#this is my first time playing with light and such

[nanamiskentos]

LAY DOWN THE LAW — 五条悟 GOJO SATORU

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo Satoru is the city's hottest attorney and your maddeningly smug boss. Ten years of will-they-won’t-they office tension come to a head when a late night at the firm finally pushes you both over the edge, right onto his desk, and then some. You might be the secretary, but tonight? You’re the one running the court, with your hand shafted around a very big . . . gavel.

FEATURING Gojo Satoru x Reader

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, MDNI, Workplace AU, Boss x Secretary, Suits!AU, Lawyer!Gojo, power plays, possessive language, desk séx, couch séx, semi-public, oràl (f), cowgírl, swítch!Gojo, líght restraínts, praisé kínk, bíting/màrking, mànhandling, unprotected séx, GOJO IS A YEARNER

WC 𐙚 5.1k

NOTE 𐙚 one of my friends started watching suits for the first time and it got me thinking of the good old days...

The firm's office was quiet. Eerily so. The sterile kind of silence that only settled after sunset, when the junior associates had scurried off and the city skyline outside blurred into a sea of flickering lights and taxi horns.

Nights like this always felt heavier somehow, thick in your chest like an aching, hungry fog. Not because of the overtime, hell, you practically lived in this building and wore your stellar competence like a badge of honour, but because after hours meant only one thing.

You were alone. With him.

Satoru Gojo.

Senior partner. The best closer in the city, a hotshot lawyer snug in designer suits. A certified dream and nightmare wrapped into one tall, toned package.

And the worst part? You didn't even mind craving his presence, like a moth to a sparkling, blue flame.

Your gaze always lingered past the edge of your desk when Gojo strolled by in the mornings, leaving you with that casual wink as though gravity bent around him, and you just happened to be in its pull. His stupidly expensive Armani suits, his smug, whiny quips and that sharp-fanged grin that made you want to slap and straddle him in the same breath.

Which is exactly why your heart stuttered when the intercom crackled to life, and his voice slid through, smooth as a neat pour of whiskey, "Doll, can you come in here for a second?"

You knew the drill. Some last-minute filing. A deposition draft he suddenly had to review. Gojo would pour you a crystal glass of scotch, pretend to talk business, and shiver when you leaned in far too close behind his oaken desk, eyes lingering on the swan-curve of your neck.

And like always, you would pretend not to notice, pressing your thighs together to relieve the wayward tension he wrought in you.

But tonight? You were in no mood to play the pretty secretary as diligently as you had been for the past few years. You grit the tips of your heels into the soft carpet to heave open the heavy glass door to his office, not bothering to knock.

Gojo glances up from a stack of clean paper, leaning back in his pristine chair with the ease of a man who brought in millions upon millions of dollars in merger deals each year for the firm. His navy tie was loosened, top button of his starch-white shirt undone.

White hair tousled as though he had run a frustrated hand through it one too many times, and judging by the way his blue eyes greedily dragged up your frame and snagged on your collarbone, you were the reason.

"Late night?" You ask, tone clipped as you watch how the city lights spilled through the high-rise windows behind him, painting him in gold, and blue, and deep, dangerous shadow.

"Thought you could help me with something," Gojo tosses a crisp folder your way, and your nails snag into the thin cardboard without blinking, "Couple of items that needed sorting."

"You couldn't have done this tomorrow? This is just copy-room administration."

Gojo tilts his head, lashes pale as snow, and unfairly long, "You were still here," he shrugs with a casual indifference that doesn't match the tension gnawing at his jaw, "Figured I'd make use of your talents."

The bob of his Adam's apple clearly gave away the flimsy excuse, for Gojo Satoru has always been hungry for the sight of you, even when he was pretending otherwise.

Tonight, though, that smug smile and velvet tone hits different, like a match dragged too slowly across the box, and your jaw clenches.

Gojo had always hovered right there, just shy of indecent in the silent hours of the night. Just enough innuendo to make your thighs clench, but never enough to tip over.

Like he got off dragging the two of you to the edge, and then walking away.

No more.

You step forward, scuffing your heel into the soft weave of the floor, and slapping the folder flat on his desk, "You always do this."

Gojo blinks, jewel-blue eyes owlish and flicking innocently, "Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm yours. Flirt with me. Buy me expensive shit, –" You lean in, meeting the defensive scowl in his eyes, "You took me shopping privately for a Hermès bag this morning, apparently just because."

You know Gojo Satoru enough to recognise the twitch in his expression, the flicker of something real and not cloaked in his endless bravado.

You refuse to let up, "So tell me, Gojo. Are you ever actually going to do something about it?"

"I thought you were seeing that investment banker from the 46th floor," Gojo mutters, jaw tight as his eyes tear themselves away from you, the swell of your chest with considerable effort.

Ah. Nanami Kento.

That fling was brief, for while you liked your men strong, you didn't quite like them silent.

No hard feelings, of course.

"That ended six months ago," you say coolly, "And when I first told you about him, you didn't speak to me for a week. What was that about?"

Silence. You can't hear anything else but the hard, pounding beat of your pulse, and the faint hum of electricity running in the background, keeping parts of the office lit.

Gojo stands, not abruptly nor angrily. Just deliberately, like a man who already made up his mind long ago.

You inch back automatically, the edge of the desk pressing against the small of your back, below the crux of your spine. Gojo follows, close, too close. Heat radiates off your boss like static, and his scent, mint and cedar, curls in your lungs.

A large hand cups your jaw, and his touch isn't rough. Gojo uses just enough pressure to make you tilt your chin up to meet those storm-blue eyes. Darker now, dilated and devouring.

"Say the word," Gojo murmurs, voice thick with something you could even mistake as longing, "And I'll show you that I'm yours right here."

Your throat bobs, a hot flush beginning to kiss the tips of your ears, "What? Here, Gojo, –" You're hissing, even though you knew the building was entirely empty, and it was well past midnight.

Gojo's index finger is pressed to your lips, "You want me to be an honest man?" A wicked but almost bashful smile ghosting over the mouth of the most confident and self-assured man that you know, "Fine. I want to kiss you."

You don't give him the chance to ask again.

Grabbing the finely tailored lapels of his suit, and pulling the attorney down into you, kissing him hard. Tasting mint, coffee and the ghost of lemon candy on his tongue as his hand slams back against the desk, and you can swear he whimpers.

Gojo chases after you like a man starved. The press of his lips both hot and urgent, his clever tongue teasing until you groan, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste the tell-tale tang of iron.

That earns you another sound from deep in his throat, something that sounds almost grateful, and he pulls you closer. Looping a strong around your waist, already tugging at the hem of your top.

You think that the only downside of having Gojo Satoru like this, is the human need to pull back for oxygen.

But he seems almost magnetically drawn to you, eyes lingering on the glossy sheen coating your mouth, his breath shallow as he heaves a sharp breath, "Always wanted to know what you would taste like."

"Oh, yeah? Got your answer?"

"Well, one part of my answer," Gojo's large hands are running along the silky seam of your stockings, and you involuntarily shiver as you push against the firm planes of his chest, snaking your manicured hand lower.

"You're already hard."

Gojo gives you a faintly embarrassed, dull look, but it's true enough. There's a rock solid tent in his dark slacks, aching for friction against your thigh, as he murmurs against your jaw, "What, you think if I put my hands up your skirt, you're not gonna' be wet?"

What use is there in denying cold, hard facts?

Gojo's hands run down to your waist, spinning you around so fast that your palms slam against the hard surface of his desk for balance.

The wood is cold beneath your skin, spotless and severe, and each pen on his desk is lined up with military precision, not a page out of place.

For now.

You can feel the white-haired man behind you, his body heat pressing into your back as he leans over, pink lips brushing the delicate shell of your ear, "This desk's seen a lot of action," he murmurs, "But nothin' like this."

Your heart is thudding as soft, suckled marks are bruised gently into your neck, "You ever bend a client over it?"

"No," Gojo scoffs, dragging his hands up your sides once more, slow and reverent as though he wants to commit your form to memory, "Only ever thought about my favourite secretary."

You're gasping, lips slack, as he kicks your legs slightly apart at the knee, and then, fuck — his fingers are sliding up your inner thigh. Bold, skilled and confident.

When he find the wet heat, slick and searing between your legs, Gojo groans against your neck, "God, you really are mine, huh?"

"Check the paperwork, then, S-Satoru," You're hissing, trying to stay snide, even as your hips hungrily rock into his touch. Ensuring that you grind your dripping, plump folds against his fingers, coating his knuckles with your arousal.

"Oh, I will," Gojo purrs, "In fact –"

Gojo keeps a solid arm snug around you, holding you up as his other hand reaches for something on the desk, and before you can question what on earth he's doing now, you hear the rustle of paper.

He's got your file, that faded résumé that you had dropped in his lap when you had first demanded he hire you. You twist your head to blearily glare at him just as he flips it open.

"You had excellent references," Gojo muses, as though he's reading aloud to a jury. Meanwhile, two long fingers are filthily sliding into you, slow and deep, curling just right in pursuit for a sweet spot, "Punctual. Detail-oriented. Loyal. Mhm, tight too. Didn't see that in the résumé."

"S-Satoru," You choke out, nails already curling half-crescents into the polished wood. His palm now roughly angled so you can drag your throbbing cunt over his hand, and still catch enough friction to soothe your aching clit.

"Ah-ah," The white-haired man clicks his tongue, hooking his middle finger so a fresh wave of slick clings to the fine dusting of pale, white hair on his hand, "That's Gojo during business hours."

"It's past m-midnight."

"Heh, you're right," Gojo snickers, battering his fingers against that roughened, sweet spot, "In that case, call me whatever ya' want, doll."

You arch into his tender touch, breath hitcing as his fingers fuck you with the kind of steady rhythm that says he's had this moment planned, fantasised and rehearsed.

His other hand warmly slips under your top, pushing the fabric side just enough to tug your bra down, and palm your breast, thumb brushing your pebbled nipple as you whimper.

"You like this?" Gojo asks, the liquid-smooth tone of his voice now tinged with a hungry rasp, and his lips continue to delicately press kisses over the nape of your neck, "Letting your boss finger you over his quarterly earnings report?"

You try to respond, but your pleas come out more as a garbled moan, stifled as he probes his fingers against the elastic walls of your cunt.

Gojo grins, "Didn't catch that, sweet girl. You're gonna' have to say it like you mean it."

"F-fuck, yes, yes," you gasp, back arching as your thighs strain with the most delicious ache, "Want more, p-please."

Gojo stills, not all the way, just enough to make you squirm, hips rolling helplessly into the hand that no longer moves, breath catching in your throat as the heat and rhythm disappear.

His touch lingers, taunting, maddening, and you whine before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping past your lips like a plea you didn’t mean to give him.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that curls down your spine like smoke, "More?" he echoes, faux-innocent and infuriating, his voice that same low, slick tone he uses when convincing clients to sign over the promise of ten million dollars, "You think I just give it away, doll?"

Your response is instant, breathy and heated, punctuated by the steady drip of your slick against his desk, "I earned it, didn't I?"

And that, that does something to Gojo. You feel the change. Like a muscle coiled too tight finally snapping loose.

It's in the way his warm grip tightens on your hips, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, the guttural sound he lets out as he drops to his knees with a heavy thud, slacks creased, like a man possessed.

In one fluid motion, your translucent, sopping panties are around your ankles, torn down so fast the elastic snaps, and Gojo's murmuring a kiss of apology against your thigh, and his broad hands are dragging your thighs apart like he's carving out space for worship.

"Consider this your bonus," Gojo murmurs, voice dark with promise, ruined at the mere sight of your glossy, winking pussy, and then his mouth is on you.

Your gasp punches out of you like it's been yanked from the base of your spine. His tongue is hot and wet and obscene, sliding through your folds with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes you tremble. He licks you like he's determined to learn you, like he's done the theory, read the case notes, and now it's time for oral arguments.

And God, he's good at it. Gojo is really good at it.

He flicks his tongue over your swollen clit with practiced ease, teasing little circles that send white-hot pulses of pleasure through your gut. Every time your hips buck, he anchors you tighter, one arm locking around your thigh while the other drags you closer by the small of your back, forcing you to stay still and take it so perfectly for him.

"You're so w-wet," Gojo groans into your cunt, lips slick and voice reverent, like he’s drunk off the taste of your sweet pussy, "What's the matter, baby? Can't focus when someone's actually giving you what you need?"

Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk’s edge as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling against it with maddening rhythm. Your eyes flutter, head tipping back, your entire body buzzing with pleasure.

Your knees nearly buckle when he hums, hums, as though he's tasting vintage wine.

When Gojo pulls back at last, his mouth is shining, and he looks positively wrecked in the best way. Flushed cheeks, jaw damp, pupils blown wide. The front of his suit is creased, rumpled beyond salvation. His deep-blue tie's hanging off one shoulder. And his blinding grin is nothing short of smug.

"Gonna' bend you over this desk now,” Gojo says casually, like he's scheduling a client call, "Heels on. Hands flat. Keep your voice down unless you want HR to catch the encore on security footage."

You barely hear the rest of the sentence, you're already moving, limbs moving on instinct, spine arching as you brace yourself against the desk.

And you don’t even realise you're obeying until your palms hit the polished wood and you feel the weight of Gojo behind you again, hot and solid and absolutely unrelenting.

And when he finally pushes into you, all thick, hot, and utterly unforgiving inches upon inches, it knocks the breath straight from your lungs.

There's no teasing now, no soft wind-up or slow drag. Just the blunt, overwhelming stretch of his fat mushroom-tip probing and filling you in one deliberate thrust that has your back arching and your mouth falling open in a wordless moan.

You gasp, the sound stuttering against your forearm as you brace yourself on the desk, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer intensity of it.

Gojo's big. Oh, he knows it's big, and he fucks like he's trying to remind you of it with every single stroke. Ensuring that you never forget the sticky slap! of his thighs tacking against your own, dribbling with arousal and the prelude to his seed.

The white-haired man's hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a bruising grip as he snaps his hips into yours, relentless and smooth, like he’s been waiting years for this.

The desk jerks with every thrust, drawers rattling. Loose pages scatter to the floor. Gojo's gilded nameplate goes flying with a clatter, landing somewhere near your pricey heels, and the coffee mug you brought him earlier tips over, soaking a stack of contracts you'd spent the whole afternoon organising.

Neither of you care.

"Fuck," Gojo groans, whiny voice fraying at the edges, rough and low and needy, "Look at you. Taking it so f-fucking well. Like this pretty pussy was made to be bent over my desk."

You let out a strangled moan, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood surface, the edge biting into your hips with every push forward. Your legs are trembling, heels still on, body taut with sensation, overstimulated already and aching for more. And you try to speak, to respond, but the words break apart in your dry throat, "Y-you are so –"

"Charming?" Gojo grits out, breath hot against the back of your neck as he leans forward to press his chest to your spine, one hand leaving your hip to curl around your throat, not tight, just enough to tilt your head up, "Devastatingly handsome? Ridiculously good at fillin' you up? You're gonna' have to be more specific, doll."

