adrenaline still spilling out of him — only ever steady once they were wrapped around me. 

We met a year ago, when I was first assigned to his vehicle design team — a technical partnership on paper, a set of credentials matched to a championship-winning driver. It was straightforward and professional. But from the moment he walked into the garage, there was an unmistakable pull that was almost like gravity. He’d saunter in with that trademark charm, all easy smiles and too-pretty eyes. I admired how he has a habit of pushing his car, and himself, to the edge of physics. Even if it made me want to strangle him half the time.

It shouldn’t have worked — but it did. We work perfectly together.

What we have isn’t a secret, just privately ours. Away from the cameras, away from the paddock politics and sponsor demands. Jay was always careful with it, with me. Always made sure I never felt like a footnote in the shadow of his spotlight. Even when the weight of being the reigning world champion began to bear down on him — every appearance, every test run, every simulator hour — I never doubted he cared.

However, caring wasn’t the same as remembering. And on the night of our first anniversary, he didn’t.

We’d just wrapped a grueling 14-hour prep session — final calibration meetings, last-minute aero tweaks, and endless briefings. His world was racing, tunnel-visioned, every second accounted for in his pursuit of perfection. I knew the weight he carried. Knew how much pressure came with defending a world title. I’d seen it in the lines beneath his eyes, in the way his fingers twitched against his thighs even when he was still.

So I told myself I understood, that I do not expect much. But when I walked into the garage that night of our anniversary, still smelling faintly of burnt rubber and carbon fiber, and saw him bent over data sheets, not even glancing up — I knew.

He forgot. No flowers. No message. Nothing. Nada.

And when he found out by himself that he forgot — there were no tears, no dramatic exit, no slammed doors. It was like he hadn’t noticed he was walking on a tightrope until it snapped. He stood there stripped of the easy polish he wore like a second skin, and asked — softly, earnestly — if there was any way to make it right.

However, it wasn’t only the feeling of disappointment I felt, but also the weight of being invisible in the one place I thought I never would be. He remembered tire pressures and compound cycles and brake bias down to the decimal — yet somehow, not this.

I just told him I needed space. And when I said it, I watched his whole face change — He looked gutted. Like the words knocked the breath right out of him. His voice cracked when he asked, “How much?”

“I don’t know yet.” i responded. I meant to sound firm, but I'm not sure if I conveyed that. The silence wasn’t out of spite of him or as a punishment. But because I didn’t want to shrink myself to fit into the background of his life. Not when I’d stood by him, through every pit stop and podium.

He didn’t try to argue or try to talk me out of it. He just nodded slowly, like he was trying to respect my words even as they cut him open.

And I was trying. God, I was trying — gritting my teeth, white-knuckling the line I’d drawn, even though every part of me was screaming to step over it. Every shift of his boots on the concrete, every sigh from his chest, chipped away at my resolve.

Every fiber of me was aching to reach for him. I missed the way he’d find me in the chaos of the garage, eyes soft even when his voice was sharp from that driver’s rush like I intensively calmed him. The way his fingers used to find mine under the briefing table, brushing knuckles in quiet touches when the room was too loud with strategy calls and tire compound debates. I even missed that smug little whisper he’d drop when he leaned in just close enough — pretending to fuss with his earpiece during the final checks, but really just looking for an excuse to be near me. Just low enough so no one else caught it, his voice thick with that familiar tease, “still my favorite shade on you.”

It was ridiculous, really. Didn’t matter what lipstick I wore that day — scarlet, berry, nude — I could swear he had a different favorite every morning. And those quick, almost impatient kisses he’d press against me before striding out to the grid, always with that faint smudge of my lipstick still teasing the corners of his mouth.

But I reminded myself: I was the one who asked for this space, I had to honor that.

“Jay, it's time.” The call came sharp and sudden over the radio: Jay was needed for a test run. The garage suddenly shifted — tires rolled, tools clattered, and the hum of anticipation filled the air. The team moved with practiced precision, but the chatter… it was different today.

Everyone noticed immediately. Two days without a single word between Jay and I was an unspoken record. They knew how we usually were — quiet smiles, casual touches, the kind of softness that didn’t need announcing. So this silence? It spoke volumes. They weren’t subtle about putting two and two together.

“Hey,” one of the engineers — Jungwon, always the first to break tension — leaned over, glancing my way as he wiped grease off his hands. “Is he… okay?” He asked, referring to Jay. 

I met his eyes briefly, then turned back to the screen in front of me. “He’ll be fine,” I said, voice steady and flat, though inside I was anything but.

Jungwon nodded slowly, unconvinced but trusting. “It’s just… two days? That’s new for him.”

The telemetry graph overhead flickered with live data again — sector times, tire temps, brake wear. Numbers, curves, pulses of color that painted a perfect picture. But none of it matched with what we were seeing, because no matter how precise the car was running, Jay’s driving was the real glitch in the system.

“Bring the car in for pit lane after the run,” I said to the team, eyes still on the telemetry, “i want to do some tweaks.” I lied, the car is fucking perfect. However, with no hesitation, they all gave me small nods. 

He loves me, I know and believe that. Truly, maddeningly, desperately in love. From the moment we met, it was like his heart found a home and decided mine was it. Without me he's all noise and no direction — like a car with no grip, spinning in the same corner over and over again. He’s a puddle in my hands, always was. And in these past two days, I’ve felt every quiet attempt he made to reach me, I can read him like a book. I see it in the way he stands too long near the telemetry table where I’m working. I catch the way his hand twitches toward mine before he remembers. Or the way he leans in out of pure instinct when we pass too closely.

Jay, the reigning champion, the media darling, Ferrari’s golden boy — reduced to a man struggling to remember how to breathe without me reminding him.

And yet, he never pushes.

Every morning, my coffee has been sitting on my station before I arrive. Just the way I like it — two sugars, no lid, sleeve already on. Whenever I step out of my hotel room or get back at night, there’s a fresh bouquet waiting outside my door — peonies, or roses, or marigolds, or tulips. Wrapped neatly with the team’s garage tape. All these gestures never had a note or a name or anything, but I didn't need it to know who they were from.

He never knocked at the door either, but his actions — conscious or subconscious — spoke how he felt. The guilt bleeds off him, he wears it in the slump of his shoulders when I walk past. In the way his fingers tighten around his gloves like there’s something else he wants to hold. In every look he shoots me when he thinks I’m not watching, eyes full of ache and apology and that quiet ‘please’ that he never says out loud but I hear anyway.

Jay pulled the car into pit lane with a smoothness that, to the untrained eye, might’ve looked fine. But to us — to the team that knew his driving like gospel — it was obvious something was off. He unstrapped himself with methodical hands, slower than usual, and stepped out of the cockpit, fireproof gloves already tugged halfway off as he handed his helmet to one of the mechanics.

His race suit clung to him, streaked in sweat and dust from the circuit. Normally, after a run, he’d have that boyish glint in his eye, shoulders loose, lip curled in a smug half-smile as he asked about throttle trace and corner exit velocity.

But today he looked like a man dragging his heart behind him.

“Jay,” one of the technical directors called out as he approached. “What’s up, son?” the director asked, slapping a hand gently to Jay’s back as they started walking toward the engineering bay. “You’re lifting too early. Car’s fine — hell, it’s better than fine. But you look like you’re driving through a fog.”

Jay blinked, then shrugged with a tight-lipped expression. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. I could feel his eyes flick over to me before quickly darting away, like even looking in my direction burned.

Miserable didn’t even begin to cover how he looks.

-*-

That night, the garage was quieter than usual, the usual roar and chaos of the paddock fading into a low, distant hum, as if the whole world was exhaling after a long day. The faint scent of burnt rubber and engine oil clung stubbornly to the air, a reminder of the day’s relentless pace.

The heat of Monaco clung to the space like a thick, invisible blanket — heavy, stifling, and impossible to ignore. It pressed down on everything, curling into the edges of the garage, seeping into concrete walls and steel beams. I shifted in place, uncomfortable in my worn-in denim shorts that are sticking to my thighs with every move. The waistband dug just slightly as I leaned forward, a sheen of sweat gathering at the back of my knees.

Most of the team had already left or were wrapping up their own tasks elsewhere, but I stayed behind, focused on finishing up Jay’s gear prep. His equipment was a silent extension of him — every buckle, every clasp needed to be perfect. This was his armor, and I was the one tasked with ensuring it fit just right.

The HANS device still wasn’t quite where it needed to be, not by my standards. I set it down and glanced up as Jay lingered near the entrance, hesitant. “Jay,” I said quietly, almost commanding. “Come here. Let me check your HANS.”

When our eyes met, something flickered in him — hope, or maybe desperation. For a moment, he seemed to brighten up, like the mere act of me talking again was a small victory. But I was still a block of ice, my expression unreadable, carefully guarded.

He nodded without saying anything, and slowly setting his helmet somewhere. Strands of his dark hair clung damply to his forehead, plastered by the long hours under the sun and the strain of the test run. He lowered himself onto the stool in front of me without a word, his movements quiet.

He was still wearing his Nomex shirt which looked like it was painted onto him. The material clung to his body, damp with sweat, outlining every sharp line and sinew beneath. It hugged the swell of his chest, stretched over his shoulders, and clung to his biceps, the fabric pulled taut with every breath and subtle movement. The collar was tugged halfway down, exposing the clean slope of his throat. 

As I leaned in to clip the device into place, my fingers brushed along the edge of his jaw — light, barely a whisper of contact, but electric all the same. The stubble there was coarse against my skin, familiar. It should’ve been a clinical motion, routine, muscle memory. His gaze locked with mine, eyes dark and searching, filled with something unguarded and raw.

“I miss you,” he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. His lips trembled as they moved gently, pressing a tentative kiss to my wrist, then my palm. I didn’t speak at first. I just looked at him — really looked. The flushed pink in his cheeks from the heat or the yearning, I couldn’t tell. The way his eyes had gone heavy-lidded, hooded. 

He looked wrecked. Needy. Not the Jay the cameras knew, not the star boy of the paddock — but mine. Just mine.

I slowly unclipped the HANS device and set it aside behind me with a deliberate click. The air between us buzzed, electric. I could feel the tension vibrating in his fingertips as they hovered just near my knee, waiting.

I leaned down slightly, voice low. “Show me, then.”

His breath caught, and before I could blink, his hands were at my waistband — unbuttoning my shorts with tentative, shaking fingers. He stripped them down in one smooth motion, panties sliding down with them to the garage floor, pooling around my ankles. Without hesitation, his hands smoothed up my thighs like prayer. Reverent. He kissed the inside of my knee, then higher, and higher still, each press of his mouth more devoted than the last.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered against my skin, voice breaking like a vow. “I’ll do it. I’ll fix it. I swear.” I looked down at him — still kneeling, still in his sweat-drenched Nomex, chest heaving like he’d just finished a full race stint. But this? This was his real endurance.

His hands curled around the back of my thighs, placing them over his shoulders with that practiced ease, thumbs brushing reverently along the curve just under my hips. His head dipped, the collar of his Nomex shirt tugging just a little further down, sweat still glistening along his collarbones as he exhaled against my skin.

He traced my clit with his lips like he owed me something, “Fuck, I’ve missed you. Every part of you.”

I didn’t guide him, I didn’t have to. He recalls every soft spot, every sound that caught in my throat, every twitch of my fingers as they tugged in his hair — not tender, but possessive. Testing him. Tethering him.

“Jay,” I gasped, my voice barely recognizable as my own. He looked up at me through his lashes, lips wet and parted, swollen. “Don’t stop.”

His grip on my thighs tightened — not painful, no, never — but full of desperation, like letting go meant losing me all over again. Every movement of his mouth was frantic, like an apology written in tongue and breath.

When that heat coiled in my stomach and snapped, one of my hands flew behind me to brace against the workbench, the other buried itself in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan against me. 

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if the taste of me was his salvation.

When he finally pulled back, I could properly see those glassy eyes, faint sweat caught on his soft curls that clung to his forehead. But instead of leaving, he rested his head against my inner thigh, breathing hard, grounding himself like he needed the contact to keep from falling apart entirely.

My slick was still glistening on his chin, dripping slowly down his jawline. He made no move to wipe it away, too intoxicated by my taste to wipe it off. His eyes closed slowly like the world had finally gone quiet in his head.

A man of many talents, my Jay. Precision braking, top-speed control, knew how to make me come — except remembering dates, apparently. 

- ᯓ -

The next morning arrived laden with humidity and tension, Monaco’s sun already spilling searing and merciless over the paddock before the engines had even started. I stood by the telemetry monitors, eyes trained on the scrolling data, but my attention kept wandering back to him.

Jay stood beside the car, half-listening to the race engineer walk through setup changes, nodding absently, helmet tucked under his arm. His race suit clung to him in the heat — red and branded, gleaming as usual — but his posture gave him away. There was a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw set rigidly.

In every post-breakup interview, every carefully worded press conference, I spotted the moment his fingers drifted up to tug gently at the curve of his ear. It’s a nervous tic he’d never quite managed to shake. He only did it when he was dodging something real — an uncomfortable truth, an emotional landmine, or just when reporters prodded a little too close to the subject of us. 

‘You’ve had a stellar season, but are there any concerns heading into tomorrow’s race?’

‘You looked a little frustrated after FP2 — is there something off with the car or just track conditions?’

Tug.

‘You’ve always credited your inner circle for keeping you grounded. Everything alright mentally heading into this one?���

Tug.

I had watched it unfold on screen more times than I could count — his picture-perfect media-trained mask, every answer crisp, charming, noncommittal. But the nervous tug of his ear was his tell, the soft confession his mouth never made.

It didn’t fool me. It never had. I knew the difference between race nerves and something deeper. He was thinking about me, and he knew I noticed.

He was back in the garage after his morning media rounds and microphones shoved in his face, the sharp scent of heat and engine oil trailing faintly behind him, laced with just a hint of cologne clinging to the collar of his undershirt — one I recognized instantly. He moved through the space like someone half-present, greeting a few crew members with nods, polite but distant, eyes scanning out of instinct more than curiosity. 

I didn’t look at him at first, I just did what I always did. I focused on the checklist in front of me, fingers moving over gear I could prep in my sleep. Torque specs, harness calibration, tire temps — all second nature by now. If I kept my hands busy, maybe the ache in my chest wouldn’t claw its way upward.

Around us, the team operated with quiet efficiency. A couple engineers moved toward the car, final checks being logged off with tight nods and murmured confirmations. One of the techs helped him shrug into his race suit fully and zipped it up, another crouched to help adjust the cuffs around his boots.

My hands moved on autopilot, finding his gloves on the workbench without needing to look or think. I folded them the way he liked: neatly, palms down, index fingers tucked in slightly, so they didn’t crease awkwardly when he slipped them on. The small reflex remained in my body, no matter how much I tried to unlearn it. It’s a habit stitched into my bones after months of doing it for him.

He stood there in front of me in full gear, helmet on, waiting. Not for the gloves. For something else — for the kiss.

It had started as a joke, once — something stupid and impulsive in the rush of his early podium days. I had leaned in and kissed the visor of his helmet before a race, laughing as my lipstick left a perfect red print over the clear polycarbonate. He won that race. And the next. And the next. And suddenly, it became a ritual — not a superstition, he’d insist, but something more sacred. “It’s not just the kiss,” he told me once, helmet already strapped beneath his chin, gloved hands resting against my waist. “It’s you. You win the races. I just drive.” He swore by it too, that faint kissprint above his line of sight calmed him, makes him focus, like he was already halfway to the checkered flag. He never raced without it. 

Until now.

I handed him the gloves wordlessly, ignoring the way he tilted his helmeted head slightly forward like instinct. And when I brushed past him, his shoulders tensed because the kiss didn’t come. He froze and looked away like he could swallow down the sting.

“I can race without the kiss,” he said. “I just… don’t want to.” His voice cracked like worn leather.

Just then, the garage radio crackled to life, slicing the tension with mechanical precision: “Car 17, radio check.”

He blinked and turned slightly, fingers lifting to adjust his earpiece below the helmet. “Loud and clear,” he answered, but his voice was tight, strained. He gave a quick nod to the race engineer, murmured something clipped in return, and then turned on his heel, the movement precise but not relaxed like usual.

Honestly? After seeing him like this — so tormented, so stripped of that usual indestructible veneer, the one he wore so convincingly that even the cameras believed it — it did something to me, like a needle under my ribs. I had already forgiven him. Last night something cracked open in me, and the light had started to creep back in before I even realized it. 

Seeing his restless hunger for my attention, still looking at me like I was the only way he remembered how to breathe… it poked at something low in my stomach. I could feel it coil every time his gaze flicked toward me, aching, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands unless they were on me.

And maybe that’s why I let it drag out a little longer. Just a little.

He made it too easy, like he couldn’t help himself. His body spoke volumes, louder than anything he’d said out loud. I wasn’t really being cruel… I just wanted to see how far I could push before he unraveled completely.

The pre-practice runs had already started, tires shrieking in bursts as Jay darted around the track — or tried to. I watched the monitors in silence, arms crossed, the sound of engines blending with the low hum of telemetry feeds.

“Telemetry is fine. Car is good,” one of the engineers mumbled beside me, his eyes narrowed at the stream of data pouring across the screen. His voice was clipped, laced with confusion. “But he’s still lifting too early, way too early.”

Another voice chimed in behind me, sharp and uneasy. “Throttle trace is inconsistent. He’s overthinking in sector two.” I’d seen this before — not often, because Jay was usually a machine behind the wheel. But when something emotional had its claws in him, it bled into everything.

“Driver feedback doesn’t match what we’re seeing,” someone muttered further down the pit wall. “He said brake bias is off—”

“But it’s not,” I cut in before I could stop myself, eyes fixed on the track display. “It’s him. Not the car.” No one argued back at me, they knew I was right. I knew my work was flawless.

A static crackle split through the comms: “Box, box, Jay. Let’s reset.”

A few more laps ticked by, each one dragging like an exhale held too long. The kind of silence that felt heavier than any noise — not because no one was speaking, but because everyone was waiting for something to snap back into place. But it didn’t. Jay was off. I could see it in the throttle curves, the braking points, the hesitation creeping into corners he used to crush. He wasn’t himself.

Then I heard his voice, faint and scratchy over the comms. “Coming in,” he said, just that, layered in a quiet kind of defeat that settled into my chest like weight. The static gave way to the overhead broadcast. The announcer’s voice cut through the background hum of the garage: “We’re on a 30-minute hold before second practice resumes.”

Jay pulled into the bay a few seconds later, the car rolling in clean but the atmosphere around him anything but. He was already wrestling off his gloves by the time the engine cooled — slow, mechanical movements like he wasn’t really present. His helmet was off, hanging from his hand, his hair matted to his forehead from the heat.

“What are you doing?” one of the assistant directors barked, arms flung wide in frustration. “The race is tomorrow, Jay. Tighten the fuck up.” but Jay didn’t flinch, just went to sit somewhere.

He wasn’t driving like the car was part of him anymore. He was second-guessing every movement, every intuitive knee and arm jerks that used to come without thinking. His mind was clouded, heavy, pulled somewhere else. To me.

And maybe the cruelest part wasn’t just knowing it — it was also knowing how easily I could fix it. 

He sat on the edge of the bench beside the telemetry table, silent, water bottle in hand. His lips were parted slightly as he took small, unfocused sips, his eyes glued to the industrial fan spinning nearby like it might give him answers. But he just looked… hollowed out. Like someone had scooped the fire out of him and left the shell behind.

God.

Fuck.

Fine.

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose once I noticed how the team was too focused on whispered commentary and screen replays. “Jay,” I said, just loud enough for only him to hear. “I need your help with something. Now.”

He blinked slowly, stunned, like his brain couldn’t quite catch up with my words fast enough. But something flickered and rushed in, filled the space behind his eyes, and before he could think too hard about it, he stood and followed me without a word. Just like a lost kitten.

I led him down the narrow hallway, the hum of the garage fading with every step. We passed racks of spare parts and stacks of unused tires wrapped in warming blankets, the faint ticking of cooling engines echoing through the stillness. 

I knew the sound of his footsteps behind me — cautious but eager, like he wasn’t sure if he was walking into forgiveness or fire.

The storage room door creaked slightly when I pushed it open. I stepped inside, the dim light flickering overhead like it, too, was unsure of what this was. He followed me in, breath hitching when the door clicked shut behind us.

“Y/N…” he started, voice rough and uncertain. I turned slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his chest rise harder with the weight of it. “You really think I don’t know how you operate, Jay?” I asked, stepping into his space. I was close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

Just one more push to his buttons. Just one more time.

I tilted my head just slightly, lips brushing his — not quite kissing, just grazing. Enough to make him chase it. “You drive like shit when you’re heartbroken,” I breathed against his mouth.

That did it for him, his hands that were already on me tightened their grip. A quiet groan escaped his throat when his lips crashed against mine in something too messy to be called a kiss.

His hands were everywhere — roaming like he couldn’t decide which part of me he missed more. One palm flattened over the curve of my lower back, while the other gripped my hip with bruising certainty. He squeezed my ass like he was trying to re-memorize the skin he already knew by heart.