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, even as your eyes roll back at the next thrust. And Gojo's voice lowers to a murmur, but there's nothing soft in it, just heat, possession, a hint of desperation bleeding through the snark, "C'mon, baby. Say it. Say you're mine. Please."

You manage it on a gasp, voice wrecked, pleasure-drenched, "I'm —f-fuck, I'm yours."

That does it. Gojo groans like you just handed him a verdict in his favor, like your words scratched some raw, aching itch inside him that nothing else could reach, "Y-yeah, you are,” he growls, "All f-fucking mine."

He fucks you harder after that, messy, frantic, a little feral. One hand back on your hip, the other dragging down your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you down, keeping you right there as he takes you like a man who’s been dreaming about this for far too long.

You can feel every solid, veined inch of him. The way he stretches you open, the obscene slick sounds between your thighs, the way his cock hits deep and perfect on every roll of his hips. His pace is devastating, measured and punishing and so fucking good it sends white sparks bursting behind your eyelids.

You must be drooling into the desk, heat curling in your belly, orgasm building again, fast and dangerous and unstoppable. And behind you, Gojo's voice breaks on a groan as he mutters against your ear, "You gonna' come for me again, pretty girl? Wanna feel you s-squeeze me while I fill you up. You gonna' let me, yeah?"

Your answer is a breathless, wrecked moan, because yes, fuck, yes —

And that’s all he needs. You barely manage to stay standing.

Your legs are jelly, trembling under the weight of overstimulation and everything he's just done to you, your thighs slick with him, your blouse clinging to sweat-damp skin, buttons half-torn and collar askew. Your breath comes in short, uneven pants, chest heaving against the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Gojo's still behind you, spurting cock slowly being dragged out of your puffy, twitching folds, not touching, but there, looming, panting, shirt untucked, white hair wild and matted with sweat. He looks ruined. Flushed. Like he’s just sprinted all sixty floors of the high-rise with you on his mind.

And then Gojo sees it.

The faint red imprint of his hand blooming across your hip. The angry mark his Prada belt buckle left above the curve of your ass. The glimmer of your slick smeared across his cock, still hard, twitching against his abdomen, and soaking into the fine dusting of white hair crawling over his groin, glistening like proof of what he just did to you.

Gojo's pupils dilate, and whatever blue was left in his eyes vanishes beneath the darker, more reverent hunger, "Mine," he murmurs, half to himself, voice hushed and hoarse, like he has to say it out loud to believe you're real, "You're mine."

You twist to look at him, wobbly on your heels but a faint ghost of a smile paints your lips all the same, "Yeah, Satoru?" you say, voice still a little wrecked, "Then sit down."

Gojo blinks, stunned for just a second, the most in-demand lawyer in the city whipped into flushed silence from the command. But you just jut your chin toward the couch, charcoal-grey leather, sleek and smooth.

"I said sit."

There's a pause. A flicker of something wild in Gojo's incredulous expression, like he wants to fight it. But then his lips part into a grin that borders on worshipping, like he's never been bossed around in his life and is so damn into it, "Yes, ma'am."

Gojo drops onto the couch, milky and muscular thighs spread wide, weeping cock hard and glistening and flushed an angry red from base to tip. White-haired head lolling back against the cushions as he exhales like a man undone. His tie is half-off, collar loose, suit beyond salvation.

You straddle him before he can get cocky again, knees pressed into the cushions, ruined skirt hitched around your waist, heat still pulsing between your legs as you slide over his broad lap. Gojo's hands fly to your hips automatically, gripping tight, like his body's already memorised every inch of your skin like a precious canvas already.

"I'm still ya' boss, you know," Gojo says, looking up at you through those sinfully pale lashes, trying for cocky and failing, it comes out breathless and wanting.

You roll your hips down slowly, grinding against Gojo's lap, until the head of his spurting cock slips against your entrance, snagging against your walls, and his head thunks back with a guttural groan and a raspy, "Fuck."

"Don't think so, 'Toru," you murmur, voice low, syrupy, and you can feel his cock twitch against your inner thigh, jumping at the abbreviated name, "Right now? I wanna' be in charge."

That does it. Whatever minuscule control Gojo had snaps.

He grips the plush flesh of your ass, and yanks you down as he thrusts up into you, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, perfect stroke that leaves you gasping and mewling at the tip of his cock swabbing deeply within you.

It's so utterly messy and wet, and filthy, your bodies crashing together with the raw sound of sex, of urgency, of months, no, years of restraint finally shattered.

Gojo's hungry mouth finds your neck, open and greedy, licking and biting like he wants to leave a roadmap behind, a pattern he wants to follow forevermore. You gasp, manicured nails clawing down his chest, raking through the remnants of his tailored dress shirt.

"You like that?" You're whining, voice catching as your hips start to rock once more, adjusted to the sheer girth of him, pace steady and punishing, "Getting m-marked?"

"Fuck, yeah," Gojo groans, snapping his hips up so hard your breath stutters, and a steady plap! plap! plap! echoes in the empty office. "Want you to w-wreck me, doll. Wan' the whole d-damn firm to see I belong to you."

You're certainly not gentle when you kiss him again. You slam your mouth to his, teeth and tongue and something that tastes like vengeance and victory. He kisses back like he's still starving, like he hasn't eaten in weeks and you're his last meal, what he's been craving the most.

Somehow, somewhere in the chaos, his silky tie ends up wrapped loosely around your wrists, a makeshift restraint anchoring your hand to the back of his neck, keeping you steady as you bounce in Gojo's lap, feeling him sway the thick bulge of his cock in and out of you. You can feel the thrum of his pulse there, frantic and wild, syncing with yours.

"I dream about this, you know?" Gojo mutters against your mouth, nibbling on your glossy lower lip. "Y-you. Riding me and using m-me. Fuck, I wake up hard just thinking about your voice."

Your pussy must be drooling all over his lap, and your walls tighten around him and Gojo chokes, his blue eyes rolling back for a second as his chest flushes a pale shade of strawberry red.

"Then wake u-up, 'Toru," you whisper, lips brushing his jaw, gently nipping at the soft skin, "And t-take it."

And Gojo does. He thrusts his cock up into you, hard and deep, pace brutal and beautiful all at once. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, palming your breasts, fingers sliding down your spine to hold you in place while he slams into you with the rhythm of a man unhinged.

Gojo's mouth latches onto your collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise, and when you do the same to his shoulder, he whines, "More," he begs, "Give me more. F-fucking ruin me. Leave your teeth in me, I'm yours."

His hand slips between your bodies, calloused thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit as you ride him, and the pleasure builds fast, white-hot and sharp, until you're shaking with it, your moans dissolving into ragged gasps.

"Gojo, –" you breathe, barely above a strangled whisper as his cock carves out loud squelches and leaves you both boneless and breathless. Jewel-blue eyes snap up to yours like you’re divine.

"That's it," Gojo growls, lower lip slack as he watches the sticky, gluey strands of your arousal cling to his thighs, "C-come for me. Come allll over my cock n' be a good girl and fall apart, my girl."

And you do.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, sudden and seismic, your whole body spasming, thighs locking around him as you cry out his name. Gojo watches, utterly spellbound, as you unravel, sweat-slick and stunning and trembling on his lap.

"F-fuck, fuck, sweetheart," Gojo gasps, hips stuttering, and soft strands of white hair falling over his eyes, "Holy shit, gonna come, fuck, I'm c-coming, –"

He spills inside you with a ragged moan, all thick, pearly seed and the rhythmic pulse of his cock's release as he thrusts deep, clinging to you like he never wants to let go. The aftershocks roll through both of you, sticky and breathless and all-consuming.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting like you’ve run a marathon. Gojo's arms wrap around your back immediately, hands splayed across your spine, holding you like something sacred.

"Don't you dare quit on me," Gojo murmurs, voice hoarse and broken, "Swear to god, if you hand in your resignation, I'll follow you into retirement and eat you out every morning like it’s my full-time job. We can get a nice, shiny penthouse and, –"

You snort, still dazed, chin tucked into his shoulder, enveloped by the sheer, searing exertion rolling off him, intertwined with his signature, smoky scent, "You're insane."

"What?" Gojo breathes, that indignant tone creeping back up into his voice, as he trails long fingers up and down your back with slow, reverent strokes, "I'd make a hot trophy wife."

[mssishipi]

ecstacy — yjw

— sex with jungwon is good, no doubt about that. but the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

content tags: established relationship, unhinged jw, explicit content (smut): soft dom jw (is he really?), cuffs, usage of toys, fingering, nipple play, overstimulation, basically this fic is an actual torture so read at your own risk, squirting, unprotected sex, jw has a big dick (yum🤤), creampie, cnc. MDNI. WC: 3.3K

note: it's been a really long ass time since i last wrote a smut so please bare with me. my mind is so fried but atleast i tried ahuehue... not proofread, anw, enjoy reading and reblog!

One thing about your boyfriend Jungwon? He has a bit of a collection—of sex toys, to be exact.

It’s the kind of surprise that catches most people off guard, especially considering how incredibly gentle, soft-spoken, and genuinely sweet he is.

Well...he’s still soft-spoken—his voice never rises, never loses that calm, steady tone but gentle? Not quite.

Behind closed doors, there’s a different edge to him. His sweetness doesn’t disappear, but it’s laced with dominance, control, and an intensity that contradicts his daytime demeanor. If there’s one rough thing about him, it’s the way he takes control when you’re underneath him.

Sex with Jungwon is good, no doubt about that. But the thing is… he doesn’t know how to stop.

Once he starts, it’s like he falls into a rhythm only he can hear, and you’re just along for the ride, trembling and breathless and completely at his mercy.

Your wrists are cuffed to both sides of the bed, the metal cool against your heated skin. Your legs are spread and tied down, leaving you completely exposed—open for him. At first, it’s fine. You can handle it. The slow build, the teasing. The way he slips the toy inside your pulsing cunt, then drags it up to circle your clitoris with frustrating precision.

Each slow movement of the toy has you dripping onto the sheets, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up. You don’t miss the way Jungwon’s eyes light up with excitement, a sparkle in them. A small, satisfied smile curves on his lips as he watches your pussy clench around absolutely nothing, the vibrator pulsing against you while he teases, never quite giving you what you’re begging for.

That’s the thing about Jungwon—he knows exactly how to ruin you without even touching you properly. He hasn’t taken off a single piece of clothing, hasn’t even laid a finger on your most sensitive spots. And yet, you’re falling apart.

He makes you crave everything. His touch. A simple brush of his fingers. Even just a glance at what’s hidden behind his pants—his huge fucking cock, so painfully hard. You’ve barely seen it tonight, and that alone makes you dizzy with need.

Your head is spinning. Your throat burns from all the begging, the moaning, the hoarse screams you’ve let out over the past hour. Your legs shake, your wrists ache against the cuffs, and your eyes—God, your eyes can barely stay open. Every time he pulls another orgasm out of you, they roll back with a mix of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re so, so tired, and so wrecked.

“Please, please… just fuck me. Just fuck me already!” you cry out, voice cracking from exhaustion.

Jungwon is still sitting at the edge of the room, completely composed, watching you with fascination. Your legs tremble uncontrollably, still spread wide, still bound, as another orgasm rips through you. The loud hum of the vibrator fills the room, blending with your high-pitched moans and hitched breaths.

You try to shut your legs, to push the toy away from your aching core, but you can’t. You’re strapped open, so damn helpless. Your clit feels raw, burning from the endless attention. It’s been nearly two hours of this, and your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You’re drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles twitching from the constant tension. And still… Jungwon doesn’t look finished. He watches you like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“L-Let’s just finish this and sleep, okay?” you gasp, trying to meet his eyes. There’s desperation in your voice, but you still try to sound sweet—still trying to bargain with the man who holds all the control.

Finally, he stands. His gaze travels slowly down your body, from your tearful eyes to your heaving chest. And then, he leans in and kisses you softly, almost tender. You melt into it, sighing against his lips, your body automatically responding despite the ache. You try to kiss him deeper, tongue desperate against his, hands twitching against the restraints as you try to pull him closer.

“Love you, my sweet little angel,” Jungwon whispers against your lips, smiling so gently it almost feels cruel.

You smile weakly back, eyes watery but soft. “Love you too… now please—please untie me?” you beg.

For a moment, your heart lifts in relief as you see him walk toward the cabinet beside the bed. You think he’s going for the keys because finally. But then your eyes widen in horror when he pulls out a small collection of toys instead and places them gently on the nightstand.

Your stomach drops.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“No!” you cry out, yanking at your cuffs even though you know it’s useless. Panic surges as he picks up a pair of nipple stimulators and places them over your already sensitive chest.

"Shit— no! Don't! Stop!"

The moment they turn on, you jolt. The soft suction and flickering pulses send electric shocks through your breasts, focusing on your nipples and making your back arch off the bed.

“Ahh—n-no! No more!” you shout, writhing, body bucking against the restraints.

Jungwon doesn’t say a word. His fingers trail down slowly, tracing the mess between your legs, spreading you gently. Then, without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, curling and sliding them.

“Hahh… J-Jung… ahh—” Your head falls back, and your eyes roll. The pleasure blurs everything—your thoughts, your words. “I c-can’t… anymore…” you whisper, voice trembling, barely holding together.

Your thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, lost to the overwhelming flood of sensation. Every nerve in your body is lit up, every inch of you trembling, wrung out, and oversensitive.

Jungwon, on the other hand, looks like he’s in bliss. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, eyes locked on your body. When he feels your walls tightening around his fingers, his lips part with a quiet moan. The way you grip him—so hot, so wet, so helpless—nearly drives him insane.

Your head lolls to the side, arms stretched and chained above you. Your mouth hangs open, tongue slipping out slightly, drool tracing a path from your lips to your chin. You’re panting, muttering broken, incoherent phrases that even you don’t understand.

Underneath his pants, Jungwon’s cock throbs with the weight of restraint. Finally, he pulls his fingers out of you and quickly undresses, his hands shaking in urgency. He barely blinks, barely breathes, as he climbs back onto the bed.

Before you can even register his presence fully, you hear another vibration. A sob tears from your throat as a small egg vibrator slips inside you, humming to life with a relentless buzz. Another one is pressed directly to your clit, making your hips jerk violently. The stimulation is too much, all-consuming and now you’re crying, tears running freely down your cheeks.

Your mind is barely there when Jungwon settles over you. You feel his body hovering close, the warmth of him mixing with yours. He cups your cheek with one hand, gently brushing away your tears, while the other supports the back of your head.

“Shhh…” he soothes. “It’s okay, baby. You can take it, can’t you? Be my good girl, hmm?”

You can’t even answer. Your lips tremble, a sob stuck in your throat, your body wracked with pleasure that borders on pain. The buzzing on your clit, the pulsing deep inside you, the suction on your nipples—it’s too much!

“You’re my good girl, right? Answer me, angel,” Jungwon repeats.

“I-I… I’m y-your… nghh… g-good girl,” you manage to choke out, eyes squeezed shut. The moment you say it, Jungwon smiles—and not just any smile, but the one he gives when he’s deeply, thoroughly satisfied. It’s the kind of smile that says he’s proud of you.

He shifts on the bed, straddling your hips, his knees on either side of you. His cock is flushed, rock hard, and leaking precum. From this angle, you can see it clearly—aching and ready. Your breath catches.

“Say you can take it,” he says again, eyes burning into yours.

“I-I c-can t-take it… F-FUCK!” you scream as the vibrator inside you kicks up to a stronger setting. Your nails dig into your palms, your back arches off the bed, and your legs jerk against the restraints. Another wave crashes over you, and you’re gone again, mouth open in a silent scream before the moans pour out helplessly.

Jungwon groans at the sight of you. He tosses the remote aside and his hand wraps around his length, the slick glide of his palm a poor substitute for what he really wants, but right now, it’s enough because what he’s seeing? It’s everything.

You’re trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably, arms pulled taut by the cuffs. Your entire body is soaked in sweat, flushed, and still, you’re clenching and twitching, hips jumping with every surge of overstimulation. You’re crying, sobbing softly through parted lips, but your body won’t stop responding. And to Jungwon, there’s no more beautiful sight in the world.

Ecstacy.

He never understood the word fully before you. People always talked about it like a fleeting rush, a peak that fades as quickly as it comes. But with you? It lasts. It blooms slowly.

"Hahhh.... 'Wonnie, c-close again!"

Jungwon whines, an unfiltered, almost desperate sound as his hand speeds up. He braces himself on the mattress, panting through clenched teeth as the fire in his gut coils tighter and tighter.

You’re nearly delirious, legs quaking, sweat dripping off your skin in soft trails. The small toy is still pulsing relentlessly between your thighs, buzzing away mercilessly, and you—his perfect, precious girl��can do nothing to escape it.

Your body jolts, then locks up. Another wave crashes over you, and Jungwon can see it in real time—your stomach tensing, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering back as you climax again. It’s like your soul momentarily leaves your body and crashes back into it, all in one breathless scream.

He groans loudly, the sound raw and shameless, as his orgasm builds at the sight. His cock throbs painfully in his grip, aching for release.

“Stop! Please… stop! Make it stop!”

You’re sobbing, shaking your head side to side, tears streaking your cheeks as your voice breaks entirely.

A strangled gasp escapes Jungwon’s lips as his climax slams into him. His body jerks forward as he spills across your stomach and chest. The orgasm tears through him, spine curling, muscles locking, vision flashing white at the edges. His hips twitch helplessly as each pulse escapes him, breath ragged, mind floating somewhere far away.

Between his high and the aftershocks rolling through his body, he still hears you screaming his name, begging him to stop.

Jungwon blinks, disoriented. For a moment, his mind is blank, floating somewhere between euphoria and guilt. But then his eyes land on you.

With shaky hands, he reaches for the remote and flicks off the power. The hum of the toys dies, replaced by silence—save for your ragged breathing, the hiccuping sobs that break his heart, and the faint creak of the bed as your body finally begins to fall limp in exhaustion.

He moves fast but gentle, slipping the nipple clamps off first. His breath hitches at the sight—your nipples flushed deep red, firm and oversensitive. He swallows hard, fighting the urge to touch, to kiss, to soothe with his mouth.

Then there’s the vibrator still buried inside you. It’s soaked, your slick dripping down your thighs, clinging to the toy as it slips out with a wet, lewd sound. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of release, of everything you gave him tonight. His stomach tightens again at the sight, but he forces himself to stay focused.

“D-done?” your voice comes, barely a whisper.

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. He’s still staring. His body might’ve just finished, but his mind is caught somewhere in the afterglow.

His fingers fumble briefly with the small key before unlocking the cuffs, one by one. You don’t even lift your arms—just lie there, shivering, twitching occasionally when a breeze brushes across your skin.

You let out a shaky breath as your wrists fall free. A sob leaves your chest, but this time it’s soft—relieved. Grateful. Your arms weakly pull inward, cradling your own chest as you collapse into the sheets.

But your body… it’s still trembling. You’re still soaked. That last orgasm hadn’t even faded, and the aftershocks have your thighs twitching with every shift of your hips.

Jungwon swallows hard as he kneels behind you, watching your body try to recover, the way you curl slightly into yourself like you’re trying to keep your insides from spilling over.

"J-Jungwon?"

You feel his hands gently reposition you, guiding you slowly onto your stomach. You let him, barely resisting, only sobbing quietly, the kind of sound that makes his chest ache and his cock twitch.

“One more,” he whispers near your ear, brushing his lips over your cheek. “Just one more, baby. Then I’ll stop. I promise, okay?”

You cry out, he gently pushes your legs apart and lifts your hips just enough, guiding you into position.

“Fuck,” he hisses, as he presses forward slowly but your body reacts instantly.

"Ahhh!" You gasp, then squeal as your walls clamp down, and without warning, a gush of liquid pours from you. You’re fucking squirting.

Jungwon groans, forehead dropping to your back, overwhelmed by the sheer sensitivity of your response. Your hips try to jerk forward, trying to escape, but he holds you in place with one arm curled around your waist.

You’re still spasming when he finally sinks inside, forcing his huge cock inside you. Your soaked walls resist him in a trembling way, trying to push him out while also drawing him deeper.

You scream again as he fills you, your voice breaking around the sobs. He hushes you gently, lips brushing your neck.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby. Almost there. You can do it—just a little more,” he whispers, his own voice shaking.

He stays still for a moment, buried inside your pulsing heat, feeling your body flutter and tighten around him. His chest presses to your back, arms wrapping around you, holding you close as you sob into the pillow.

“My good girl,” he breathes, kissing the space behind your ear. “You’re doing so well. So perfect for me.”

You whimper brokenly, clenching again as he slowly draws his hips back—just an inch—and thrusts forward again.

Your body goes pliant beneath him, letting him take the lead, letting him guide every motion as his hips begin to roll with slow, fluid strokes. The drag of his cock through your drenched heat makes his head fall forward, jaw clenched, breath shuddering against your neck.

“Little more,” he pants. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks back into you, the tight grip of your body drawing another moan from deep in his throat. “Just… like that.”

You sob again, your hands claw at the sheets.

Jungwon groans softly and leans over you more. His hand slides gently around your neck, His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your head up so he can see your face.

Your lips tremble. Your eyes flutter, barely open, hazy and wet from tears, but locked onto him.

He exhales sharply at the sight. He leans in and kisses you upside down, the angle is awkward, but lips finding yours between moans and movement. The kiss is messy, wet, desperate. His hips never stop, and the rhythm begins to build again, more urgent now. Each thrust hits deeper, heavier, guided by the way your body clings to him, keeps him buried.

He moans into your mouth as you whimper against his. Then his tongue drags over your bottom lip, over your cheek, catching the taste of your tears and sweat. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he licks up the salty trail along your face.

“Mine,” he breathes against your cheek. “All mine.”

Your only response is a faint cry as your body clenches again, another sharp squeeze that makes him falter, hips stuttering from the overwhelming sensation.

His hand leaves your throat and presses between your shoulder blades, pinning you gently into the bed as he pulls your hips higher, changing the angle.

“Ahh, f-fuck!” you squeal. Your thighs quiver violently, and Jungwon nearly loses it right there at the sound.

His pace falters for a beat, then picks up again, faster, more erratic. “So good—so fucking good,” he stammers out, neck slick with sweat.

Your walls clench again, fluttering around him, and he lets out a wrecked sound, almost pained in how much he needs this.

His hips slam forward as he grits out, “Pretty… you’re so pretty. So good for me.”

His hand moves from your back to your waist, holding you tight as he keeps grinding in. “I love you,” he gasps, not even meaning to say it again, but it falls out of him in a choked whisper. “I love you so fucking much…”

His voice cracks at the end, moaning into your skin.

His lips find your shoulder—he kisses it once, then again, moaning into your skin as he thrusts harder. He’s unraveling. His rhythm turns desperate, your name falling from his lips.

"J-just a little more, hmm? I'm gonna creampie this little pussy t-then— fuck, we're done." Jungwon pants, voice cracking with emotion, every word shaking as it leaves his mouth. His eyes are blown wide, focused on where he’s buried deep inside you. “I love you—ahh, I love you so much…”

Jungwon grabs both of your arms, pulling them back gently, lifting your upper body just enough to tilt your chest off the bed. Your back arches, his hips slapping against you, skin to skin, the sound filthy and wet.

Your breasts bounce with every motion, your body jolting under his force. You barely register your own scream before your entire frame begins to convulse.

"Holy shit." Jungwon gasps at the sight, eyes wide with stunned, reverent awe as he breathes out.

You let go completely—again—and it’s overwhelming. A fresh, hot stream releases from you uncontrollably, drenching everything. His thighs. The sheets. The space between you. The air fills with the scent of arousal and sweat, with the stuttering breaths of both your bodies falling apart at the same time.

His thighs shake violently as he spills his cum into you, a strangled, low moan escaping from the pit of his chest. He doesn’t stop moving—keeps thrusting, dragging his length in and out as he pours every last drop inside of you, desperate to make it last.

The warmth floods between your legs, and the way your body pulses around him only draws more out of him. And it’s almost an afterthought to you now, dulled by the overwhelming waves of pleasure and exhaustion. You’re beyond feeling it fully, your body too far gone from the overstimulation he dragged you through.

He whines high as he buries himself to the hilt again, staying there, pushing in as far as you’ll let him. Your body quivers under the weight of his release, and he presses his chest to your back, wrapping both arms around you.

"Thank you, thank you, my angel."

The room falls into a heavy silence.

When Jungwon finally, carefully pulls out of you, he pauses—eyes drawn to the mess he left behind. His release slowly trickles from you, glistening down your inner thighs, and he can’t help but stare.

Then his gaze drifts up.

Your body is limp against the sheets, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Your face is flushed and dewy with sweat, eyes barely open, lips parted like you’re still floating in that lingering euphoric high.

And yet—something about the sight of you like that makes heat stir in his gut all over again.

Jungwon swallows hard as he feels himself twitch, already starting to thicken with the urge to take you again.

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Three

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 5.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

conner makes his first appearance :pp

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley

previous. next.

The Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The city evolves. The world turns. Gotham devours itself, spits itself back out, over and over again. But this house… this house stays the same.

The marble under his shoes still holds the faint scuff of childhood racing feet. The wood panels still creak in the same spots — the third stair from the landing, the right edge of the west hallway. The heavy scent of aged paper, fireplace ash, and expensive polish lingers in the walls, impossible to scrub out no matter how often Alfred tries.

Bruce breathes it all in as he steps through the front doors, loosening his tie with one hand, briefcase heavy in the other. Even here, the work follows him. The meetings, the shareholders, the endless faces wanting his attention. None of it ever really stops. It never has.

The Enterprise board meetings bleed into the evening now. They always do. Stacked hours of power suits and shareholders, of dry numbers and brittle conversations, while Gotham simmers just outside the tower walls.

It leaves him tired in a way the cowl never could.

He heads for his study on autopilot, steps measured, jaw tight, already sorting through the files in his head.

But he pauses in the living room.

The faint, flickering glow of the television spills across the dark floor. A faint hum.

His brows furrow.

The television should be off. Alfred is meticulous about the house’s order. Damian never leaves a screen running. Tim is in the city tonight. Jason—well, Jason rarely sets foot in the Manor unless he’s forced. And Dick…

Bruce’s frown deepens when he thinks of his oldest son.

He crosses the threshold into the living room, the quiet hum of static and aged video speakers meeting his ears. The living room is dimly lit, shadows curling across the furniture. The television sits against the far wall, the soft glow of an old video playing, the grain of the footage unmistakable — aged, imperfect, preserved.

The timestamp in the corner reads Gotham Academy Auditorium – March 2019.

And you’re there.

You are not there when he finds the tape. You are far from the manor. Far from Gotham. Far from him.

But you are there on the screen.

Frozen in time.

Dancing.

White.

Ethereal.

Your teenage frame moves with the precise, aching grace of someone born for the stage, wrapped in the soft shimmer of a Swan Queen's tutu, the tulle layered and crisp against your thighs. Your hair is pulled tight into a bun, not a single strand out of place. The stage lights cast a pale glow over your skin, highlighting the sharp, elegant lines of your arms as they stretch and flutter, the ghost of a bird in flight.

Your expression is serious. Focused. But vulnerable in a way Bruce can’t tear his eyes from.

He doesn’t remember this.

The realization roots him to the spot, chest heavy, heart sinking deeper with every note of Tchaikovsky that trickles from the old speakers.

You were— what, fifteen there? Sixteen? Barely holding yourself together behind a mask of effortless poise. And he— God, what was he doing that night? A mission? The Board? Chasing criminals in an alley while his daughter performed like this… and he didn’t even remember.

He studies the video as if his eyes can retroactively imprint it into his mind, as if enough staring will make up for the absence in his memory.

Your movements are flawless. Perfect control. The edges of your face still round with youth. But Bruce knows better than anyone how much pain hides behind discipline.

It’s written all over your face — the stubborn set of your jaw, the ghost of uncertainty behind your practiced eyes, the tightness in your shoulders.

You’re magnificent.

You’re hurting.

And he wasn’t there.

The tape is old. Not from a phone. Not from some bystander’s recording. This was filmed deliberately. Carefully. Preserved as if whoever held the camera wanted to keep you forever.

Bruce takes a few steps closer, his briefcase lowering to his side, forgotten.

His eyes trace the curve of your arms, the extension of your neck, the slight quiver in your breath as you leap, as you land, as you fight to stay within the perfection of your craft.

There’s no memory in his mind that matches this. Not a single one. He’s seen you at galas, at fundraisers, at piano recitals. He’s seen you in training rooms, balancing yourself on beams, sharpening your strength.

But a tutu? Ballet shoes? A studio filled with mirrors?

Nothing.

It’s like a life you had that he never noticed. Like a whole world you lived in while he was busy watching other shadows.

His throat tightens.

You are his daughter. His first daughter. He remembers your birth, born from a weeping mother who loved him too much, who loved you so much. How the red of her face went away, pale to the bone. 

He didn't cry her death, but he cried with your first word. He remembers your first steps. Your first trophy in Chemistry. How much you loved to chat his ear off, and how much power you held always above the others. 

You move across the stage with flawless control — shoulders high, chin poised, arms unfolding with the softest grace he’s ever seen. Your expression doesn’t falter. Not once. Not even as the music swells and your body pirouettes, weightless, fragile, untouchable.

The video has no crowd noise. No clapping. No background voices.

Only the music.

Only you.