Clothes peeled away fast, forgotten. His hand palmed its way between us to pull at the waistband of my shorts, rough from haste. My back arched against the wall with a moan from me once his cock sank into me. His fingers dug in, dragging me down harder onto him with every thrust.

I gasped as his other hand slipped beneath my thigh, hooking under my knee and hauling my leg up, opening me wider for him. The shift had me taking him deeper, impossibly so. “God, you feel so—” he choked out, voice unraveling into a groan.

He moved his pelvis like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. Every roll of his hips, every bruising grip, every trembling inhale was a silent plea. 

His fingers laced through mine, lifting them to his lips mid-thrust like he couldn’t stop himself. “You steady my fire,” he murmured, his mouth warm and shaking slightly against my knuckles. The way he looked at me made my breath catch. “You know that, right?”

I swallowed hard, a sound catching in my throat as his hips pressed deeper into mine. I couldn’t answer — not with words — just a soft whimper and the way my legs tightened around him in response, pulling him impossibly closer.

He drank in every sound I made like it was water after drought, his lips ghosting down my jaw, over my shoulder, anchoring himself in the softness I tried so hard not to show him anymore.

I couldn’t think, barely holding on to a single coherent thought as he moved against me. Every part of me felt stretched tight, strung up in the kind of tension that hummed just under the skin, raw and unrelenting.

Jay wasn’t being gentle. No, he was desperate with it — like he needed to feel every inch of me to stay grounded. 

The pressure coiled low in my stomach, slow and burning white-hot. It was too much and not enough all at once. My breath hitched as my nails dug into the back of his shoulder. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, chasing something just out of reach. And still, he was murmuring things under his breath — words I couldn’t quite catch, but felt more than heard. 

Heat shattered through me, sharp and overwhelming, like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. My breath was caught between a gasp and a moan as I came around him, my muscles clenched tight and then shuddered. 

His breathing was still uneven, chest pressing firmly against mine as we stood locked together. My fingers traced slow, wandering circles along the tense muscles of his back, feeling the heat and pulse beneath my touch.

A moment or two passed when then it just bubbled up in me — a laugh. Small at first, then unstoppable. I buried my face in his shoulder, trying to suppress but can’t quite manage.

Jay shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to glance down at me, confused and a little alarmed. “What’s so funny?” he asked, voice still rough around the edges, hair a total mess.

I bit my lip, still grinning. “I forgave you like… maybe ten bouquets ago.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait, what?” he blinked, trying to do the math. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head, still laughing. He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half an exhale of disbelief. “Oh, you’re evil,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder with a groan. “Cruel, evil woman.”

- ᯓ -

I was late. Of all fucking days to be running behind, today of all days — the race day. 

The roads to the circuit felt like they stretched on forever, endless. Every red light taunting me, every delay was a reminder of how close I was to miss the beginning. My heart pounded as I dashed through the chaos of the paddock, adrenaline mixing with a creeping panic. Every second wasted was another second I wasn’t at the track, wasn’t with him. My phone buzzed — phone calls and messages — none from him. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t know, was that I was racing against time just to get there. 

I barely caught my breath as I rounded the corner into the paddock, the thrum of engines and radio chatter crashing over me like a wave. I nearly tripped over the edge of my own boots, one hand steadying myself on the garage frame as I spotted Jungwon adjusting his headset.

He turned, brows lifting in surprise. “You made it,” he said, pushing his mic aside. “He’s already in the car. They’re rolling him out.”

My heart jumped, a mix of guilt and adrenaline pulsing through me. “Can I watch from the track?” I blurted. “I mean — pit side. Not from the monitors. I want to see him… really see him.”

Jungwon tilted his head. “You mean instead of the garage feed?”

“Yeah,” I nodded quickly, fingers twitching at my side. I’ve watched every lap of his from behind a screen. Every corner, every throttle trace, every sector split. But I don’t want to see him through data right now. I want to see him, live.

He studied me for a second, then gave a short nod toward the track edge. “Go. You’ve got two minutes before lights out.”

I thanked him under my breath and jogged toward the barrier that edged the pit lane. My lanyard flipped in the wind behind me, chest rising and falling too fast as the distant red blur of Jay’s car rolled into formation.

The moment his car rolled into view, a loud wave of sound exploded from the stands. The roar of his name wasn’t just noise; it was devotion, hundreds of voices rising all at once like a war cry for their champion. I felt it deep, the way the energy cracked through the air and wrapped around the track. They loved him, adored him. And as the scarlet flash of his livery passed, I could swear he soaked it in like fuel.

The lights went out, and with it, everything else in my head did too. The race started with the world narrowing to the sound of engines screaming down the straight, tires clawing at asphalt, and that flash of red — his red — slicing through the chaos. I watched him push, fight, every inch of the track a battleground for more than just speed.

Every corner he took with the kind of hunger that couldn’t be engineered. He was relentless, dancing that dangerous edge between brilliance and madness. And as the final laps blurred past, I realized I hadn’t unclenched my hands in minutes.

Then, just like that — it was over.

The finish line came fast, sudden and final. The scoreboard lit up a second later, and the numbers punched the air out of my lungs, flashing the impossible results that no one expected: a tie. 

Meaning there was one more round. One more chance.

My chest tightened the moment I saw him. Helmet off, fire suit unzipped halfway, sweat clinging to the curve of his jaw — he looked utterly wrung out. His eyes scanned the paddock like he was searching for something he couldn’t name. Like he was still racing, even after the car had stopped.

He sipped from a water bottle someone handed him, barely swallowing before pushing it away. The crew buzzed around him, adjusting things, calling out data — but he barely registered them. I could see it in the way he stood, like his body was here, but his mind was miles away.

He didn’t know I was here yet.

Until I stepped into his line of sight. His shoulders dropped, like some invisible anchor had finally been cut loose. Relief hit him so hard, he stumbled toward me without thinking — like instinct, like gravity.

“Hey,” I whispered, catching him as his arms wrapped around me tight.

He buried his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in like I was the only clean air he’d had all day. I stroked the back of his head, gently, grounding him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here before the first round,” I murmured against his hair. “I got caught up, the traffic — everything. I was late. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh...” His voice was hoarse but sure. “You’re here now. That’s all I care about.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, soft eyes flickering.

Then someone called out from the other end of the paddock — “Jay, you're up. Let’s go, round two!”

He sighed, long and quiet, as he adjusted the strap of his helmet. I could tell that he wasn’t entirely ready to walk away, but he was about to with seconds ticking against his chest.

“Wait,” I whispered as I reached out, lightly touching his arm.

He paused mid-step, turned back toward me. Even though I couldn’t see his face through the tinted visor, I knew him well enough to feel the way his breath caught. That slight hesitation in his stance, the tilt of his head — like muscle memory pulling him back to me.

I stepped in close and lifted myself just enough to lean in, lips pressing against the visor in a kiss — right where my lipstick always left its mark. “Be safe,” I murmured, letting the words settle between us. “And win.”

He didn’t speak, just a firm nod, then his gloved hand found mine and gave it a gentle squeeze, like a silent ‘thank you’. Then he jogged off toward the car, his steps lighter — like he’d just been handed something back, like a reborn man.

I watched him leave — not as his engineer, not as a strategist or teammate — but as someone who knew the rhythm of his breath better than telemetry ever could. My chest felt tight again, like my heart was being held between two trembling hands, trembling with awe, with nerves and with love tucked in the space between every beat.

I’d made my way back to the viewing area, blending in with the sea of spectators. Just one among thousands, waiting for that light to go out. The countdown felt like it echoed inside me.

Three. 

Two. 

One.

The start lights disappeared again for the last time today, and the roar of the engines came back. His car launched forward, surging like it had been waiting to be unleashed, finally. The corners he took now are done with surgical precision, every overtake like a challenge flung down and answered without mercy, every sector time had my heart climbing higher into my head. 

He wasn’t just fast, he was fierce. Clean lines. Ruthless moves. This wasn’t just him racing — this is him alive in that car, completely himself again.

Each lap was a war of nerves. Each sector bled seconds. When the checkered flag waved and dropped, it was like the entire circuit inhaled at once.

He won.

For a second, I didn’t hear the explosion of cheers around me. It was like I’d gone under, submerged in disbelief and wonder. I was still watching the scoreboard, hands over my mouth, eyes wide. Then the noise came rushing in all at once like a wave of sound. Applause, shouting, all strangers around me screamed his name and I smiled through my shock, hands still pressed to my lips.

Somehow, I knew what he believed with every fiber of his being that the kiss — that little touch of lipstick on his visor — had something to do with it. 

The cameras cut to parc fermé, but he didn’t go to the others. He didn’t even look toward the podium gates. With his helmet in hand, freeing his wild hair, gloves forgotten, Jay ran.

He bolted straight past the team, past the press, past the sea of microphones and congratulations, the kind that usually dragged him in. He didn’t stop, he didn’t even hesitate. He made for the barrier like it was the only thing keeping him from breathing.

Then — he leapt over the pit wall.

Security shouted, startled. A few mechanics turned in confusion. But I saw him, eyes locked on mine like he’d never looked away. The world blurred around us.

He reached me in seconds, arms crashing around my waist, lifting me off my feet with the full weight of everything he’d held in. And when he buried his face in my shoulder, it wasn’t just relief — it was release. 

“Don’t ever make me race without the kiss again,” he choked out, breath coming fast, smile blooming with that stupid, boy-ish recklessness I’d fallen for in the first place.

His earpiece was still buzzing: “Box for podium protocol, Jay. Jay? Jay — where the hell did he go?”

I laughed, half-shaking, half-melting into him. My hands slid into his sweat-damp hair, curling around the base of his neck, pulling him back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You don’t need luck,” I whispered.

He smiled, forehead resting against mine, sweat-slick and beaming, his eyes shining. “Yeah,” he breathed, “you’re right. I don’t need luck.” His lips brushed against mine, soft and sure, “I need you.”

[hbheavensent]

You ain't never had a friend like him!! AND LETS HOPE IT STAYS THAT WAY!

[tomurakii]

Bro I think I'm. A lesbian.

[psalmsofpsychosis]

Some Batman: Telltale thoughts

[this is a Batman Telltale critical post, ye be warned.]

So. There are perhaps no words in the english language to describe with how stupid i feel right now.

I started Telltale Batman because i thought that it's one of the more distinct unconventional Batman narratives that would let you have a more interesting, complex and nuanced relationship between Bruce and Joker— the game even lets you bring all of Bruce's sincere hypocrisy and sentimental selfishness to the surface and have him admit that yes, he can fight the rogues gallery because it takes a madman to know a madman; to love a madman. For a moment i geniunely thought that i can escape the everpresent shadow of DC hays code in the freakshow funhouse that is Batman comics, i thought Telltale had done something different.

But telltale's approach to The Enemy Within is so flaky and flimsy and timid at best— such noncommittal twist on themes of pain and grief. They take on a hefty plotline, "what does it take to actually fight through evil and be surrounded by it? How long does it take before your resolve and your selfhood cracks? When you lose the mask, which one did you truly lose— The ideal persona, the superhero, the crusader, or the person underneath, the casket that holds all your humanity and your heart and your hopes? How long can you stare onto the abyss before it stares onto you?" It's indeed a very Nietzsche approach to Batman— except that a good Nietzsche narrative takes a lot of intentional plot points and honesty of thought and of heart. And Telltale doesn't commit, not to Bruce's characterization, and not to any other character, and definitely not to Joker's journey in any variation of it. The existence of the Vigilante route is useless on every front; Joker is going to turn into a villain anyway, just with a different hello kitty eyeshadow palette and an extra bland consolation lollipop. No good choice Bruce makes on Joker's behalf affects anything whatsoever, and i particularly love the "community and friendship and sympathy do not help the mentally ill and all that ever works is punishment and shock therapy and confinement and loneliness" message the vigillante route puts on the table, charming charming status quo commandments from DC as always.

Telltale Batman could only be revolutionary if it had dared to break comic convention and let the vigillante route play out like Selina and Bruce's relationship always does; very grey morality, irrational, full of tension and trust, unstable, intriguing, inexcusable, irreversible, unavoidable and heartfelt, human. But we can't have nice things in batmanverse, so both Joker routes run on stuck gears and topple and fall into a predictable narrative hole that neither Bruce nor Joker can claim out of.

And on the predictable front? this story is too lukewarm to be a good time for me personally. When you get 84 Batman comics per minute every other Tuesday, all ending the same way no matter whatever the fickity happens inbetween, you have to pull no punches. This is my 53368532th Batman-with-tragic-batjokes-implications read of the week, say something new or forever hold your blue-balling silence, i dont care.

[echolepzy]

Close relationships don’t always have to be about romance and intimacy! I cast sibling dynamic!!

Not necessarily actual siblings but the kind of relationship where they might as well be. They know so much about each other and shared crucial life experiences. They aren’t quite friends, they aren’t quite enemies, they aren’t quite lovers. They will be so so mean to each other but also come through for each other when nobody else will. I Am Sending You Things You Hate On Purpose And Also I Love You Good Night Stupid Idiot

[volivolition]

what's the theme you're fucking going for here voliiii!!! what are you fucking getting at!!! what are you trying to say, what's the point??

[weeeyotch]

eager to please ღ r.r.

robert reynolds x f!reader

pt.2

synposis: aside from a couple sexual interactions, bob has never really learned how to eat someone out. but he's eager to learn for you.

warnings: smut (18+ MDNI), oral (fem receiving), messy pussy eating, sub/dom dynamics, praise kink, dacryphilia

word count: 1.7k

a/n: bob my beloved

For being the strongest man on Earth, he looks downright nervous.

He can take the force of a thousand bullets without a single scratch and fly at the speed of sound. Shit, he even brought Manhattan to its knees in a matter of minutes.

But here, in front of you? With his large, calloused hands gently resting on your parted thighs like they're sacred?

He's trembling.

"I just. . ." Bob swallowed, a loose curl falling onto his flushed forehead, slick with sweat and nerves. "I watched some videos online and—and I just want to do this right."

You ran a soothing hand through his hair. "You will, baby. I'll teach you how. Just listen to me."

He pouts and nods furiously. It makes your heart ache a little bit. This man could fly you to the next galaxy and pluck the stars out of the sky for you, and he would still believe that he isn't good enough.

Lying half-naked on the bed with your thighs spread comfortably around his warm body, you lean back on your elbows. Bob is still dressed in his cozy forest-green crewneck sweater and cream-colored corduroy pants. You feel rather vulnerable being more exposed than him, but the thought of soaking his clothes with your juices and leaving your mark made you absolutely drip.

There is no doubting he could see how wet your pussy is. He seems too anxious to look directly at it, still wanting to play the perfect gentleman. Instead, he opts to take quick glances and then dart his eyes away before you can catch him staring.

You reach down and intertwine your fingers with his, trying to ground him. He offers you a shy, crooked smile that makes your heart leap. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to absolutely ruin this man; to make him cry, to make him scream, to turn him into your pliant little play-thing.

But that was for another time.

Tonight, you were teaching him how to worship you like a devoted acolyte at the altar.

"Okay," you murmur, "start with some kisses."

Bob leans down, practically folding himself over you. One of his massive hands snakes around your outer thigh, anchoring him in place as he turns his head inwards. He begins by nuzzling his nose against your inner thigh, breathing in the intoxicating scent of your soft skin. Then, he places a single, hesitant kiss.

And another. And another. And another, until he's trailing soft and reverent kisses all the way up to your core.

Just when he's hovering where you need him the most, mere centimeters away from your dripping cunt, he shifts to the other thigh to continue the exact same ritual. The way he's taking his time, so gentle and focused on doting on you, makes your head spin.

With each kiss, he starts to gain more courage. He brushes higher and higher until—

A sharp gasp escapes you as he finally kisses your center. There was no tongue yet. It was just sweet and tentative, like he was afraid to break you.

"That's good," you breathe. "Keep going. Don't be afraid to get a little messy, baby."

Bob's eyes flick up to you, tears already threatening to spill out while silently begging for permission. You nod.

That's all he needs.

He shifts in closer, parting your puffy lips with two thick fingers. Then, in a sudden burst of courage, he leans in and drags his tongue through you in one long, slow, mind-numbing stroke.

"Ohh—fuck."

He dives back in, repeating the motion. His head moves with growing enthusiasm, curls splaying against your tummy as he buries himself deeper within your thighs. It's sloppy. Unpracticed. But fuck, it feels so unbelievably good.

The way he groans against you is almost animalistic, like your taste shattered something in him and is currently rewiring his brain chemistry.

"Holy shit," he pants, pulling back just enough for air, his chin glistening with your slick. "You taste—fuck. Fuck you taste so good."

Before you can respond, he's back on you, devouring you like a starving man. He experiments with every flick and stroke of his tongue, eyes intently watching you—watching, listening, learning. He hones in on the spots that make your hips jerk or thighs clamp around his head.

Each moan you give him is answered by a deep, guttural sound from his throat, like he's getting off just from pleasing you. It's raw, unfiltered, and so undeniably desperate.

Then he pauses, breath warm and heavy against your skin. Slowly, carefully, he adjusts his position. His thumbs come up to gently pull back your hood, revealing the sensitive bundle of nerves underneath.

And then, ever so lightly, he starts to kitten-lick your clit.

He definitely learned that trick from the dozen of videos he watched for 'educational purposes'.

"Oh god, right there," you gasp, throwing your head back. "Right there. Just like that."

A high-pitched whine escapes him, almost as if he has been waiting his whole life to hear that he's doing a good job. His grip on your thighs tightens as he pulls you impossibly closer. He buries his face even deeper in your pussy, dragging slow and reverent strokes over your clit.

Wet clicking noises fill the air, mixing in with the grunts, pants, and your ragged cries.

You start to grind against his face, chasing that sweet, mounting pleasure in your abdomen. "A-ah—you're so good. Bob, you're doing so good."

He groans again, much louder this time. The vibration against your core makes your legs twitch.

His mouth is eager and deliciously sloppy, tongue flicking experimentally then circling with new precision when he hears your broken moans.

He's learning you inside and out—hungrily, obsessively. Every whimper and desperate cry to God you give him is fuel.

Then, his lips close around your clit and suck.

Your back arches. The sensation is pure electricity; it is magical yet almost painfully overwhelming.

"Fuck! Right there. Don't stop, don't stop."

He would rather die.

His fingers flex on the plush of your thighs to ground himself. This is the tightest he has ever held onto you. He's always worried about hurting you with his strength, opting for feather-light touches that never leave you feeling quite satisfied.

But now?

Now he's undeniably pussy-drunk, and the fear has vanished entirely.

"You're so pretty," he pants in between strokes, his words muffled against your cunt. "I want—to do this—forever. I'll—get better. Let me—make you come. Please."

You're already right there.

With your hips jerking, thighs trembling uncontrollably, and his name spilling out of your mouth like a prayer, you are coming undone. It's the worship in his voice, the way he presses adoring kisses to your clit between licks, and the primal desire he has to be good for you that sends you over the edge.

You wail, clutching his hair as your orgasm crashes over you. Your thighs clamp around him, your juices spilling out all over his lips and chin. He licks it up, greedy and reverent, not daring to waste a single drop.

But he doesn't stop.

Being as inexperienced as he is, he keeps going with the same eagerness and fervor. It helps you to ride out your high, but quickly leaves you feeling overstimulated. A part of you wanted to push through the pain and get lost in the pleasure again. However, that familiar sharp ache in your clit makes you flinch.

You squirm and push his head back. Only then does he finally pull away, eyes glazed over, like he just tasted heaven.

You're still catching your breath, thighs twitching as your body tries to recover from the storm he just dragged you through.

His voice cracks through the silence. Soft. Unsure. Raw.

"Did I do okay?" Bob asks, slowly rising.

You blink, trying to focus your vision on him once again. And fuck, he looks absolutely ruined.

His lips are pink and puffy. Your slick coats his chin and cheeks. His lashes are clumped with moisture, like he cried from overstimulation. Maybe he did.

Your chest aches again with that same devious desire to wreck him. The way he looks at you—like a sinner pleading for salvation—makes you feel like a goddess; divine and beautiful, with his animalistic devotion dripping from every glance.

You sit up on trembling elbows. "You did so good, baby. You were so perfect."

Relief washes over him. That same crooked little smile appears and his shoulders sag with solace.

"I wanna get better," he whispers, eyes flicking down to the damp spot on your bedsheets. "Wanna learn everything you like. Wanna be good for you every time."

That sends a pulse of heat straight through you. You reach out your arms in silent invitation.

He climbs up your body and you grab his jaw to kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth. You cradle his face as he hovers there. It is sticky and messy, but so painfully intimate.

"My good boy," you whisper against his lips, rubbing your thumbs just underneath his eyes where the tears escaped. "I adore you."

A blush spreads across his cheeks.

He gently lowers his full weight against you and shyly nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. You stroke his hair, over and over, slow and calming. Every pass of your hand helps him relax, to feel safe and appreciated.

"You okay?" you ask softly, careful not to disturb his peace.