And your face — that perfect, painful blend of determination and sadness. The one he’s learned to recognize far too late.

How many hours did you spend practicing this? How many times did you look for him in the crowd?

He takes a slow step forward, his hand brushing against the back of the couch, eyes never leaving the screen.

You were so small then.

Not a child. Not anymore. But still so… unfinished. Still trying to carve yourself into the version of you that they would finally see.

Finally be proud of.

His throat tightens, a rough exhale breaking free as your final pose holds, the swell of music lingering, your chest rising with practiced, shallow breaths. There’s a flicker of nerves beneath the confidence in your face — like you’re searching for something in the crowd.

You looked… flawless.

Untouchable.

But utterly alone.

The sound of quiet footsteps behind him breaks the trance.

Alfred stands at the doorway, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression as composed as ever but his eyes soft, distant, as if he too is caught somewhere between then and now.

The butler clears his throat softly, eyes landing on the screen.

“My apologies, sir,” Alfred says gently. “I meant to switch it off before you returned. It was… keeping me company while I tidied up.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the screen. “How old was she there?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Sixteen,” Alfred answers, stepping to his side. “The Winter Gala performance. Her first lead role.”

Bruce’s brows furrow deeper.

“I don’t remember this.”

Alfred tilts his head, a hint of something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “No,” he agrees softly. “You wouldn’t.”

Guilt knots tighter in Bruce’s stomach.

“She danced,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than to Alfred. “She danced. I didn’t know she—”

“She was quite fond of it,” Alfred interjects, gently. “Ballet, specifically. It was not a hobby, not a passing fancy. It was… vital to her. For quite some time.”

Bruce’s chest tightens. “Why didn’t I know?”

Alfred tilts his head, his eyes soft with something like sadness.

“She sent invitations,” Alfred says, his voice careful, not accusing. “Quite a few of them. They were never demands. Only… hopes.”

Bruce swallows hard.

“I’ve watched this more times than I care to admit,” Alfred confesses quietly. “She never saw me filming, of course. But I thought… perhaps one day she’d want the memory preserved.”

Bruce’s eyes darken with something complex — guilt, longing, helplessness.

“She shouldn’t have had to perform for a camera when her family was supposed to be in the audience.”

“Quite right,” Alfred agrees, but there’s no venom in his voice. Just quiet, well-worn sadness.

The video loops, restarting, and there you are again — poised, perfect, heartbreakingly young.

“She was good,” Bruce says, as if that’s the only thing keeping his throat from closing.

“She was remarkable,” Alfred corrects, soft pride threading through the words. “Is remarkable.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve seen her?”

Alfred hesitates for only a moment. “I’ve… kept in touch.”

That shouldn’t surprise him. Alfred always did what the rest of them couldn’t seem to manage.

Bruce runs a hand over his mouth, his eyes heavy with the exhaustion that no amount of hours at the office can replicate. He should’ve been there. At that performance. At all of them. Instead, he’s watching it now — through a screen, through years of distance and absence that not even money or apologies can erase.

“How did I miss it?” The words are barely audible.

Alfred exhales slowly, his posture softening. “You were… occupied. As you’ve always been.”

“Occupied,” Bruce echoes, bitterness curling around the syllables.

He looks at the screen again — your form mid-spin, graceful, celestial, untouchable.

“She was always right there,” Bruce says, voice hoarse, more to himself than to the butler. “Always… there.”

Alfred’s eyes soften further. “Children often are. Until they no longer are.”

The implication twists in Bruce’s stomach like a knife.

“I didn’t… I didn’t see her.”

The butler’s expression softens, but he does not let Bruce retreat into his guilt without resistance. “You loved her, sir. You still do.”

“That doesn’t mean I saw her. I don't know her favourite colour. Don't know if she likes to paint or to draw more. I don't even know her dreams. If what she's doing is actually what she wants.”

Alfred crosses the room, his footsteps light, precise, as they’ve always been. “You were not an easy man to reach, Master Wayne.”

Bruce’s throat bobs. “No.”

“She tried.”

“I know.”

Alfred’s gaze is patient but not forgiving. “Do you?”

Bruce’s breath catches.

He remembers the box Dick threw at him.

The letters.

The tickets.

The invitations.

The recitals.

The soft, desperate handwriting.

He knows now.

He should have known then.

“She wrote to me,” Bruce murmurs, his voice thin, frayed around the edges. “More than I realized.”

Alfred’s silence is answer enough.

“She wanted me there.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred confirms. “She did.”

“She wanted all of us there.”

“She did.”

Bruce’s hands curl into fists, a familiar tension threading through his muscles.

“I failed her.”

Alfred doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t need to.

“She won’t come home.”

“Would you?” Alfred counters, one brow arching faintly.

Bruce exhales, his eyes dragging back to the video.

“You raised her,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “More than I did.”

Alfred’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “As I’ve done for all of you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

“Perhaps not.” The older man offers a faint, sad smile. “But I’d do it again. For her. For you.”

The room falls silent again, the soft static hum of the old video filling the space.

Bruce studies your younger self — your graceful posture, the way your fingers float like feathers, the quiet tragedy tucked behind your poised, serious eyes.

You were always trying to be seen.

And he never looked.

“I didn’t even know about this performance,” Bruce admits, the guilt dripping from every word.

Alfred inclines his head, the faintest trace of sympathy in his voice. “She sent invitations. More than one.”

His stomach twists. He remembers the box now — the old letters, the unopened envelopes. The things Dick shoved into his chest like an accusation. His daughter’s quiet, desperate attempts to earn his attention.

“How many?” Bruce asks, though he already fears the answer.

Alfred’s gaze sharpens faintly. “Enough.”

Enough to break your heart.

Enough that you stopped sending them.

Enough that you left.

“She’s angry.”

Alfred sighs, correcting gently. “She’s hurt.”

“It’s the same thing,” Bruce mutters.

“Not with her.” The butler’s voice lowers, steady, knowing. “She’s hurt, sir. But she still loves you.”

“She doesn’t want to come home.”

“Would you, if you were her?” Alfred’s brow lifts again, repeating it with enough hardness that it seemed protective.

Bruce presses a hand to his mouth again, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that surprises even him.

“You think it’s too late?”

Alfred considers that, gaze steady, voice level. “It’s never too late to see your children, sir.”

Bruce exhales slowly, turning from the television, the weight of years clawing down his spine.

But your ghost lingers.

Dancing, weightless, frozen in the grain of an old recording.

Unreachable.

But not gone.

Never gone.

“Keep it on,” Bruce says quietly, finally moving toward his study. “I… want to watch the rest.”

Alfred inclines his head, a quiet pride hidden beneath the lines of his face.

“As you wish, Master Wayne.”

Galas have always been your thing.

It’s ironic, considering how much you claim to hate them.

You’ve always liked the ridiculousness of them — the glimmer, the grand chandeliers that hang like artificial constellations, the free food (god, the free food), the freshest champagne you could possibly imagine, crisp and cold on your tongue. And most of all, you’ve always liked being seen without really being seen. People looking at you like you’re a fixture. A diamond. A Wayne. But never looking close enough to see the cracks. It was predictable.

You’ve always liked that.

You’ve never missed a Wayne Gala.

Well, except the ones over the last four years. But that doesn’t really count, does it? You always had an excuse — busy exhibitions, international commissions, gallery showings too far from Gotham to justify the trip. It’s not like anyone ever reached out to convince you otherwise. Alfred sent a few reminders. A few check-ins. A few invitations in handwriting you’d recognize even if you were blind.

But from the rest of them? Silence.

Not even a half-hearted message from Bruce. Not even a poorly typed text from Tim. Not even Jason, who used to drag you to the dessert tables when you were kids.

Four years.

Four. Years.

And now? Now Dick talks about an invitation, carefully worded, with a little kiss to the forehead, like that’s enough to close a chasm that’s been bleeding open for nearly half a decade.

It took a lot of thinking.

Too much thinking.

It took pacing around your New York studio for hours. It took pouring over the invitation like it was a goddamn riddle. It took staring at the flight options for three days straight without booking anything. It took your manager nearly bribing you with the most luxurious hotel she could find near Gotham’s Diamond District — “You deserve to spoil yourself,” she’d said, “It’s not like you’ve ever stopped enjoying the perks of being rich.”

And she was right.

Why would moving away from the Manor, from them, mean you had to stop living like a Wayne?

You pack light. Just enough. Enough to look like the Wayne daughter you’ve always been, even if you don’t live like one anymore.

You don’t tell anyone you’re coming. Not even Alfred.

Let them be surprised. Let them think you wouldn’t show. Maybe you wouldn’t have, if not for the stupid way your chest tightened when you thought of Alfred standing alone in that sea of Gotham’s glittering snakes.

You check into the hotel the day before. The best suite. Floor to ceiling windows. Egyptian cotton sheets. The kind of place that feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life.

And that night, when the gala arrives, you dress like you belong in the stars.

The gown clings like it was crafted on your body — a river of silver and glimmer that hugs every line, the back nonexistent, with a dangerously low neckline that might’ve made Bruce faint if he still bothered to police what you wore. You wear your wealth without apology. You wear it like armor.

And of course, the only rule for tonight — the masquerade.

You slide the pearly lace mask over your face, delicate and sharp at the edges, just enough to soften your features but not enough to truly hide you. It settles against your nose, just right. Just enough for you to choose who gets to recognize you.

It doesn’t take long to find the pulse of the party when you arrive.

The ballroom is suffocatingly familiar, but you slip through the throng like you were born to haunt these halls. They don’t know you’re here. Not yet. You watch them from the corners — all of them.

You spot Dick first, of course — tall, broad-shouldered, radiant in the way he always is, in tailored black, mask dark as his hair, laughing at something Kori says beside him.

Jason lingers near the bar on the other side, glass of scotch in hand, sharp in a dark suit with no tie, his mask sleek, simple, leather probably — watching the room like it’s a battlefield.

Cassandra drifts near the edges, quiet, observant, a shadow that blends in until you know where to look. Stephanie’s at her side, bright and careless in silver sequins and an obnoxiously large feathered mask, grinning as she talks to Barbara, who’s leaning on her chair with a beautiful green dress that compliments her.

Tim’s buried in a conversation with Lucius. Duke laughs with some younger faces you don’t recognize.

And Bruce…

Your eyes catch him like a thread pulled tight across your ribs.

There, near the grand staircase, suited in sharp, quiet black, his mask more symbolic than necessary. Gotham’s unshakable stone.

Selina prowls near him, sleek as ever, her gown a slinking cascade of onyx and emerald, her mask feline and faintly amused, scanning the room like she’s already picked her next mark.

They don’t see you.They’re all here.

They’re all here and they don’t even know you’ve arrived.

You hide at first.

Not because you’re afraid. But because it’s… amusing, in its own way. To slip around them unnoticed. To watch them, burning, oblivious to the weight still hanging between you.

You slip to the bar, sighing in relief at the familiarity of the setup. “Double martini. Two olives. Don’t go easy on me.”

His gaze lingers — not inappropriate, just… curious. Your dress, your mask, the way you carry yourself. You can practically hear the assumptions churning behind his eyes.

You don’t care.

The first sip burns beautifully down your throat, the familiar taste grounding you more than any polite conversation or shallow compliment ever could.

It’s only when someone settles on the stool beside you that you spare them a lazy side-glance, fully prepared to ignore whatever socialite or trust-fund brat is looking for conversation. But the air shifts.

A familiar hum of power. A warmth that prickles under your skin like static.

And then you see them.

Bright blue eyes. The same sharp jawline, same black curls, same Clark Kent perfection watered down with just enough edge to make your pulse stutter.

Conner Kent.

And fuck.

The years have been good to him.

You remember him being cocky when you were younger — flirting like it was his job, making the most of those ridiculous Kryptonian genetics and his boyish charm. You remember finding him obnoxious, occasionally tolerable, sometimes fun.

You also remember how much he looked like Clark back then. But now? Now it’s worse. He’s grown into that face. That jawline. Those broad shoulders. The cocky tilt of his mouth.

His mask is dark, simple, framing his eyes in a way that makes you briefly forget why you’ve spent years avoiding these kinds of nights.

“New York’s finest, huh?” His voice is smooth, playful. “Didn’t expect to see you here, princess.”

You arch a brow, twisting your glass between your fingers. “You recognized me that fast?”

Conner shrugs, his grin widening. “Please. You think a mask and a fancy dress can hide you from me?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Worked on your father just fine.”

His eyes glimmer, leaning in just slightly. “Clark doesn’t look at women the way I do.”

“Oh?” You sip again, not breaking eye contact. “And how do you look at women, Kent?”

“Like they could wreck me if they wanted to.”

You chuckle, resting your chin on your hand. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad at all,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just a touch. “I think I’d enjoy it.”

You tap your nails against your glass, amused. You forgot how fun this little dance was with him — the teasing, the unspoken challenges, the heat that lingers just under the surface.

“You’ve grown up,” you comment, gaze dragging slowly down his figure before sliding back up.

“So have you,” he counters, voice light but eyes serious. “Didn’t realize you’d turn into this though. Kinda dangerous for someone like me.”

You smirk. “You’re bulletproof, Conner.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not weak to something else.”

You laugh, genuinely now, and maybe it’s the first time all night that your chest feels a little lighter.

“Flirting, Kent?” You raise a brow, leaning in just enough to let your words curl between you. “Already?”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing the opportunity.”

His elbow nudges yours. “So what’s the plan? You hiding here all night or you gonna let your family know you’re back from the dead?”

You pause, rolling your martini between your palms.

“Not sure yet.”

He leans closer, voice dipping low. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You hold up your half-finished martini, unimpressed. “Already covered.”

His grin is shameless. “Dinner, then?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m available.”

“You just got back. You haven’t made plans yet.”

“Maybe I have.”

“Maybe you should cancel them.”

Your lips curl, a sharp glimmer in your eye. “You’re still cocky.”

“And you still love it.”

You don’t deny it.

“You filled out, too,” you allow, smirking faintly. “Congratulations. You finally look your age.”

“Technically, I’m still figuring out what my age even means.”

“You and me both.”

The banter is effortless, dangerous. The kind that makes old walls slip, familiarity weaving between syllables before you even think to stop it.

Conner leans in slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially. “You planning to reveal your identity to the masses tonight? Or just me?”

You swirl your glass, silver rings catching the light. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you make it worth my while.”

His laugh is low, warm, frustratingly attractive.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You lean in just enough to whisper, “I’m the one who taught you how.”

The air between you hums with something complicated. Heavy. Unspoken.

The banter continues, an easy, familiar rhythm neither of you have to work for. Conner’s good at this — at playful deflection, at toeing the line between harmless and dangerous. You’re better. You’ve been playing this game since you were old enough to balance a champagne glass without spilling.

You barely notice how long you’ve been talking — the subtle shift of your legs crossing, the tilt of his body angling closer, the way your laughter slips out easier than you intended.

It’s comfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s—

“Y/N.”

The voice cuts clean through the haze of conversation, small but sharp, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

You turn.

Damian.

All stiff posture and narrowed green eyes, black mask perched perfectly across his face. He’s young — far too young to pull off the possessive, territorial glare aimed squarely at Conner — but he tries.

His arms are crossed behind his back like he’s holding himself perfectly still, but you know him — you know the coiled possessiveness thrumming under his skin, the restless edge of a boy who can’t yet control how deeply he feels everything.

You blink, the amusement slipping slightly as you meet his gaze. “Little Bat.”

His eyes flick to Conner, sharp, dissecting. “You’re late.”

“To the party?” You glance around lazily. “Or to disappointing the family?”

“You shouldn’t be speaking with him.”

Conner snorts softly. “Nice to see you too, little Wayne.”

Damian’s shoulders straighten, chin lifting, the scowl deepening. “Your presence isn’t required.”

“I’m a plus one.”

“To whom?”

Conner grins. “Jon. Of course.”

You sip your martini, hiding a smirk. Damian’s glower only intensifies. Conner’s brows lift, but you wave a hand, sighing.

“Damian.” You say his name like an exhale, soft but firm. “It’s fine.”

His eyes cut to you, expression faltering — just a little — the jealousy bleeding into something more familiar. Sadness. Longing. That quiet desperation to know you. To pull you back into the orbit of a family that doesn’t know how to hold you.

You soften, just barely, your fingers tapping against your glass.

“Go terrorize someone else,” you murmur, leaning back. “I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” His words are low, too old for his age, too heavy for his shoulders.

For a second, the noise of the party dims — the hum of music, the clink of glasses, the distant murmurs of the wealthy. It all fades under the weight of his voice.

You meet his eyes again, steady.

And for once… you don’t deflect.

You see him. Your brother. Your blood. Possessive. Flawed. Hurting.

But still yours.

“Go find Dick,” you tell him gently. “Tell him I’m here.”

Damian hesitates — poised between stubbornness and reluctant obedience.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning on his heel without another word, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow.

Conner whistles low beside you. “Protective, isn’t he?”

You sip the last of your martini, gaze lingering on the space where Damian vanished.

“Seems like it,” you answer, dry. “Planning to hover all night, Kent?”

“Only if you make it worth my time.”

You sip your drink again, letting your eyes trace over him, your smirk sharp.

“Trust me,” you purr. “I always do.”

He keeps his gaze on you, even when you step away, already knowing Dick's on your way. Conner's hand trembles when you are far enough.

You've always had that power over him.

The flow of the gala presses people into motion — like waves shifting you from one current to the next — and before you can slip away, you see him.

You should’ve stayed at the bar.

The thought strikes you the second you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd — tall, broad-shouldered, the sharp lines of his tuxedo crisp against the glow of the ballroom lights, mask perched slightly crooked as if he forgot it was there entirely.

Dick Grayson.

Golden boy. Gotham’s first darling. Your older brother.

His eyes land on you like a homing missile, the weight of recognition hitting him square in the chest. You see the way his whole expression shifts — from polite party smile to something cracked open and raw — and you have precisely three seconds to brace yourself before he’s barreling through the sea of bodies.

You barely manage to set your empty martini glass down when his arms close around you.

“Birdie!” Dick smiled, achingly fond.

Your body stiffens, shoulders locking as he pulls you in tight — crushing, familiar, suffocating.

You don’t hug back.

Not entirely out of malice. More… discomfort. Half reluctance, half uncertainty. The kind of uncertainty that comes from years of space wedged between you, built brick by brick by neglect and distance and a silence none of them ever really bothered to break.

Your hands make a vague gesture against his back — a touch, not an embrace — more of an acknowledgement than a return. You don’t melt into it, you don’t lean your head on his shoulder like you used to when you were younger and still believed he would always notice you. You don’t really want to be in his arms now.

You want to breathe.

You want to escape the knot forming in your throat.

“Hi, Dick,” you manage, voice cool but not cruel, your arms hovering at your sides.

He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, fingers curling against your back as if sheer proximity will undo the years you’ve spent away, as if your presence alone might stitch the fractures shut.

“You came,” he says, pulling back just enough to search your face — to really look at you. His eyes glint behind the mask, blue as ever, full of that frustrating, unbearable love that knots low in your chest. “You actually— Jesus, look at you.”

You resist the urge to step away, tilting your head, expression unreadable. “Looking’s all anyone’s done tonight.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know you,” he says pointedly. “Not like we do.”

You nearly laugh.

Before you can, though, the rest of them close in. Stephanie’s practically vibrating at Cass’s shoulder, bright and eager, grin wide even beneath her delicate blue mask. You catch the subtle way her hand tugs at Duke’s wrist, grounding herself as her eyes flick across you, cataloging every detail.

It starts with Jason — tall, broad, dressed in a black suit sharp enough to cut glass, his own mask sleek and minimal, jaw tense as his eyes drag over you like a silent, protective scan.

“Took you long enough, dove,” he mutters, crossing his arms. His voice is rougher than you remember, older, carrying the weight of too many second chances and not enough time. “Thought you’d ditched this city for good.”

You shrug, noncommittal. “Almost did.”

Jason’s lips twitch, the barest ghost of a smirk cracking through his walls. “Figures.” But there’s relief there too. 

Tim clears his throat, stepping forward, hands shoved in his pockets. His mask doesn’t hide the flicker of cautious joy when he steps beside Jason, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Hey.”

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

It’s awkward — painfully so — but you let it hang, let the silence linger just long enough to make him squirm before Stephanie bursts in, smile wide, voice bright.

“You look insane, by the way,” she gushes, eyes sparkling. “Like— like movie-star insane. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“You always did outshine us, though,” Duke adds, his grin easy, his voice warm.

You give them both a faint smile, but your heart thrums tight, your pulse skipping at the weight of so many eyes, so many family eyes, trained on you after so long.

“Four years’ll do that,” you reply smoothly, though your grip tightens slightly on your own skin.

Cass steps forward, close enough that her presence hums at your side — quiet, steady, eyes soft. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. Her gaze lingers on your face, your dress, your mask — and something like relief flickers there, sharp and fleeting. 

A quiet understanding passes between you, wordless, raw.

“Welcome back.” Barbara’s voice cuts gently through the haze, her smile warm but cautious. “We’ve… missed you.”

Your lips twitch faintly, too practiced to let the bitterness leak through.

Duke gives you a small nod, eyes sharp beneath his mask. “You picked a good night to crash the party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur, though the lie tastes sour.

Damian steps forward, shoulder brushing your side, posture tight. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming.”

Your eyes slide down to him, amused. “Didn’t think I needed permission.”

He scowls. “You should’ve told me.”

You chuckle softly, unbothered. “Upset, aren’t we?”

“You’re my sister,” he snaps, quiet but fierce, green eyes dark under his mask. “I’m allowed.”

You grab a glass of champagne when one waiter passes by your side, and sip it almost immediately, the bubbles cold against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

“This is so cool,” Duke says, almost a little breathless. “You’re like a legend in our circles, y’know? The Huntress, the prodigy, the one who got out. We used to trade stories like—”

“Duke.” Tim’s quiet warning is a shade too late.

But you just tilt your head, amused, not angry. You flick a glance at him, voice a little cooler now. “Got out? Is that how you talk about me now?”

Jason’s jaw flexes, guilt flickering briefly across his face, but Duke just looks caught, nervous but not apologetic.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” Duke mutters. “I just— you know, you’re like—”

“A ghost?” You offer, arching a brow. “A story the family tells?”

Duke’s grin falters. “No. More like the one that got free.”

Finally — predictably — the weight of the room shifts again.

You feel it before you see him.

Bruce.

Stoic, untouchable, tall enough to part the crowd like smoke as he steps into the loose circle your siblings have unintentionally formed around you. His mask is simple, sharp black against the silver at his temples, but his eyes — dark, unreadable, exhausted — land on you like a goddamn hammer.

The air tightens.

You square your shoulders.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Your father — the reason you learned how to hide your heartbreak behind pearls and piano keys — stands there, watching you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face.

Finally, you speak, cool and distant.

“Father.”

His jaw tightens. “You look well.”

You offer a sharp, humorless smile. “Money tends to have that effect.”

“You’re here,” Bruce says, quiet, low, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You shrug again, keeping your voice level. “It’s a party.”

Dick’s arm slides back around your shoulder, fingers curling lightly, his grin more subdued now, softer.

“Birdie,” he murmurs, almost chiding. “Let us have this one.”

You shrug beneath his hand, not quite leaning in, not quite pulling away.

The others hover, circling like hawks, their excitement simmering beneath the awkwardness, their possessiveness sharper than you remember. It coils through the group like tension on a tripwire — subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

But your gaze flickers. Not for wishing to be in another place.

Just for wishing to be in another's arms. 

[cinnxmxngxrl]

Imagine Joel taking your virginity

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

WC: 5.4k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, porn with no plot, unspecified but big age gap, oral (m!receiving), virginity loss, unprotected piv, thigh riding, daddy kink, baby-talking, young and innocent reader, creampie, condescending joel, terms like baby girl, sweet little girl etc.

Even thought this part is a standalone, you might want to read a previous part: Joel teaches you how to go down on him.

Today was just another quiet afternoon in Jackson, you’d been heading back from the greenhouse, you weren’t paying much attention to your surroundings, too focused trying to brush the dirt off your knees, until you saw them…

Joel was outside the stables, half-laughing about something with a woman, gray in her hair, deep lines around her eyes from a life lived outdoors, she looked about the same age as Joel. She was standing close to him, not too close, nothing inappropriate, nothing that would give you the right to get pissed, but the kind of close that felt natural.

You stopped walking without meaning to, and you watched as she touched his arm and laughed. They looked right together, and it hit you like a sucker punch, the breath caught in your lungs and wouldn’t let go. Maybe because you’d never look right with Joel next to you, at least not in the way people expect a couple to look. People didn’t assume you two were together, hell, you’d even been mistaken for father and daughter more than once whenever someone new showed up in Jackson.

You turned away, heading back home before you could watch more. You felt so small, so young, like some little kid playing grown-up. You weren’t enough, not for him, not when he could talk for hours with a woman who remembered the same pre-outbreak songs, who didn’t need Joel to teach her how to shoot, or how to suck him off, a woman who could take all of him, not just the tip.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed after you reached your house until you heard the door open, footsteps crossing the threshold. Joel’s voice followed a second later, light and casual.

“Hey, darlin’. You home already?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t get the words out of your mouth. You felt so insignificant, who were you trying to fool? There would come a day, because of course there would, when Joel would get tired of playing house with a little girl pretending to be a woman.

Joel walked into the bedroom, you didn’t look up, you were staring hard at the floor, fists clenched in your lap. He paused in the doorway, sensing the shift in the air instantly.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head.

“C’mon now,” he said gently, stepping closer. “I know when something’s up, sweetheart.”

You finally glanced up, and the moment your eyes met his, everything cracked.

“I saw you,” you said quietly. “With her. That woman.”

Joel blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Her. Outside the stables.”

His brow furrowed. “Oh, you mean Carmen?”

You nodded once, the name sounded even worse spoken aloud.

Joel crouched in front of you. “What about her?”

You let the silence hang for a second too long, he caught it, could see it on your face. What were you supposed to say? He hadn’t done anything wrong, hadn’t cheated or anything like that.

“Goddammit,” he murmured. “My baby’s got herself twisted up, huh?”

“She’s your age,” you whispered. “She laughs with you. She gets your stories. She probably remembers music on the radio. And—and—I feel like a stupid little girl. You’re a man. You’ve lived this whole life. I don’t even… I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, I just pretend, and you’re just—You’re Joel. You don’t need me.”

“You really are just a dumb little thing, huh?” Your breath caught, he wasn’t cruel when he said it, just… exasperated, deeply, lovingly exasperated “Little dumb baby.”

Your breath was shallow, tears stung your eyes, but you didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. Joel didn’t say anything at first, just reached for your hands, gently unclenching them.

“I’m gonna say this once,” he said, voice low. “And I want you to hear me, alright?”

You nodded, barely.

“You’re my baby. You're soft, and sweet, and so fuckin’ easy to wreck I can barely keep my hands off you. You look at me like I’m good, even when I ain’t. And yeah, baby, I like that you need me. I like teachin’ you. I like when you look up at me all scared and excited, askin’ me to show you things no one ever has.”

He pulled your hands to his chest, right over his heart.

“I want you. I choose you. Every single goddamn day.”

Your throat closed, he sounded sincere, and you really wanted to believe him

“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked. “I see someone who makes me laugh when I forget how. Someone who touches me like I matter. You know how long it’s been since I’ve felt that? I feel alive, baby. I feel like a man again. Not a ghost.”

You looked at him, really looked, and saw how wrecked he was now, how deeply this was hitting him too.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re not a phase. You’re not pretendin’. And you’re sure as hell not some kid to me, you’re my girl.”

“I just… I know I’m not what you’re used to. I’m not older. I don’t know how to do stuff. I had to ask you to show me how to… suck you, and then I couldn’t even take you, not really. Just the tip.” your voice cracked on that. “You’ve waited so long already and it’s not fair—”

“Stop.”

You blinked, his voice was quiet, but it had teeth. Joel pushed himself up slowly, sitting beside you on the bed, and looked down at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think I don’t want this?” he asked, voice low and gravel-deep. “You think I’d rather be off with some older, experienced woman who could deep throat me and ride me into the goddamn sunset?”

He shook his head, almost laughing, but there was no humor in it.

“You think I give a single shit that you don’t know what you’re doin’? Sweetheart, I like teachin’ you. I like that you’ve never done this before. I like bein’ the first cock you take. I like that I get to be gentle with you. Take my time. Watch you fall apart under me.” He leaned down, bracing himself over you, hand sliding to your cheek. “You think I’m sufferin’ ‘cause I only had the tip inside you? Baby girl, that was the best fuckin’ orgasm I’ve had in years.”

Your breath caught.

“You were clenchin’ around me so tight, I damn near came the second I pushed in. And you were so sweet—so good—lookin’ up at me all wide-eyed, sayin’ please, Joel, please just the tip, like you didn’t know you were ruinin’ me.”

You looked away, a bit embarrassed by the memory, but is hand gently brought your face back to his.

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for,” he said, softly this time. “You think I want someone who’s had twenty dicks in her mouth and five up her pussy?”

Your eyes widened, Joel was always so blunt, you let out a startled laugh, he grinned, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip.

“I want you, baby. I want this tight, shy little thing that don’t even know how sweet her own mouth feels until I show her. I want the girl who looks up at me while she’s suckin’ and asks, am I doin’ good, Joel? like it don’t drive me fuckin’ insane.”

You nodded against him, voice small. “I just… I want to be enough for you.”