Bob nods into your skin. "Never been better."

You press a kiss to the crown of his head. "You're trembling."

"Only a little," he admits, arms wrapping around your waist. "Just can't believe I did that."

You lay there for awhile in the quiet afterglow. His breathing eventually evens out but your fingers never stop moving; they stroke his back, lightly scratch at his neck and scalp, and trace soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

Eventually, his voice breaks through the stillness again. It is low and timid.

"When you're ready. . ." he begins.

You hum, eyes still closed. "Yeah?"

There's a pause. Then, you can feel a bashful grin growing against your neck.

"Could you try sitting on my face?"

[rafesangelita]

♡ who needs a boyfriend when you have a best friend like rafe who lets you use him to get yourself off?

warnings: mentions of fwb, lots of dirty talk, light praise, unprotected sex, rafe being a giver before a receiver..

“are you asleep?” you whispered, snaking your hand over rafe’s shirtless form. trying to get any kind of sleep when you were next to him was deemed impossible, especially when he knew that you weren’t wearing anything underneath that pink nightdress of yours. “no, not really.” he hummed groggily, turning his body to face you. you two have had such a weird ‘best friends with benefits’ dynamic going on for so long now, there was nothing that fazed you two when it came to sleeping together in the same bed.. let alone being naked and in close proximity.

“what’s wrong?” he pulled you on top of him, your heat sitting right where you needed him the most. biting your lip, you waited for rafe to meet your gaze before it clicked for him. hiking up the sheer material of your nightdress, your best friend snaked a hand between your legs, a curse leaving his lips as he ran his fingers up and down your soaked folds. “oh, you just want your pretty hole filled, huh?” you nodded, taking him out of the confines of his underwear. “yes—” you whined, “can i please use your cock, ray?” rafe grabbed your chin, pulling you in for a kiss before doing away with your top.

“that’s what friends are for.” he whispered, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck as he slid into you. rafe took a handful of your ass, a pained mewl sounding from your mouth as he groped the flesh roughly. “get yourself off, ‘pretty, fuck yourself back to sleep.” he encouraged you, his breath tickling the side of your face as you moved on top of him. you could just cry, the mere girth of rafe’s cock stretching you open so deliciously. all he had to do was lay there and listen to your little whimpers and whines as you hiccuped your praises for him. “you f-fill me up so good!” you cried out, your nails digging into his skin.

“yeah?” he landed a harsh smack to the back of your thigh, eliciting a squeal from your lips, “is anyone else letting you use their cock like this?” you shook your head, leaving sloppy kisses along his jawline. “no, just you!” rafe knew that already, considering he had devoted most of his time to chasing off every guy who thought they could have a chance with you, he just loved hearing you confirm it for him. surprisingly enough, rafe didn’t care if you made him cum or not, he reached his climax just knowing that you counted on him to make you feel good.

“oh, fuck,” you took in a sharp breath, circling your hips so your clit met his pubic bone, “rafe!” with your ministrations faltering, you struggled to keep up with your movements, a frustrated cry echoing off the walls of his bedroom. resting his hands in the small of your back, rafe pinned you against his chest as you came undone around his cock, your tears of pure unadulterated pleasure running down his shoulder as you trembled with the force of your orgasm. rafe felt the tension in his stomach starting to coil tight as he was close to finishing himself, his jaw clenching as you shook in his arms.

thumbing away the stray tears that managed to stay on the surface of your skin, rafe brought you down from your high with a soft ‘shhhh..’ rasping through the small space. his hands cupped your face, both of you exchanging a look before you slid off of him with a hiss. fully expecting to just hold you close and call it a night, rafe looked down at you with confusion as you laid down on your tummy between his thighs. “w-what are you doing?” he asked, swallowing thickly once you batted your lashes up at him. “what kind of friend would i be without returning the favor?”

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[swanlikely]

Current Brainrot: Brat Enabler Caleb!

Author's Note: The poll ended 50/50, so I made the executive (and very self-indulgent) decision to go with Brat Enabler Caleb! because sometimes I just wanna be spoiled, okay? Please check out the artist! (Artist & Her Ko-fi!)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and I'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB! reader, pet names, penetration, overstimulation, praise, light D/S dynamics, slight dacryphilia, and 'usage' of his bionic arm.

Caleb loves you like it’s coded into him. Like it’s in his blood, his bones, his circuitry.

He does it without effort, like breathing. Like the pulse of a machine: constant, precise, unyielding.

And he’d give you anything. Anything. Just one pout, one whimper, one soft little “Caleb, please”—and he’s dropping whatever he’s doing to hand it over. A brat’s dream. He doesn’t care if it’s indulgent or excessive or unnecessary. If you want it? You get it.

He’s always there. Cooking your favorite meals with one hand while the other; his right, sleek and gleaming with matte black plating—rests on the curve of your hip as you sit on the counter and sneak bites. That arm, the one people used to flinch at, has never once made you nervous. It’s part of him. Him, who tucks you in like you’re something breakable, who lifts you like you weigh nothing, who touches you with inhuman control and completely human care.

And right now, he’s using both hands: one warm, flesh and blood; the other cool, mechanical precision; to ruin you in the most delicious ways.

You’re spread out under him, legs trembling, body already gone boneless from orgasm after orgasm. You’ve stopped counting. It doesn’t matter. Caleb never stops at one. Or two. Or three.

His thick cock is buried in you, slow and steady, dragging against the places that make your vision flicker. One hand cradles your jaw; his real one, calloused and gentle. The other, his metal arm; is between your legs, thumb pressed to your clit, writing his name into you in soft, pretty patterns.

C. A. L. E. B.

Over and over again. Cold metal, careful pressure, devastating control.

Your skin is flushed, sticky with sweat. Your hands tremble where they grip at his broad shoulders, desperately trying to ground yourself. One of your legs is hooked over his waist, the other shaking helplessly against the mattress, every muscle twitching with the tension he’s building back up in you.

You're crying now, sobbing openly, your voice gone hoarse from how much you’ve moaned and gasped and begged. But he’s not stopping. He’s adoring. Reverent.

“Fuck Pips,” he groans, voice wrecked with how hard he’s holding back. “You’re everything.”

His thumb strokes another letter and you keen, your hips jerking. “Can’t—Caleb—too much, it’s too—”

“Yes, you can,” he coos, leaning in to kiss your parted lips. His tongue traces yours, measured and possessive, like he has all the time in the world. “You can take it. You are taking it. You always do.”

The flex of his hips deepens; calculated, but heavier now. Like he’s letting himself feel just a little more, just enough to tip you further. You feel him everywhere: inside you, against your clit, in the weight of his chest brushing yours, the tremble in his breath. He smells like sweat and heat and you. “You wanted this, remember? You asked for it. And you know I’d never say no to you.”

You grip at his back, your nails catching on the seam where flesh meets metal. He shudders; groans low in his throat, more sound than word.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, burying his face in your neck. “So pretty when you cry for me. So sweet, you were made for this. Made for me.”

You weep at the reminder—how easy it is with him. How good he is to you. The worship, the rapture, the indulgence of it all. The fact that you don’t even have to earn it. You just have to be.

His robotic hand doesn’t falter. Ever. Each movement is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Meticulous. Devoted.

You can feel it building again; your body tightening, coiling, heat spilling down your spine like liquid fire. Your walls flutter around him, desperate and close and so overstimulated. He feels it. He always does.

His voice drops into a growl, desperate and reverent all at once.

“Give it to me. C’mon, Pips—give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you do.

You come again; shaking, sobbing, gripping him like a lifeline. Your cries fill the room, gasping and broken, and he keeps moving, keeps whispering, like your pleasure is something holy.

He was bullying your poor sloppy cunt, but in the sweetest way a man could: just enough to make it mean something, dragging it out so every pulse of pleasure felt personal. A gift he was determined to give you again and again, until you had no words left but his name.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s my girl. Mine. Always.”

Only when you’ve gone limp beneath him, body completely undone, does he finally let himself go. His hips stutter, cock twitching deep inside you as he moans your name like a prayer. He stays buried, locked to you, his metal hand stroking your thigh now, pleasant and patient.

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your swollen mouth.

“Breathe, baby,” he says softly, like he didn’t just wreck you with love and machinery and absolute, overwhelming need. “You did so good. My pretty girl.”

And even though you’re trembling, tears drying on your cheeks, the only thing you can do is nod: because it’s true.

Caleb would do anything for you. Break himself in half. Hold you together. Build you a new world with his bare hands.

And you would let him.

Because no one loves like he does.

No one ever will.

[nephynes]

For some stupid reason, you thought letting your boyfriend fuck your best friend would be harmless—a weirdly selfless gift, nothing more. But when it breaks something in you, Sunghoon starts playing dirtier than ever. He says he did it for you, but now he won’t let you forget who he belongs to—or who you belong to.

nsfw warnings: SMUT, voyeurism, dub-con elements, manipulation, possessiveness, jealousy, toxic dynamics, rough sex, kind of orgasm denial, creampie, breeding kink, degradation + praise, crying, angst, emotional aftermath, mention of infidelity (consensual), very toxic sunghoon, reader spirals, unhealthy coping, manhandling, makeup sex, light coercion vibes.

2.7k

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You're sitting cross-legged on the bed, heart pounding as you say it. "I was just thinking...maybe you could sleep with her? Just once. She hasn't had good sex in a while and—well, you're amazing. Who better than you, right?" There's a long, terrifying pause. Sunghoon doesn't even look up from where he's lazily scrolling through his phone. His face stays unreadable, but the way his thumb slows gives him away.

He finally speaks. Quiet. Calm. "Say that again."

You hesitate. "I just...want her to have good sex. And you—" He puts his phone down.

"You want me," he says slowly, voice flat, "to fuck your best friend."

"Just once," you whisper. "It wouldn't mean anything. I trust you—"

"I'm not a charity service, baby," he interrupts, tone dangerously low. "You think I'll fuck someone just because you feel bad she's not getting laid?"

You shrink a little under his stare, but he doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. There's a different kind of heat in his eyes now—darker, colder. "I don't share," he says simply. "Not you. Not me."

His fingers hook your chin, making you meet his gaze. "She can find her own dick. Mine belongs to you."

Then, after a pause, he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"But the fact you even asked..." he murmurs, voice dropping to a whisper, "means I'm not fucking you hard enough. You're not loving it enough, since you just wanna share me with some girl."

It was two days after you suggested it, two days after he'd shut it down. You thought the quiet way he dismissed it meant it was over.

But now he's randomly brought it up again and being weirdly open to it.

"So...does she like it rough?" Sunghoon asks casually, flipping through a glass of water like it's wine. "Or would she want to be on her back the whole time?"