Joel pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up. You were so clueless, Joel thought, how couldn’t you see how much he loved how soft and innocent you were? How you were all he’d ever wanted? Your sweetness made both his heart ache and his cock throb.

“You are enough. You’re fuckin’ perfect for me.”

You searched his face, the lines, the grey at his temples, the quiet sadness behind his eyes, and all you saw there was truth.

“Even if I need you to teach me everything?” You whispered.

“Especially that,” he murmured. “’Cause I’m gonna teach you right. Teach you slow. You’re gonna learn everything from me, and only me."

“Joel... I wanna try again,” you said, and your voice came out soft, but sure. “With my mouth.”

Joel stilled, his eyes darkened slow, oh, the things you did to him, hearing you say those filthy things with that sweet, innocent mouth of yours. He smiled, slow, crooked, filthy.

“You mean suckin’ my cock?” he asked, all teasing drawl and patronizing sweetness.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want to.”

Joel’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “You askin’ real nice, baby girl.”

You leaned closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Please, Joel. I wanna make you feel good. Wanna do it right this time.”

He groaned, low and sharp, hand flexing on your skin.

“Alright, then, but only cause you want to, not because you feel like you need to prove somethin’,” he muttered. “Go ahead. Show me what you remember.”

He shifted back on the bed and unzipped his jeans with one hand, tugging them low enough to free his cock, already half-hard, thick, and flushed. You sat up on your knees between his legs, suddenly so aware of how big he looked like this, broad and spread out, just waiting.

Your hand wrapped around the base of him, he twitched in your palm, and you leaned down slowly, licking a soft stripe up the underside like he’d shown you before.

Joel exhaled sharp through his nose. “Thassit. Just like that, baby.”

“Hi there,” you said softly with his cock on your hand.

Joel huffed a laugh, low and almost incredulous. “You talkin’ to my cock now?”

“Maybe,” you said to Joel, before focusing your eyes back to his cock. “Hello again,” you said sweetly, leaning in to kiss the head. “Missed me?”

His breath was already hitching, you took it as a good sign and did it again, this time licking the head in slow, teasing circles, letting your tongue slip under the ridge.

“Look at you. Such a good boy. Getting all big and strong for me.”

Joel groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus. You’re one of a kind, baby girl.”

You batted your lashes up at him. “You like it.”

“I love it,” he muttered, eyes fixed on your mouth as you gave another teasing lick up the underside. “Love my silly baby girl talkin’ nonsense while she plays with her food.”

You giggled and leaned in, rubbing your cheek affectionately against his cock like it was a plush toy. And then you leaned down and kissed it with over-the-top reverence, soft little “muah” sounds, little nose nuzzles. You really liked his cock, sure, it was the only one you’d ever seen in person, so you didn’t exactly have a reference point, but still… if you had to guess? It was the kind of cock a woman would want

He gave you that slow, dangerous smirk. “You gonna make out with him right in front of me, baby?”

You nodded solemnly. “Don’t be jealous, daddy. He deserves love too.”

Joel groaned like he was in pain, throwing his head back on the pillow. “Christ, you’re such a goddamn brat.”

You were driving him absolutely insane, on your knees, looking like a sweet little angel who’d fallen from heaven, your innocent little face nuzzling all over his cock, rubbing your cheek against it, pressing soft kisses… He wanted so badly to grab your hair, shove his cock down your throat and hold you there as he emptied his balls.

You kept flicking your tongue over his tip over and over again, watching as it began to leak more

“I’m your brat.”

“Damn right you are,” he said roughly, running a hand through your hair. “My sweet dumb baby. Givin’ daddy a heart attack every time she opens her mouth.”

“He missed me,” you whispered, tongue tracing around his tip. “He loves my mouth, doesn’t he?”

Joel’s voice dropped, rough and sweet and low. “Yeah, baby. He does. You got the best fuckin’ mouth. He wants you drooling all over him, don’t he?”

“Mhm.” You licked a fat stripe up the underside, then wrapped your lips around the head, making Joel moan, loud and unfiltered.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “You been practicin’ in your dreams or somethin’, baby girl?”

You smiled against him. “Just been thinkin’ about it,” you whispered. “Thinkin’ about makin’ you feel good.”

“Better just be that,” Joel groaned, “and not you practicin’ on any of those boys from round town.”

“Jooeeel,” you giggled, sweet and teasing, “you know I don’t want anyone else but daddy.”

He growled, and you let your lips close around the tip and sucked, hollowing your cheeks, going slow, shallow, just the tip, in and out, working your hand at the base to match like he'd taught you last time.

“Atta girl,” Joel groaned. “That’s it. Look at you. My good girl. My perfect little cockslut.” Joel’s hand came to rest on the back of your head, not pushing, just resting.

“Jesus, baby. You’re learnin’. Makin’ daddy feel so good…”

You moaned around him, and he twitched in your mouth, the vibrations were just adding to the intense pleasure you were already giving him.

“Fuck—yeah, do that again. Moan on it. Shit.”

You moaned and took him a little deeper, your throat felt tight, but you were determined, wanting to prove him you were a big girl, one that could take his entire cock in your mouth. You pulled back after you ran out of breath, and sucked softly on the tip, letting spit drip and smear down your fist.

He groaned loud. “Look at you,” he panted. “Look at this fuckin’ mouth, takin’ my cock so sweet. You were made for this, baby girl.”

You got bolder by his compliments, and licked down to the base and back up again. Let the head rest on your tongue and gazed up at him, eyes wide and wet, mouth full.

“Oh fuck, baby—don’t look at me like that, I swear to God—”

“You like that?” You asked, lips glossy with spit. “You like watchin’ me do it?”

“I love watchin’ you do it,” he growled. “You’re so good, baby. S’good for me. This mouth’s made for suckin’ daddy’s cock.”

You whimpered, and he caught your face in both hands, gently guiding you down again, rocking his hips just a little. He needed it, yes, he loved the gentle flicks of your tongue, the toying with his tip, but right now he needed to hit the back of your throat.

“You take what I give you,” he murmured. “Little bit deeper now. That’s it. Just like that. My good girl. Take him all the way. Show him how much you love him.”

You worked him with your mouth and hand together, taking breaks to lick, to suck, to breathe—and each time you paused, he praised you, whispered filth like you were doing him the biggest favor in the world.

“Goddamn, baby, you’re so pretty like this… pretty mouth full of me…”

“Yeah, just like that, take your time… fuck, I ain’t gonna last…”

“You feel how hard I am for you? You know what you do to me, baby girl?”

You sucked him harder, hand twisting at the base, Joel groaned, full-bodied and deep. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “Ain’t gonna last another minute with you takin’ it like that.”

You whimpered around him, thighs squeezing together. Just his moans and those bold, filthy compliments were enough to get you wet and aching.

“Aw, baby’s gettin’ wet just suckin’ cock, huh? Poor little thing. Gonna need me later?”

You nodded, still bobbing, spit running down your chin. You pulled off just enough to murmur:

“He’s gettin’ twitchy.”

Joel grunted. “Yeah? You feel him startin’ to cum?”

“Warn me, daddy,” you said around him. “But I’m not stoppin’.”

You smiled and sucked him back into your mouth, sucking deep, and you didn’t let go until he was shaking, grunting, hips stuttering.

“F-Fuck… baby—daddy’s cummin’, he’s cummin’—fuck, right now—” Joel groaned, voice rough and desperate, his hips jerking up into you as the pleasure overtook him.

He came down your throat, hot and thick and salty, you liked the taste of it more than you did last time. You swallowed around him, let him ride it out in your mouth, his hands cradling the back of your head, thumbs stroking your cheeks like you were precious.

When you finally pulled off, he was panting, staring down at you like he didn’t know what hit him.

“Holy fuck, baby…”

You smiled, wiped the corner of your mouth. “Did I do good?”

Joel laughed, breathless. “You did perfect.” It was only the second time you’d sucked him, and you’d already outrun every other woman who’d ever been in his life.

He pulled you up onto his lap, arms tight around you. His thigh shifted beneath you, solid and warm, and you didn’t realize you were grinding down against it until he did.

“Ohh,” he said lowly, voice nearly a growl. “There she goes.”

You froze, a little ashamed by the fact that you were so horny you hadn’t even realized you were unconsciously humping his thigh, but Joel leaned in, lips brushing your cheek. “Don’t stop now, sweetheart. Keep ridin' me like that.”

Your eyes fluttered. “On… on your thigh?”

He nodded slowly, letting his hand drag up the curve of your back. “Mhm. That’s it. That’s what a sweet, shy girl like you needs. Nothin’ too scary. Just daddy’s thigh to start.”

“Joel,” you whispered, embarrassed and overwhelmed and aching so bad.

“S’just like dancin’, baby,” he cooed. “You know how to move your hips, don’t you?”

You nodded shyly, lashes still wet from sucking him, clutching at his shoulders. He adjusted your legs so you were straddling one thick, muscled thigh, your knees braced on either side of his, making you feel the corded muscle shift under you.

“Try movin’,” Joel whispered, voice all honeyed patience. “Rock your hips on me. Just a little to begin with. Just rub your sweet lil’ pussy on my thigh. Pretend it’s my cock if you want.”

You hesitated, but then rolled your hips forward, slowly dragging your clothed pussy over the ridge of his thigh, the friction made you gasp and clutch your fingers on his shirt.

“There we go,” Joel cooed. “See? That feel good? That’s what I’m gonna teach you to do all on your own. Go slow at first. Just lil’ rocks, baby.”

“Oh…”

“Atta girl. You’re doin’ so good. S’just like that.”

You moved again, the soft cotton of your panties growing damper with every pass. Joel watched you like a starving man, eyes hooded, hands staying right at your hips, guiding your movements.

Your breath came quicker as your clit caught on the firm pressure beneath you. The friction was perfect through your panties, rough enough to spark pleasure but safe enough not to scare you.

“Feel good, baby?”

You whimpered. “Y-yeah.”

“You ridin’ me now, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “Even if it’s just my thigh. So desperate to be a big girl, you just had to feel it, huh?”

You nodded, moving again, this time more confidently, moaning under your breath as the pressure hit just right.

“Aw, my poor baby,” he whispered, mock sympathy dripping from every word. “Look at you grindin’ all over me like you need it to breathe.”

Your cheeks burned, you buried your face in his neck as your hips rocked faster. “Feels so good, daddy…”

“I know it does. This is what happens when you trust me to teach you. I’ll show you everythin’, baby. Start you slow… get you used to it.”

You moaned into his skin, your clit catching just right on his thigh.

“Bet you’re gettin’ your pretty panties all wet, huh?”

You whimpered again in response.

“Yeah, I can feel it,” he growled. “Soakin’ through. You keep goin’, baby girl. Use me. Rub that little pussy right on me ‘til you cum.”

“God, Joel, it—feels so good—”

He nodded, hand sliding up your back. “I know it does, sweetheart. That’s your little pussy learnin’ how to get off. Keep goin’ for me

“Joel—”

“You need to cum,” he said, gently but firmly. “You need it, don’t you?”

“I—I think so—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned. “Think real hard. Wanna cum for me, don’t you?”

You nodded desperately, now chasing every movement of your hips, the pressure was building and building, your clit throbbing against the strength of his thigh. He let you do your thing, just watched you unravel slowly, whispering praise like poison in your ear.

“That’s it. Just like that. Look at you—so sweet and dumb, so fuckin’ precious. Bet if I let you cum like this, you’ll be beggin’ me to show you what ridin’ my cock feels like next, huh?”

“I think—I think I’m gonna—Joel—”

You cried out, back arching, your thighs shaking as the orgasm hit. It was hot and dizzying and so much stronger than you expected just from grinding him, but you’d never done anything like this, never been talked through it like this, handled like this. You kept rocking even through it, drawn-out and needy, until Joel’s hands stilled you.

“Shh. That’s it. That’s enough, baby. I got you.”

Joel held you close through it, murmuring praise into your hair, arms wrapped around you like you were something breakable. When your breath finally slowed and your hips stilled, you whispered, “Joel…”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Yeah, baby?”

You swallowed, voice small. “I think I’m ready.”

He stilled, blinking, breathing harder now.

“Yeah?” he said after a second, thumb still pressed to your mouth. “You sure, sweetheart? Don’t say it if you’re not. I can wait. I’ll fuckin’ wait forever for you.”

You nodded. “I want it to be you.”

Even though that orgasm had been mind-blowing, your body was still craving more. You were a little scared, but you knew Joel loved you, and that he’d take such good care of you in every step of the way.

Joel let out a shaky, wrecked sound and leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, your lips. He kissed you like you’d given him something holy. He felt so honored to be the one, the only one, to take that part of you. To be the first cock to stretch you open, to fill you up completely.

“Alright,” he rasped. “Alright, baby girl. We’ll go slow. Real slow. I got you.”

He laid you spread open on the bed, softly, like you were made out of glass. He kissed down your chest, your stomach, your thighs, murmuring as he went.

“I just…” You swallowed, cheeks burning. “I’m nervous. I don’t know what it’s gonna feel like.”

Joel exhaled softly, his voice dropped low.

“S’a stretch, baby. First time always is. You might hurt some. But I’ll be right here the whole time. I’ll help you through it. You just gotta listen to me, yeah?”

You nodded.

“Gonna be s’good for me,” he breathed. “You’ve been s’good for me already, haven’t you? Lettin’ me teach you. Lettin’ me touch you. And now you’re gonna let me take you all the way. That what you want, baby? Want daddy to take your little virgin pussy?”

Your thighs trembled. “Y-Yeah.”

Joel pulled back just long enough to wrap his hand around himself, hard, and heavy, all over again.

“Look at this cock, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You really think you’re ready for all this?”

Your eyes flicked to his cock, shy but sure, it was all you needed right now. “I want it.”

He groaned, moving between your thighs again. “Alright. Gonna give you just a little first, okay? Gotta stretch you open slow, baby. I ain’t lettin’ you hurt.”

His fingers stroked through your folds, slick and ready, spreading you for him, and then you felt the broad head of his cock, warm and insistent, pressing right at your entrance.

“Deep breath,” Joel said, his voice like velvet. “Just the tip first, like last time. Let daddy in.”

You exhaled, and he took that moment to push forward, just barely, just enough to breach you. You gasped, your whole body tightened around him instinctively, but Joel was already soothing you, already leaning over you with kisses and murmurs and praise.

You gasped—your hands flew to his arms, nails digging in. “Joel—oh—wait—”

“Shh, shh,” he soothed. “I know, baby. I know. It’s a lot. Daddy’s so sorry.”

He leaned down and kissed your forehead. You were shaking, even if he wasn’t moving.

he whispered. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. “Just… hurts more than I thought.”

“I know, baby. I know it hurts. Just breathe f’me. You’re doin’ great.”

You tried to breathe through it, feeling the dull burn of being opened by something too big, too thick, but still, you wanted it, you wanted him.

“Shhh, baby, that’s it. You’re doin’ so good. Tight little thing, ain’t you? Gonna suck me in so sweet. I knew you’d be tight, but fuck—you’re squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

You let out a shaky laugh that turned into a cry as he gave another slow push.

“It’s a lot, huh?” he whispered against your ear. “Big cock stretchin’ you for the first time. Feels full, don’t it?”

You nodded, jaw trembling. “So full.”

“Too much?”

“No. Keep going, daddy.”

His breath hitched. “Jesus. You’re so fuckin’ brave, baby girl.”

And then finally—finally—he was all the way in, buried to the hilt, making you gasp again. Joel froze, holding you tightly, his whole body shaking above yours.

“Christ,” he groaned. “You took all of me. First time and you’re takin’ me so goddamn deep. That pussy was made for me. You feel that?”

You could only nod. Tears prickled the corners of your eyes. Joel looked down, utterly wrecked by the sight of your pussy swallowing him whole, of that tight little hole stretched around him.

You could feel everything, every twitch, every throb, every part of him stretching you open in ways you’d never imagined. It hurt, he was so big, and your body was struggling to take it, but you knew the pain would fade, your just needed to give your body a minute to stretch, to get used to him, and once it passed, the good part would come.

Joel rocked gently, barely moving, just letting your body adjust. You whimpered at the pressure, at the fullness, at the intensity of it all.

Joel just babied you. “Such a sweet girl. So fuckin’ brave. You lettin’ me be your first, baby? Makin’ me feel honored.”

“Don’t move yet,” you whispered. “Just… stay.”

“I ain’t movin’,” Joel said. “You tell me when. This pussy belongs to you until you give me permission.”

Your heart ached by how sweet he was, you wrapped your arms around his neck, held on, breathed, and slowly, the pain dulled, the sting turned to heat, the fullness turned to need, you needed more, you desperatly needed friction.

“Okay,” you whispered. “You can move now.”

Joel pulled back, just a little, and then rolled his hips forward, slow and steady. And again, and again. Each stroke made you gasp, made you cling to his shoulders, the feeling of him sliding deep, hot and heavy and perfect, dragging against every tender, untouched nerve inside you.

Every thrust was shallow, slow, careful, but it still made your thighs tremble. The pain was a shadow now, replaced with a tight, delicious ache and something filthy blooming low in your belly.

“Good girl,” he kept whispering. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. I knew you would. This sweet little pussy was just waitin’ for me, wasn’t it?”

You moaned so loud your throat felt sore. You would’ve been so embarrassed if you hadn’t been so completely lost in the overwhelming, electric pleasure coursing through your body.

He was trying to hold back, trying to stay gentle, because he knew how important a first time was, and you were his baby, you deserved for it to be nothing but soft and sweet. But in the back of his mind, he was already tasting the future, already imagining how he’d have you in all fours soon, when your body was ready to take more. He’d be rough then, fucking you deep and hard, just like he knew you’d want it once you got a real taste of him. But not now. Not yet.

“You wanted this cock,” he murmured. “You needed it. Wanted daddy to teach you how to take it. Fuck—look at you, baby girl, takin’ every inch. Buryin’ my cock all the way in this perfect fuckin’ pussy.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, not quite from pain anymore, but from how full and overwhelmed you were. Joel kissed them away, he started to move faster, the heat built with every slow thrust, every slick grind of his hips against yours, and then his hand slid between you, thumb circling your clit in time with his thrusts.

You arched under him, sobbing louder now, overwhelmed and shaking from how deep he was. It felt like he was in your stomach, stretching places you didn’t even know could feel pleasure.

“J-Joel, it’s so much,” you whimpered. “I—didn’t know it could feel like this.”

He groaned low, voice thick and wrecked.

“That’s right, baby. That’s me all the way up in there,” he murmured, pressing his palm flat against your lower belly, feeling the bulge where his cock reached so deep it made your eyes roll back.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Wanna feel you cum on my cock. Want this little pussy to milk me dry. Can you do that for me, baby?”

“Y-Yes—yes—Joel—”

You didn’t even have to try, the tip of his cock found that perfect spot inside you, that sweet, aching place you didn’t even know could feel that good, and the moment he hit it you saw stars, and then he hit it again… and again… and again.

You came hard, it was all so new, so perfect. You clenched around him, voice breaking, and the spasms of your cunt made Joel snap. His thrusts got rougher, deeper, his hips stuttering as he groaned your name over and over again.

“I’m gonna cum—fuck—gonna fill you up, baby girl, give you every fuckin’ drop—mine, you hear me? This pussy’s mine.”

He spilled inside you, grinding deep, holding you to him as you both fell apart. You clung to him, trembling, panting, tears still slipping down your cheeks. It was strange, so strange, a sudden heat blooming inside you, you swore you could feel his thick and warm seed being spilled inside you, and then sliding back out, dripping from your sore, used hole, slick and messy between your thighs. You whimpered at the sensation, so sensitive now that even the slow trickle of it made you twitch.

“You did so good,” he whispered. “So goddamn good. You’re mine now, baby. Every part of you.”

Afterward, Joel gave a few slow, shallow thrusts to push his cum deeper inside you before going completely soft. Even as he pulled out with a low groan, he watched the last of his seed slowly drip from your hole.

“Fuck… look at that, baby,” he rasped, his voice still thick with lust and awe. “Can’t even keep it in. I filled you that good.”

You could barely speak, barely breathe. All you could do was lay there and feel his release leaking out of you in hot waves.

“Daddy made a mess in you,” he murmured, his thumb gently playing with the warm slickness, spreading it over your folds and making you flinch from the sudden sensitivity. “D’you want me to clean you up, baby?”

“Mmm, can I stay like this, daddy?” you whispered. “I wanna feel you inside me.”

It felt… nice. Comforting, even. Being this marked by him. Joel just nodded, he didn’t move away from you, he just stroked your face, your hair, kissed your cheeks and whispered how good you’d done, how proud he was, how much he loved you.

And even though your body ached, your legs were still trembling, and your thighs were sticky with him, you felt safer than you ever had in your life.

He kissed your face, your hair, your lips. You were still crying a little.

“You did so good, baby girl,” he whispered. “So fuckin’ good f’me. I’m so proud of you.”

You held onto him, safe in his arms, and whispered.

“…I love you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. “I love you too, sweetheart. More than I ever thought I could.”

A/N: This definitely ended up being much longer than I intended, especially for pure porn without plot, lol

I’m so happy to see how much you liked the previous part I posted🥹 I immediately started writing this other one, and I hope you enjoy it just as much. If you do, please consider showing some support, it would mean the world to me🩷🩷

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[nanamisgirly]

nanami never liked staying at work late, but lately, he liked it even less—not because of the hours, but because of her words that still echoed in his head. “come home not too late, papa…and safe. please?”

so by 6:37pm, his keys clicked in the door, his tie already half-loosened and shoulder relaxing. the house was glowing in soft golden lights, the faint scent of dinner and lavender filling the air. he could hear little giggles and your voice, soft and lilting.

“papaaaa!!” came a screech. a flash of pink brust around the corner—the smaller of the twins, your daughter, rocketed toward him like a missile of love, her curls bouncing with every step. nanami dropped to one knee just in time, catching her in strong arms.

“you're late” she accused, nose scrunching.

“only by seven minutes, princess.” 

“still late,” she buries her face in the crook of his neck, pretending to pout—arms wrapping around him in a tight clingy hug.

“then i guess i have to make it up to you.” he smooths her wild hair with one hand, the other steadying her back. “where's mum?”

“she's in our room,” she mumbled into his shirt. “getting our clothes for bath time.” 

nanami kissed the top of her head before standing up with her still clinging to him like a sleepy koala. “let's go, then.”

he peeked into the twin's room to find you kneeling by the dresser, laying out a tiny pair of pajamas with sleepy clouds printed on them. your back was turned, humming softly, and when you heard the shuffle behind you-

“you made it.”

“right on time,” he murmured a soft smile perking his lips as he let your daughter slide down to the carpet. she immediately started trying to pick out different socks than the ones you laid out. “let me help.”

soon, it became the usual dance—familiar, wordless teamwork. 

nanami filled the tub, rolling his sleeves as he tested the water. your twins were surrounded by bath toys. your daughter kept shrieking over shampoo in her eyes even when it wasn't. meanwhile, your son, sat like a tiny monk at the other end of the tub, back straight, reading the back of the conditioner bottle as if studying. his fine blonde hair was slicked to his forehead, and he blinked up seriously at his dad.

“did you know this coconut oil has vitamin E?”

nanami nodded gravely. “sounds powerful.”

“i think it is.” he replies just as gravely, tiny brows furrowing.

it took an hour to get them all clean, between plays and rubbing their bodies—watering your clothes and nanami ones. their cheeks were pink, their blonde lashes wet and clumped, and when they looked at the two of you, the way their eyes lit up—one pair looking exactly like yours, the other exactly like nanami—you swear you fall in love all over again.

you wrapped both of them in towels shaped like animals—a fox for your daughter, a bear for your son—and carried one under each arm like squishy luggage to the bedroom.

and it was friday!! one of the two nights your kids are allowed to sleep in your king-sized bed. your daughter immediately jumped face-first onto the mattress, laughing as she crawled to her usual corner. nanami followed close behind, fingers ready to tickle her sides.

“noooo someone help—!”

“i'll save you!” your son said suddenly, serious as ever. he climbed up behind nanami with quiet determination, arms circling his dad's head like a little warrior. grip firm—but far too small to make any real difference against the solid strength of his father.

still, nanami plays along, “a surprise attack!”

your daughter squealed in delight, wiggling away as nanami collapsed into the pillows, groaning in fake defeat. “too strong…i've been defeated by my own children,” he said, his voice muffled into the pillows.

“you're not allowed to hurt my sister,” your son declared calmly, sitting up proudly on nanami's back like a victorious knight. “she's a princess.” your daughter blinked up at him from her spot “…i'm not that much of a princess,” she mumbled—but the tiny dimples pulling at her cheeks gave her away.

you stood in the doorway, freshly out of the shower, hair damp and arms folded as you leaned on the frame—heart so full it ached a little.. 

“alright, heroes," you called, "time to settle.” nanami propped himself up on his elbows, glancing at you. his blonde hair was messy, cheeks faintly pink from the wrestling, and yet his eyes locked onto yours with that look—that look, he only ever gave to you. glaring, yes, but full of quiet love, admiration, and maybe just a little longing.

“ewww…papa, stop that. .” your daughter said, catching the shift in his gaze. nanami chuckled at the comment, dimples peeking on his cheeks—the exact same one of your daughter. “sorry, princess. i forgot i'm not allowed to look at my wife.”

you laughed under your breath, crossing the room and climbing into the bed, slipping under the covers beside nanami. he instinctively shifted closer, and your son already pressed against your other side.

nanami's arm rested across your waist lazily, the little twins curled up in their usual places. and for a few quiet minutes, the room was filled only with soft breathing and the rustle of pages from a bedtime book your son was reading—or pretending. he just wanted to copy his dad but will never admit it

then, with a soft sigh, nanami turned his face toward you, leaning in closer, eyes half-lidded. “mmh. just a moment,” he murmured, his voice low and sleepy, as he tried to lay his head on your chest. but before he could settle a tiny hand pushed against his forehead.

firm. determined. 

nanami froze. your son, eyes still on his book, said calmly, “no.”

“no?” 

“she's my mum,” your son added, now turning his head to look his father straight in the eye—honeyed eyes meeting honeyed eyes, right above your chest. without looking away, he placed his second hand beside the first and pushed, gently but decisively.

you couldn't help it—you burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth as nanami stared at your son like he'd just been betrayed by his own blood. nanami sighed, defeated again. he chose to rest his head on your shoulder instead, arm still wrapped around your waist—as close as your tiny bodyguard would allow.

and somewhere behind him, your daughter giggled sleepily. “poor papa.” 

the night softened into warmth—the kind of warmth that fills every corner of your body and slows time. little limbs tangled with yours, three gentle rhythms of breath all around you. your heart impossibly full.

this… this was home. for both of you. 

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

Hey I have a request! What do you think about Girlfriend reader hanging up on rafe multiple times during an argument and then he comes over w smut? 🫶🏽xx

THE ARGUMENT . . .

the argument starts over something dumb—rafe’s pissed because you left a couple of coffee mugs in the sink at his place, and you’re firing back that he’s got no right to lecture you about messes when his truck’s a disaster zone of empty beer cans and gym clothes.

it’s one of those fights that’s more about being annoyed than anything real, but you’re in a mood, all bratty and sharp-tongued, and rafe’s not backing down, his voice loud and clipped over the phone. “you’re actin’ like a damn kid,” he snaps, that outer banks drawl thick with frustration. “just clean up your shit, it ain’t that hard.”

“oh, please,” you scoff, rolling your eyes as you pace your apartment, phone pressed to your ear. “you’re not my dad, rafe. maybe if you weren’t such a slob yourself, i’d listen.”

you’re being extra, you know it, but you’re not in the mood to play nice, so you hang up on him, thumb jabbing the red button with a little too much satisfaction.

your phone buzzes almost immediately, his name lighting up the screen, and you let it ring a few times before picking up, just to make him wait. “what?” you say, voice all attitude, and he’s already heated, you can hear it in the way he’s breathing hard.

“don’t fuckin’ hang up on me,” he says, low and tight, like he’s trying to keep it together. “we’re talkin’ this out.”

“are we?” you shoot back, smirking even though he can’t see it. “’cause it sounds like you’re just yelling. i’m not in the mood, rafe.” and you hang up again, tossing your phone on the couch, feeling that petty thrill run through you. it’s childish, sure, but he’s been on your nerves all day, and you’re not about to let him win this one.

he calls back, of course, and this time you let it go to voicemail, watching the screen flash until it stops. a text comes through a second later:

you’re bein’ a real brat, you know that?

you ignore it, flipping on the tv, trying to distract yourself, but there’s a tiny part of you that’s waiting, knowing he’s not gonna let this slide.

later that night, you’re curled up with a glass of wine when there’s a knock at your door, hard and insistent. you don’t even need to check to know it’s him, and when you open it, rafe’s standing there, looking like a kicked puppy. his hair’s a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes are softer than you’ve seen in a while, all red-rimmed and desperate.

“baby,” he starts, voice low, almost broken, and it’s so unlike him it throws you off. “i’m sorry, aight? i fucked up. i shouldn’t’a yelled about the damn mugs, it’s stupid.”

he steps closer, hands twitching like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “been sittin’ at home, and it’s… it’s fuckin’ empty without you. i hate this shit. i need you, okay? i’m losin’ it.”

you cross your arms, still holding onto that bratty edge, chin tilted up. “you didn’t seem sorry when you were yelling at me,” you say, voice sharp, but you’re already softening, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re his whole world—chipping away at your resolve.