You freeze. "What?"

"Your best friend," he says smoothly, lifting his eyes to yours with an unreadable look. "You never told me what she's into."

"I—I don't know," you stammer, heart tripping. "She doesn't talk about that stuff much."

Sunghoon hums, standing from the kitchen stool and slowly walking toward you. You shift where you're sitting on the couch, suddenly unsure of everything.

"She's cute," he adds. "Not as pretty as you. But I get it now. You didn't just want her to have good sex. You wanted her to know what it's like with me."

You flinch, looking down. "That's not—"

"You already told her, didn't you?"

Your mouth opens, then shuts.

"You did," he smirks. "Told her you'd let me fuck her. Made her all curious. She's probably been thinking about it nonstop."

He crouches in front of you now, brushing his fingers lightly up your thigh. "Are you thinking about it, baby?"

You blink, mouth dry. "I thought...you said you don't share."

"I don't," he murmurs, lips ghosting over your knee. "But you do. You offered me like a gift. So why wouldn't I enjoy it?"

Something sharp twists in your gut. You feel cold. Distant. You don't know whether you're imagining the heat in his voice or if he's really enjoying this—planning it—taunting you.

"Are you jealous?" he whispers, tilting his head. "You can say no. We don't have to do it."

But now, if you say no, you'll look insecure. Possessive. Dramatic. And you'd already told her. You'd already told her.

You manage a smile. "No...I'm fine."

Sunghoon's lips curl. "Good."

But the way his hand slides up your leg, slow and possessive, tells you something else—this was never about your friend. This was about reminding you exactly who he belongs to. And what happens when you forget.

You genuinely didn't think it would happen. You honestly thought he'd back out, maybe he was just teasing you. But now you're sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, tense, trying not to fall apart, while your best friend stands a few feet away looking unsure and nervous, arms crossed over her chest.

Sunghoon is the only one comfortable. He sits back on the bed, legs spread, shirt off, calm like he's about to conduct a goddamn seminar. "She's shy," he muses, eyes flicking over your friend. "Not like you."

You tense. "Hoon..."

He ignores the warning in your voice.

"You're such a slut for me, baby. Always dripping. Always begging." His voice is soft. Fond, even. "She's scared to even look at me. It's weird."

You glance at your friend. She's biting her lip, unsure, flushed. This was your idea. You told her it was okay. Encouraged it. So now you can't say anything.

Sunghoon's hand reaches out, coaxing her forward, and she goes, slow and hesitant. She settles between his legs as he leans back on his hands, watching her. You want to look away, but you can't.

You shouldn't be here.

But Sunghoon insisted. "Sit there," he'd said earlier, pointing to the chair across from the bed. "I want you to watch."

It was supposed to be just sex. It was supposed to be for her. But the moment she gasps—really gasps—as he finally pushes inside her, you feel your stomach twist. She moans loud, thighs trembling around his hips, and Sunghoon just exhales through his nose, like he's savoring it.

"Shit," he mutters. "She's tight."

She nods helplessly, eyes fluttering shut, head falling back. It's too much for her, the way he moves—deep, slow, dragging his cock against every sensitive spot until her breath comes out in choked, trembling cries. You can tell she's never been fucked like this. She sounds like she's about to cry. From how good it feels.

And that's when you realize—he's not even looking at her. His eyes are on you. The entire time.

His jaw tightens slightly as she clenches around him, his pace picking up just enough to make her sob. But his eyes don't leave your face—not for a second.

And then you move. Just a little. Rising to stand. His voice cuts through the air like a blade.

"Don't you dare." You freeze.

"Sit. Back. Down." He says, punctuating every word with a thrust of his hips, shoving his cock into her sopping hole.

You sit.

His hips snap harder now, making her cry out again, and your heart is in your throat. This isn't for her. It never was. This is some form of punishment. A game.

He leans in, lips ghosting against your friend's ear as he whispers something low you can't hear. She nods weakly, breath hitching. And then he finally smiles—sharp, satisfied, dangerous—and murmurs your name without looking away.

"You wanted this, didn't you?"

Her fingers are trembling. Her moans are breathy and scattered like she doesn't know what to do with them.

Sunghoon has her knees spread wide, one hand around her thigh, the other pressing firm into her lower belly, right where she's most sensitive.

You're sitting there. Still and frozen. You don't even think you've blinked once. "You're doing so good," he murmurs—gently, like he's never spoken to anyone else that way before. "Just breathe. You're almost there."

You hate how good he sounds at it. How practiced and sweet.

Her eyes squeeze shut. Then they open—and for one second, they meet yours across the room. She looks ashamed of how good it feels.

And that's when she breaks. She cries out as her body arches, a full-body shudder making her hips jolt in his hands. She grabs at his wrist, her breath hitching.

"Oh—oh my God!—Sunghoon! Y/n!—thank you!"

It slips out, soft and breathless. Like she means it. Like you both just gave her some fucked up present. Sunghoon only hums, rubbing her through the aftershocks.

You can't breathe as you watch her pull her skirt up with shaking fingers. Avoiding your gaze completely.

You manage a smile when she glances your way. You nod, say something stupid—"Want me to walk you out?"—and she declines, says she's okay. Grabs her keys with shaky hands and hurries out the door.

The second it closes, you walk into the kitchen with no direction. Open the fridge. Close it. Open a drawer. Shut it.

Sunghoon appears behind you a moment later. "Okay. You're gonna act like that now?"

You stiffen. "Like what?"

He scoffs. "You're mad."

You turn around with an empty glass in your hand just to avoid clenching your fists instead.

"I'm not mad."

"Really? So what is this then? Hm? You being weird and quiet and pissed for no reason?"

You shove past him.

He follows. "Don't do that, baby. Don't be fucking rude to me when this was your idea. You asked me to fuck her. You asked me to make her feel good."

"What? You expected me to give her bad sex?"

"You didn't have to enjoy it," you snap, voice cracking. "You could've at least pretended like it wasn't that good."

His jaw clenches, and then—he laughs. It's not amused. It's bitter. Sharp. "Enjoy it?"

You flinch at the way he repeats it.

"You think I fucking enjoyed it?"

You fold your arms across your chest, looking away, but he steps in. Closer. You feel the heat coming off his body before you even register his hand catching yours.

He grabs your wrist—firm, not rough—and drags your hand straight to the front of his sweats, pressing it hard against the thick, unrelenting bulge beneath the fabric.

Your breath stutters.

"Does this feel like I enjoyed it?"

His voice is low. Laced with frustration. A different kind of ache.

"You think I got off?" he hisses, pushing your palm harder into the shape of him. "I didn't. Not a fucking drop. You think I gave her what I give you? I couldn't."

Your hand twitches, but he holds it there.

"I was hard the entire time. Still am," he mutters, eyes locked on yours. "My balls fucking hurt."

And it does. You can feel it—hot and heavy, straining against the fabric. His dick is pulsing under your palm, like it's begging for a release that never came.

"I wanted you the entire time," he says. "You. You had me riled up before I even touched her."

You finally yank your hand back, like it burned you. Like you don't know what to do with it anymore.

He exhales sharply. "I should've told you it was a bad idea," he mutters. "But I didn't. And now we're both fucked up over it."

The silence after his words hangs heavy, your hand retreating like it betrayed you, but the ghost of that contact still lingers between you.

You don't say anything.

You can't.

Sunghoon's eyes stay locked on yours—dark, stormy, searching—and then he tilts his head, stepping in slowly like you're a skittish thing he's trying not to spook.

"You're not gonna touch me?" His voice is low and quiet, but there's something mocking under the softness. A cruel kind of pout.

He brushes the back of his fingers along your jaw, then dips his face down, nuzzling your cheek with the bridge of his nose, his breath fanning warm over your skin.

"Hm? After all that, you're just gonna stand there?" he whispers. "You're not gonna help me?"

You turn your face away, refusing to meet his eyes, but that only makes him more relentless. He grabs your hand again, gentler this time, but still firm and guides it down slowly. Over the front of his waistband. Beneath the elastic of his sweats.

You feel the heat of him first, the slickness from how long he's been leaking, and then—him. Thick. Rock-hard. Twitching.

He groans, quiet but guttural the moment your fingers wrap around him. His hips stutter forward like he couldn't help it even if he tried. "Fuck, baby..."

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. "You feel what you do to me?" he breathes. "You think she got me like this?"

You're still frozen. But your hand—your traitorous, aching hand—tightens around him just slightly, and the sound he makes is sinful. Starving. "Go ahead," he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth with maddening restraint. "Take it. Do whatever you want. Hurt me, make me beg, punish me—just don't walk away."

Your hand stays wrapped around him, sticky and warm inside his sweats, but your expression sharpens—cold and unreadable now.

He said anything. So you truly act like it.

Without a word, you wrap your fingers tighter around the base of him, gripping hard enough to make his breath hitch.

Then you yank him forward by his dick. His body follows instantly, helpless to resist. He lets out a broken groan, stumbling after you like a man under spell. You march him toward the bedroom without looking back, ignoring the way his cock is tenting now—angry and leaking.

The second you're in the room, you shove him. He falls back onto the bed with a laugh—low, wrecked, way too pleased. "Fuck yeah, baby," he groans, spreading his thighs as you crawl over him, pinning him down with nothing but your stare. "You gonna fuck me on the same bed I just made your best friend cum all over?"

The words sting. Your stomach twists. You hesitate for half a second. Then your hand flies to his jaw. "Shut the fuck up."

He grins like he lives for this, almost like he's wanted this version of you all along. You straddle him fully now, grinding down, not to tease him, but to use him. His hands grip your thighs, but you slap them away.

"Don't touch me unless I tell you to," you hiss, voice trembling with anger you can't hide anymore.

"Yes, ma'am," he breathes, absolutely wrecked. "Whatever you want." But he's smiling, smirking even, like he already knows you're not really in control. Like he's just playing along.

And you don't realize it until it's too late.

Because the second you sink down onto him—tight, slow, making sure he feels every inch of how much he missed—his hands fly back to your hips. Gripping. Holding. Locking you in place.

"Oh, fuck," he groans, eyes fluttering shut like he's seeing god. You brace your palms on his chest, ready to ride him into the mattress, to take from him like he said you could but then his hips buck up hard. In one thrust, deep and mean.

You gasp, nails digging into his skin, but before you can protest, he's already doing it again—rolling his hips in slow, punishing strokes that reach everywhere.

You try to ride him like your pride depends on it, hips snapping forward, teeth clenched, trying to stay in control even as he grips your waist tighter with every thrust from below. It's filthy. Loud. Desperate. You try to slap his chest to get him to stop, but he catches your wrist mid-swing, pinning it behind you as he sits up, wrapping his other arm around your waist.

But the second you start clenching around him—tight, fluttering—he loses it.

"Fuck—fuck, baby—gonna cum—" he growls, burying his face in your chest, almost motorboating as his whole body tenses beneath you.

You feel the heat of it—his cock twitching deep inside, thick spurts filling you as he moans into your skin. His arms tremble, back arching, and for a second, you think it's over.

That you won. But before your brain can even catch up, he flips you—manhandles you—onto your stomach like your body weighs nothing. You gasp into the sheets, dazed, already overstimulated.

He doesn't even give you a second to adjust. Because he's still hard.

"Hoonie—" you pant, twisting under him.

"Did you think I was finished?" he hisses, lining himself up again, one hand braced on the bed beside your head. "You really thought one round was enough for that fucking stunt you pulled?"

He thrusts in again, harder this time.

You scream into the pillow, legs shaking as his pace turns punishing.

"You'll never offer me to anyone again," he growls, breath hot in your ear. "Not after I'm done with you. You hear me?"

You can't even answer. You're falling apart beneath him.

"Say it," he demands, slamming into you again. "Tell me whose dick this is."

"M-Mine!" you cry out, voice muffled. "It's mine, only mine—!"

"That's right," he snarls, slapping your ass before gripping your hip again, deep and brutal. "Yours. Always."

════════════════════════════

• a/n: where did this even come from?😭 this is kind of like a glimpse of what goes on in my head cause i love toxic relationship drama🤧

[presepohne]

nsfw. nanami kento in a dad bod and a dilf

inspired by that one dad bod Kento fic that i saw on my old account, if y'all can find it please send it to me, imma give creds to the author.

Now, Kento has always been a fit sculpted man of God with toned muscles and sharp features. That was one of the very reasons you absolutely adored being under him, hardened muscled chest on your own, fucking you in missionary with that impeccable pace that made you claw at his shoulder, turn into a babbling mess because he had the strength to fuck you over and over again until you're making a mess over his cock and crying dumb.

This dynamic however upgraded into some premium level service after your marriage. Home cooked meals three times a day, skipping the gym thrice a week because he wanted to spend his time with you.

This eventually turned him into a soft yet still a burly man, shoulders soft and strong, a soft layer of fat over his toned body, still ever sculpted. That made it ten times hotter and amazing when you were under him. His arms wrapping around your head, heavy weight on you as he's fucking you deep, eyes rolling back into your head as you clench around his girth, somehow feeling even more full. It makes you dumb how much you loved this weight on you, his weight on you— his body covering yours as he's making you all teary eyed.

He's a gentleman, but of course. Still, nothing beats him being this big, his pudgy belly and happy trail brushing over your mound, the sheer pressure over your body making you horny and all dripping.

It has to be the most mundane things this man would be doing, and you'd be sliding beside him, palms over his belly as you help yourself a kiss, grinning when you push your fingers around the softness of his stomach.

And his pecs, god— those one hard muscle pillows now so soft that whenever you're riding him, your mouth is on his chest, biting and pawing, love bites and hickeys that make him all flustered and overwhelmed.

Bonus when he punishes you by pushing his cock down your throat, letting you settle between his legs while he works in his office. Your drool and his precum making a mess as you whine and try to tap out.

[miajooz]

imagining Boss!Ellie getting a call in the middle of fucking her secretary! (you)

warnings ⟢ Dom!Ellie (she’s mean, surprise!), strap usage (r!receiving), degrading + praise, pussy slapping (r!receiving), exhibitionalism, swearing, power dynamics, ect.

wc ⟢ 1.8k

Your boss, Ellie, was a very attractive woman. She wore suits in a way that made men look unnatural, and ran the office like some sort of siren. Well, in actuality—she caught your heart like a siren. To say you were head over heels was an understatement. More so since she was your boss, wasn’t that just so utterly shameful?

No, you didn’t have any shame. Not anymore.

You left your shame on the polished wood of her desk the first time she fucked you on it, the floor of the break room, the bathroom—shame was scattered all over the damn office. But there was no shame in you. If there was, it probably would’ve been fucked out of you by now.

The hookups were sneaky, that’s what made it so addicting. The way she’d ask you to stay late for ‘extra help’ or the way she’d push you into the break room half an hour before break time and lock the door behind her.

Nobody in that office knew a thing. Ellie was such a distant, professional woman—she was the last person they’d expect to fuck her secretary. And you were such a polite, easygoing woman. You were professional in your own way, so helpful and so smart.

Today was no different, you were laid back on the ridiculously comfortable sofa in her office. It was the kind of luxury you didn’t feel you deserved to be on. Especially since you were making a mess of the thing.

Ellie was on top of you, black strap absolutely ruining you. She must’ve had a lot of frustration built up, because you could definitely feel it. You were trying to hold back moans, but it was impossible when she was pounding into you so aggressively. Deep, rough, fast strokes. She worked your poor pussy harder than you were anticipating.

“Fuck, you always take me so well.” she rasped, angling her hips in a way that nearly made you scream. She laughed softly, though it was half groan. “Yeah? Like that, baby?”

You couldn’t even respond, you were reduced to weak babbles and breathless moans as she fucked you like an animal. You just took it like always, swallowing the silicone deeper into your aching cunt. And you couldn’t get enough, not when it felt like her strap belonged inside of you. It felt so right being stretched by her, you were so easy for her—but who wouldn’t be?

When you gave no response, Ellie landed a harsh slap on your pussy. You choked out a pathetic cry, back arching off the sofa at such an unexpected, harsh feeling of impact on your puffy clit. It was throbbing, more so arousal than pain. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as the constant pulsing your sopping hole went through whenever she was around. It was fucking dripping.

“I asked you a question, so answer it. Does dick make you that stupid? I can’t have a dumb secretary, baby.” she slapped your cunt again, watching the way your eyes swelled with tears even though it was a softer slap. “I’m your boss. Be a good girl and listen, okay?”

You were crying at this point, moaning like a bitch and being fucked like a slut. Your mind was clouded, all you could think about was the silicone ruining your pussy in the best way. You nodded through your tears. “Y-yes! God, yes! F-feels so good, ma’am!” you whined, eyes fighting to not roll back. You knew how much she loved your eyes, she often told you that.

Ellie looked so hot above you. Her suit jacket on the floor and her tie joining it. Neither of you ever got completely naked, just in case somebody knocked. Your panties were on the floor, skirt hiked up to your waist so she could have a view of your pussy and your thighs.

“Such a filthy girl, letting your boss fuck you like this? Aren’t you ashamed?” she questioned, but she was just as guilty as you—if not more. She drank up your moans, they were so satisfying to hear because they were all for her. For her ears only. “Don’t be ashamed, sweetheart. Just keep coming to my office and having one button of your shirt undone to seduce me. So, so clever.”

In the middle of your cry, mid thrust—Ellie’s phone rang. You both gasped, eyes widening at the same time. She looked over at the caller ID, fuck. It had to have been someone important, because she picked up her phone and smirked at you.

“Baby, can you be quiet for me? Just gotta take this call, but I won’t neglect you.” she explained, not even waiting for your response before accepting the call and placing her phone up to her ear.

You gasped, immediately trying to choke back your moans. There’s no way, how the hell were you supposed to stay silent in these conditions? She didn’t slow down, not even for a moment. You clasped your hand over your mouth, eyes squeezing shut as she continued to fuck the daylights out of you. Your cunt was pulsing almost painfully, squeezing her so tightly you were surprised she could still keep her pace.

“Oh hey, Jesse. Did you transfer those files over to me?” she asked, her voice a bit breathless. She was grinning down at you, looking at you expectantly. She thrusted particularly harsh, making you squeal a bit and your eyes shoot open. They were blown wide, looking at her with both panic and arousal. She couldn’t hide the wet sounds of your pussy sucking in her strap, which she almost laughed at. “Ignore the sounds in the back, my secretary gave me a super wet fruit.”

A super wet fruit? God, this woman was shameless.

Ellie hummed along to the male voice on the other line, “You’re a life saver, seriously. Thanks for doing that on your day off.” she said, narrowing her eyes at you when she heard your gasps and squeals. She shooed your hand away from your mouth, placing her own over it instead and pressing down.

You were panicking, unable to hold back moans anymore. She was pounding into you at a brutal pace, you didn’t understand how she wasn’t panting and huffing on the phone. You cried out loudly into her palm, but luckily it was pretty muffled.

This was such a nerve wracking, disgusting situation. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t get off on it. The risk, the tension—that was what you had always been addicted to.

Ellie scoffed at the sight, but fuck, it was so hot. She could feel your tears soaking her hand, your breath in her palm. “What am I doing? I’m at the office today.” she explained, looking at you with almost false sympathy as you tried to behave for her. You both got off on the power aspect. Ellie was having a power trip—which made your cunt pulse and cry.

“Yeah, just doing some extra work. It wont fill itself.” Ellie explained, pushing down harder on your lips when she heard you whine uncontrollably. “I know, right? Needy fuckin’ work. No matter how much I do it, it just keeps coming back”

Does she think she’s being sneaky? Cheeky asshole.

You shook your head feverishly, feeling a tightening in your stomach. Fuck, couldn’t your body wait? You squeezed Ellie’s bicep to try and warn her, she slowed down so she could drag this out a little longer. God, she was such a bitch. You loved it.

“Well, I got shit to do. Thanks again for doing that favor for me.” she hummed, starting to fuck you roughly again. She hung up the phone and put it to the side, removing her palm from your lips so both hands could be grabbing your thighs to yanking you closer. She laughed at you, low and raspy as she continued listening to the way you whimpered so loudly now that there was no barrier. She had an almost sadistic smile on her face, it was so humiliating but so sexy.

Your eyes were officially glued to the back of your head, perhaps searching for a coherent thought. “Boss! F-fuck!” you cried, your moans finally being set free. You could feel your stomach tighten again, you were so, so close.

Ellie looked down at your pussy, it was fucking dripping—just how she liked it. “Yeah? Did you get off on that?” she questioned, loving the way you sucked her in and begged for more. She couldn’t get enough of you, the way you took it and kept coming back made her want to satisfy that aching neediness inside you. “I guess so, you’re soaking my damn sofa.”

You nodded feverishly, weak cries leaving you. You felt a tingling all over your body, as if your body was bracing itself for the intense orgasm you were about to have. But you knew better than to leave her questions unanswered.” “Y-yes ma’am! I really loved it!”

Ellie continued fucking you, the black silicone molding you perfectly around her. “You’re such a whore. Ah, ah!—that’s what you fucking sound like.” she mocked, arms hooking under your thighs. “I can’t afford to have such a bad secretary, promise you’ll be a good girl and stay quiet next time? Wouldn’t want us to get caught.”

Next time? Was she kidding?

You nodded again, her words pushing you over the edge. You cried out, back arching impossibly as you choked out moans and promises. “I promise, Ellie! I’ll be so good!” you managed between moans and gasps. You soaked the silicone still fucking in and out of you, the type of mess she wished she could taste on her tongue.

Ellie tutted and shook her head, helping you ride it out but slapping your pussy once again. You were so overstimulated, you whined and squirmed, eyes widened and jaw slack. “Ellie? I’m your boss, sweetheart. Try again.”

You gasped and looked at her, pupils dilated. You couldn’t stay quiet, the overstimulation was too much to handle. “Ma’am! I promise..ugh! I promise to be good, m-ma’am!” you said between cries, but you felt relief when she finally stopped thrusting.

“That’s a good girl, you’re always so good for me. No wonder you get such special treatment.” Ellie praised as she pulled out. The strap was covered with slick, a delicious ring around the base. She laughed, looking down at your fucked out face. She glanced at the clock quickly, she had a meeting in an hour. She hated work for this reason, she wanted to bend you over her desk so badly.

Ellie’s eyes snapped back down to you, hand coming down to your cheek so you’d look at her. Those sweet eyes made her groan, they were so pretty when they weren’t rolled back or squeezed shut.

“Do you want more, baby? I know you do, you’re a needy girl. You can ride me this time—we have a little under an hour.”

tags!! <333 @valeisaslut @eriiwaiii2 @hyperbabes @usuck @haithone @yunaversalluv @smaugayra @andiemiaswife @mayfldss

[myluckyluv]

His Cunt, His Rules

CW: Rough sex,Free use dynamic (consensual),Daddy kink,Degradation kink,Praise kink & Spanking kink

If any of these themes are uncomfortable or triggering for you, please scroll past. 18+ only / MDNI.

The door shuts harder than usual. His keys clatter. His tie is halfway undone. Nanami Kento is done with the world.

All day, he thought of you—how warm you’d feel under his hands, how soft you’d be in his lap, how good you’d sound moaning his name.

But what he hears instead? Moaning. Already.

He rounds the corner and stops dead.

There you are. On the couch. Hand between your thighs, tank top rolled up, playing with your pussy like you didn’t belong to someone.

His eye twitches. His cock twitches harder.

“You touching yourself without me, sweetheart?” The tone is calm, but deadly.

You gasp and jolt up. “Kento—! I didn’t think you’d be home yet—”

“Clearly.” He drops his bag, loosens his tie the rest of the way, and strides over with that focused fury that makes your legs tremble.

“You forget the rules?” he asks, kneeling between your thighs. “Or were you just hoping to get caught like a filthy little slut?”

He grabs your wrist and pulls your fingers out of yourself. Soaked. “Disgusting,” he mutters, but the way his pupils dilate says he loves it.

He sucks your fingers clean—eyes locked on you—then slaps your inner thigh.

“Turn over,” he says, voice like gravel. “Elbows on the couch.”

You obey, heart pounding, and before you can fully settle, his palm crashes down against your ass—loud and stinging.

“This ass bounces when you touch yourself too, huh?” he sneers, smacking it again. “You like being a disobedient little whore?”

“N-no, Daddy—I was just—”

“Just being a dumb little brat who needs to be reminded who owns this cunt.” Smack. Smack. The strikes fall in rhythm, leaving you breathless, teary, and aching.

“Count,” he growls.

“One—t-two—three—” you gasp through gritted teeth, voice breaking by the eighth slap.

He soothes the sting with a rough hand, gripping your reddened cheeks. “You dripping for me now, sweetheart?”

He slides his fingers between your thighs. “So fucking wet. Didn’t even need me, huh? Just a needy little toy with no self-control.”

Then he’s between your legs—licking, sucking, devouring like it’s his personal mission to break you open.

You moan so loud it echoes off the walls, body quivering with every flick of his tongue. And just when your orgasm builds—

He pulls away.

“No.” He spits on your cunt and slaps it. “You come when I let you.”

You sob into the couch cushion, desperate, ruined.

Nanami rises to his feet, unzipping slowly, deliberately. “You want Daddy’s cock that bad? Ask for it like the pathetic little cumdump you are.”

“Please, Daddy—want you to fuck me, use me—make me yours—”

“Already am yours,” he mutters darkly, slamming into you in one brutal thrust. “This sloppy little hole was made for me.”

The rhythm is merciless. His grip bruises your hips. Your thighs slap back against him with every stroke. His belt still hangs from his pants—swinging as he ruins you.

“You think anyone else could fuck you like this?” Smack. Another slap to your ass. “No one gets this pussy but me.”

“Only you, Daddy—please, please—” you cry, overwhelmed, overstimulated, ruined.

“That’s it. Take it. Let Daddy fill this cunt the way you need. Fuckin’ bred like my dumb little housewife.”

Your orgasm hits so hard you scream, legs trembling, body convulsing. And he doesn’t stop. “One more,” he grits. “You’re not done. You’ll come for me again.”

He fucks you through the overstimulation, your body twitching, your mind melting, until the second orgasm breaks you down completely.

He groans as he finally spills inside you, burying himself deep, thick cum filling you to the brim. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s fuckin’ mine.”

And as you pant, sweat-soaked and ruined, he leans over, whispers into your ear:

“Next time, you even think about touching yourself without me—I’m tying you up and spanking you until you cry.”

[artemisiasmuse]

princess treatment | rafe x low maintenance gf

cw: fluff, mentions of emotionally abusive family dynamics, slightly suggestive (mentions of sex but no details)

you’d always been treated as some sort of third parent, a therapist, a friend but never what you were: a daughter

that all changed when you started dating rafe

on top of being mistreated by your family, you’d never had a bf who treated you right

the first time rafe brought you flowers you cried, he thought he’d done something wrong but you were so touched you couldn’t say anything as you hugged him tight

he made sure to bring you flowers often, making sure you never ran out. you remember finding a flower from your bouquet in his car, asking him why he had it. “when it wilts i know i gotta get you more.” you’d proceeded to make him pull over.

it was like he was dead set on making you fall even more in love when he said, “as fucking great as that was, i don’t do these things for sex baby, i don’t expect anything okay?” you told him you knew that, which you didn’t actually since all the guys you had been with before seemed to be like that, and proceeded to kiss him some more.

to him treating you like a princess came naturally, he was never good at expressing himself so buying you presents, taking care of you, doing things for you was just second nature

in the beginning he thought it was cute how appreciative you were but when you still got shocked from his actions after months he realized you had just never been treated how you deserve

and that pissess him off

he makes it a point to treat you like an absolute princess, not even letting you open a single door by yourself, you don’t even remember the last time you put your heels on by yourself because he was always crouching down to help you before you could think about it

“rafe if you spoil me so much ill get used to it.” you murmured as you watched your 6’2 boyfriend lean down and gently place your heeled foot on his knee so he could buckle the shoe. his touch was always so gentle, as if he’d hurt you like this.

“that’s kinda the point angel,” he says it without hesitation, brows a bit furrowed as he looks for the best notch that won’t cause you discomfort. you think you might start crying again but you bite the inside of your cheek and kiss him when he stands up

rafe hates how your family treats you, but he holds his tongue because he knows you love them. it doesn’t matter to him if your family hates him, he knows he should seek their approval but he doesn’t think they deserve to dictate any part of your life

he’s holding back until your mom oversteps your boundaries in front of him and he just has to step in, taking over whatever thing she told you to do even though he knew your mother was perfectly capable. he guises it as being a good future son-in-law

“it’s okay rafe-“ you say it without realizing, so used to taking the load off of others. it’s reflexive and rafe shoots a glance that shuts you up.

“you can ask me from now on if you need anything,” he looks pointedly at your mother with a smile you know is fake. you just brush it off and think rafe is just trying to make a good impression. you don’t know he doesn’t give a fuck what your parents think. he even starts hating your sibling.

your brother is older than you but never acts that way. when you mentioned an older brother he expected someone protective of you. he was met with someone doted on by your mother, irresponsible and immature and uncaring of his sister. it seemed like you were the older sibling.

you’d been living with your parents while you both dated, you hadn’t seen anything wrong with it until rafe gets you to move out to live with him. your parents are against it at first but with the help rafe has been they have little reason to refuse him.

when you do move out you realize how much better everything is. you’re not your mother’s caretaker, or your parent’s marriage counselor, or even your brother’s mom. you’re you. and you can finally breathe. rafe doesn’t expect anything from you and it slightly unnerves you, how could he take care of you without expecting anything in return?

he pays for everything, even if you push back at first, he replaces your card in your wallet with his going as far as hiding your card and he knows you have a job and that you can afford it yourself but he doesn’t see why you have to

you’d gotten your nails done and shown them to him and when he didn’t see a charge on his card he pouted for a whole day until you gave in and agreed to use it next time

but rafe knows you’re holding back, he can see that you’re spending frugally. he doesn’t want you to, in fact nothing would make him happier than seeing a dent taken out of his bank account because of his beautiful caring girlfriend

you remember your first date when he got offended that you’d offered to split the bill, he was even more shocked when you thanked him profusely after for paying

when you whine about him taking your card he finally has to speak up, “baby, what’s yours is mine right?” you nod without pause, you loved when rafe drove your car or used your skincare. it felt so intimate and domestic like you were a married couple, the thought bringing heat to your face. “right, so what’s mine is yours.” and you can’t really refute that.

one day when he’s drying your hair after your shower, you can’t help but ask, “why are you so nice to me rafey?”

“i love you, s’that simple”

“i love you too but no one’s ever been this nice to me.”

“no one’s ever been as nice to me as you are either, that doesn’t mean it’s wrong right?” he always has a way of making you see his side so effortlessly you have to agree. you could never argue that rafe didn’t deserve the amount of love you gave him or more.

“yeah, thank you for taking care of me”

“‘you gonna thank me for the rest of our lives?” you just stare at him blankly and rafe watches the tears well up in your eyes. “hey don’t cry baby, you can thank me as many times as you want okay? just don’t go thinking you deserve any less than this.”

“i’m never letting you go.”

“i’m counting on it.”

on your anniversary, rafe buys you a car and even though you do thank him profusely and maybe cry a little it doesn’t turn your stomach with anxiety on how to thank him properly or that you don’t deserve it. instead you spend the night loving your boyfriend as much as he loves you. you realize rafe just has a different way of showing it.

a/n: instead of crashing out ab my family i wrote this :)

taglist: @ggraycelynn @clar2aa