“i know,” he says, stepping into your space, his hands finally landing on your hips, tentative at first, then tighter when you don’t pull away. “i was bein’ a dick. i just… i miss you when you’re not there, and i got all fucked up thinkin’ about you bein’ mad at me.”

he’s practically begging now, his voice rough, needy, and it’s so pathetic, so unlike the usual cocky rafe, that you almost feel bad for him. almost.

“you should be sorry,” you say, but your voice is softer now, and he catches it, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer of hope. “i don’t like fighting over stupid shit.”

“me neither,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “lemme make it up to you, baby. please.” his hands slide up your sides, and he’s so close you can feel how much he means it, how desperate he is to fix this. “i’ll do whatever you want, just… don’t shut me out.”

you let him kiss you then, soft at first, like he’s afraid you’ll push him away, but when you kiss him back, it’s like a dam breaks. his hands are everywhere, pulling you against him, and he’s murmuring apologies between kisses, his voice thick with that drawl.

all “i’m sorry, baby” and “love you so fuckin’ much.” you’re still a little mad, but it’s hard to stay bratty when he’s like this, all needy and pathetic, like he’d fall apart without you.

he backs you toward the couch, and you let him, your hands in his hair as he kneels between your legs, tugging your shorts down with a kind of reverence that makes your heart skip. “gonna make you feel so good,” he says, voice low, almost a growl, but it’s not cocky now—it’s desperate, like he’s proving something. “my girl deserves everythin’.”

you’re still a little huffy, arms crossed as you look down at him, but the way he’s kissing up your thighs, soft and slow, makes it hard to keep up the act. “you better,” you say, voice sharp, but he just nods, like he’s agreeing with everything you’re saying.

“i will,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, and when his mouth finally finds you, it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s worshipping you.

his tongue moves in lazy circles, teasing, drawing out every sound you try to hold back, and you can feel him watching you, gauging every reaction. “fuck, you taste so good,” he says, voice muffled, and it’s not his usual dirty talk—it’s raw, like he’s pouring himself into every word.

you’re trying to stay composed, but he’s too good, too focused, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you in place as he works you, slow and deep, until you’re squirming, your brattiness melting into something softer, needier. “rafe,” you whimper, and he groans, like hearing his name is enough to push him over the edge.

“that’s it, baby,” he says, lips brushing against you as he speaks, his tongue never stopping. “let me take care of you. my perfect fuckin’ girl.” he’s relentless but gentle, building you up until you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair, your breaths coming fast and shaky.

when you finally come, it’s with a soft cry, your body shaking as he keeps going, drawing it out until you’re oversensitive, pushing at his head. he pulls back, kissing your thighs, your stomach, murmuring, “so good f’me, always so good,” and when he crawls up to kiss you, his lips are wet, his eyes soft and desperate still, like he’s not done proving himself.

“forgive me?” he asks, voice low, his forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel how much he means it, how lonely he must’ve been sitting in that big house without you.

you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “maybe,” you tease, but your voice is soft, and he smiles, kissing you again, like he’s never letting you go.

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

𓂅 taglist ― @littlelamy @dollyfiles @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt @urcoolgf @camercns @pointocean @dsfault @rafestoothbrush @huhidontknowstuff @drewssgirl

[tsuy4n]

Okay so I’ve been obsessing over the Saja boys these days. Hyperfixation. New brain rot unlocked. Absolute serotonin. And after reading all these chef's kiss stories on here, my delulu brain said:

"What if Artist!Fem!Reader x Saja boys?"

And no, I don’t mean reader who just likes drawing.

I mean full-on webtoon artist. Sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, hasn’t seen the sun in days—that kind of artist.

The kind who sees hot people and thinks, "great bone structure. Gonna draw that."

So here’s the ✨vision✨:

Reader isn’t romantically impressed by the Saja boys. At all.

They try to flirt?

"You’re shaped like a Pinterest pose reference. Mind holding that flex for a sec?"

They're shirtless?

"Nice lighting. I need to sketch your obliques."

They do the sexy wink?

They're out here looking like gods and MC’s just collecting them like rare anatomy models.

"I’ve seen better. Your symmetry’s a little off."

How'd she got involved? Well, she didn’t even mean to meet them, really.

She just took a low-key staff job which is some basic behind-the-scenes work. Water duty. Carrying gear. Sweeping up glitter. Whatever pays rent.

But then:

Accidentally walks in on them mid-magic ritual.

Mistakes it for a stage rehearsal.

Doesn’t scream—just critiques the lighting and poses.

Becomes a walking enigma the boys can’t stop thinking about.

THEN her apartment burns down. Rent’s out of the question. And after a lot of suspicious looks and internal debates, one of the Saja boys goes:

"You can stay with us. Temporarily."

So now she’s:

Working for five hot demon idols

Living in their house

Still not impressed.

But wait—it gets worse (better.)

She thinks they’re just dramatic, overly aesthetic idols until she finds out:

They’re literal demons.

And their enemies? Obv the Huntrix which she thinks is another group that has... some similar name to that kpop group.

[Y/n]: "Like— Like Demon slayers?!"

YES. SHE STANS HUNTRIX. But she knows 2...

She has fanart. She follows a fancomic. She thought Mina, They said Mira but she thinks they mixed the name—pink hair, dual-scythe (technically a guandao, but whatever), was fictional.

Sneak Peek Scenes for Flavor:

1. The Huntrix Fangirl Reveal

The boys are bandaged, battered, and mid-complaint.

[Y/n]: "WAIT YOU FOUGHT MINA?! THAT'S SO COOL???" Abby: "She almost took my arm off!" Baby: "She stole my favorite jacket, too!" [Y/n]: *casually flipping through her webtoon collection* "Wait. The one with the dual-scythes and pink hair, right??"

Roman: "…Yeah, why?” [Y/n]: *eyes sparkling, playing along* "OH MY GOD YOU FOUGHT THE MINA?? SHE’S SO COOL!! I LOVE HER ???"

Dead silence. Mystery: *barks once in betrayal* JINU: *eye twitching* "You… stan the person actively trying to kill us?"

[Y/n]: "Okay first of all, she's not trying to kill me. Secondly, have you seen her design? Iconic. Her color palette? Perfect. Her character arc? Chef’s kiss. The drama. The trauma. The hair."

She pauses.

[Y/n]: *softly, reverently*: "She’s everything I wish I could draw." Abby: "You’re sleeping outside."

2. The Abs Incident

Abby: "Go ahead, babe. One-time offer to touch perfection." [Y/n]: "Okay." *Touches abs with terrifying focus.* [Y/n] *nods* "Good texture. I’m using you for a villain character. Thanks."

3. Rumi’s Breakdown (Huntrix Squad)

Rumi: "THEY’RE DEMONS! HOW CAN YOU STAY AT THEIR PLACE?! Not with just one—but all five?!!" [Y/n]: "Really? Wow.” Mira: *narrows eyes* "…You don’t look surprised." Zoey: Are you in cahoots with them?! Like—were you so BEWITCHED by their faces?! Because SAME. But also, betrayal??? [Y/n]: "Oh no, I’m freaking out inside. I just… this is PEAK webtoon content. Enemies to lovers potential. I’m living in someone’s AU."

4. When She Meets Mira

[Y/n]: "Oh my god. You’re real." Mira: "And you’re the artist who’s been drawing me in armor and… cat ears?" [Y/n]: "It was for the Patreon tier okay please don’t kill me."

5. Late-Night Kitchen Chaos

She just wanted rent money 😔Now she has demon roommates, stan wars, and probably develops an accidental crush on the villains.

Baby: "Most girls would kill for a moment alone with me."

[Y/n]: *without looking up from her sketchpad* "Can you move? You’re blocking the fridge light. I’m using it to shade your clavicle." Baby: "…Do I at least look cool?" [Y/n]: "Yeah. You’ve got the perfect bone structure for a mid-arc character death." Baby: "????"

And somehow, that’s still not the weirdest part of her week.

✨ [Y/n] doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t swoon. She just humbles the boys like it’s her side quest. ✨

On the side note: When I get into it imma start writing! (I’m into it.)

[alinathinkstoomuch]

CLOCKED IN

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiancee!reader summary: hotch is trying his hardest to keep it together when your so-called friends crash the night out, good thing the bau are world class shit stirrers, based on this request. warnings: fluff, protective hotch but also protective bau!! brief reference to them meeting which can be read here word count: 1.3k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Hotch was, against all odds, and probably his own expectations, actually having a good time. Shocking, really. But he knew exactly why, it was you. You sitting under the glittering mirrorball light, talking with your hands mid-explanation. 

It was your first official time meeting the team, and he wasn’t even a little bit surprised by how quickly you charmed every single person at the table. You had that effect on people. It was something he’d always admired about you, and okay, maybe envied a little too. He wasn’t exactly known for being warm or approachable. His voice didn’t magically pull smiles from strangers. Yours did.

And yet somehow, you—completely out of the blue—had walked into a bar similar to this one and asked him, a total stranger, to pretend to be your fiance for the night. Still one of the most absurd things he’s ever heard and he deals with absurd for a living.

Maybe that bit of envy came from a selfish place, though. Because he liked to think that the effervescent side of you was something you saved just for him, but it wasn’t because you were like that with everyone. All grins, all giggles, all theatrics because that’s who you were. And it made him furious inside to imagine anyone taking advantage of that. Like those awful friends who made you feel like you had to lie in the first place.

Still, in a roundabout, slightly messed-up way, he guessed he owed them one. Because their cruelty had delivered you straight to him.

He was mid-sip of his drink when he caught the way your smile wobbled. And when you did a double take towards the front door, his eyes were inclined to follow to see who or what he was going to have to glare at for sucking the light from your face that fast.

He didn’t even try to hide the exasperated sigh that left him.

“Oh boy,” you muttered, eyes still on the door.

“Do you know them?” JJ asked, leaning forward over a cluster of empty cocktail glasses. “Because they’re pointing.”

“And coming over,” Morgan added, eyebrows raised.

You straightened in your seat. “That’s…the quarter of the group responsible for me meeting Aaron.”

“No!” Penelope gasped, hand flying to her chest. “You mean those friends? The ones you had to lie to? The whole fake-fiancé saga?”

“In the flesh,” you confirmed, grabbing your drink and taking two very necessary gulps as Aaron braced himself for the evening to dissolve into performative lunacy. 

You shifted in your seat beside him, shoulders going stiff in that I’m fine, this is fine way that meant the opposite. And yeah, his jaw clenched. Because the idea of you having to perform just to feel safe, or liked, or respected? Made his blood run hot. Especially when you were surrounded by people who actually saw you—really saw you—and didn’t need a single performance to adore you.

“Oh my god! Okay! We all have very important parts to play,” Penelope whisper-yelled at the table.

“Just don’t make it weirder than it has to be,” Emily muttered, toying with her paper straw.

“You want another drink?” Rossi nudged Aaron who just glared at the older man. “Come on, lighten up. I didn’t get to see you in fiancé-action last time.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Hotch said dryly, reaching over and resting his hand over yours in a squeeze.

You turned to face him and the panicked look on your face made his stomach knot. “I’m sorry for this. I had no idea they’d be here, I haven’t even spoken to them in months.”

“You don’t owe me an apology, just like you don’t owe them a damn thing.” His tone softened. “But if you want an out, just say the word, I’ll make up an excuse and we’re gone.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but it was too late.

“Wow,” came a voice you knew all too well. “Look who it is.”

“Veronica.” You offered a perfectly polite, perfectly fake smile. “Dani,” you added, glancing at her tagalong.

“Mind if we sit with your fiancé and friends?” Veronica asked, already pulling a chair over from the table behind because she wasn’t actually asking or waiting for permission. She wedged herself in between you and Emily.

Dani copied her motions, plopping herself down between Penelope and Spencer. The poor genius looked like he was calculating the fastest way to disassociate, especially when Dani’s manicured hands rested a little too close to his drink. 

“So,” Veronica said, all teeth. “Are you going to introduce us?” She glanced around the table. “How do you all know the happy couple?”

“We work with Hotch,” Morgan answered smoothly, lifting his glass. “FBI.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s… intense.”

“Depends on the day,” Emily chimed in, “But yeah, keeps us busy.”

Veronica’s icy gaze slid to you, her mouth twitching. “Must be nice. All that… structure and stability. Probably pays off a little more than fashion, huh?”

You barely had time to get a word out before Penelope jumped in for you. “Oh, sweetie. One campaign of hers pays more than my entire annual salary. And I’m not exactly working for peanuts.”

You let out a sheepish laugh, just as Aaron’s thumb pressed gently against your hand, as if reminding you to breathe. 

“Anyway,” Dani piped up, suddenly remembering she had both a voice and a personality, “how’s wedding planning going? You must be deep in it by now, right?”

“Weren’t you just looking at venues?” Rossi added with a grin, like he’d been personally waiting for this moment. Hotch made a mental note to get him store-brand whiskey for his next birthday.

“We were,” Hotch replied as casually as he could manage. “She wants a beach wedding. I want one where her dress doesn’t blow into the ocean.”

Morgan snorted while JJ shook her head, trying and failing to hide a smile. 

“Tell the truth,” Emily grinned. “You just don’t want sand in your shoes.”

“I don't want sand in my everything,” Hotch said flatly, taking a sip of his drink at the involuntary conversation. 

“Fair,” Morgan laughed, tipping his glass towards him. “Sand gets everywhere. Man’s got a point.”

“Well, the guest list must be pretty large then,” Veronica went on, smiling just a little too sweetly. “Half the FBI, and of course us, your best friends. You’ll need something that can accommodate everyone.”

“We’re keeping it small,” Hotch almost snarled, his tone landing somewhere between polite restraint and you’re not fucking invited. Not that there was an actual wedding, but if he ever did marry you, those two would be the last names on the list.

“Oh! But you have to have bridesmaids, right?” Dani pressed on, gesturing between herself and Veronica. “I mean, you’re probably thinking of us, your best friends—”

“We haven’t gotten that far,” you cut her off.

“Besides,” Emily added with a shark-like smile, “it’s so hard to find dresses that don’t clash with fragile egos.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could stop them. Morgan was grinning like a man thoroughly entertained. JJ stifled a laugh behind a cough. And Spencer? He just looked politely baffled, having subtly nudged his drink as far away from Dani’s claws as possible without making it look like he was giving it to Rossi. 

Hotch, meanwhile, added a new line to his growing mental list: whatever bottle Emily wanted for her birthday, she was getting the top shelf version. Hell, maybe two. 

Some of the tension in his chest eased a little and he hoped yours had too. Because if there was one thing his team excelled at, it was rallying around someone they’d decided was theirs. And judging by the grins, side-eyes, and Emily’s very intentional lack of filter, the BAU had officially clocked in.

Not for a case. 

For you. 

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @mggslover @star-crossed-sephie @tearykth @2dloveshp  @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @hopelessromantic727 @piatosniathenie @averyhotchner @softtdaisy @khxna @thehotchners @tinythebunni @violettablackwood @starsmoonn @kajjaka

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[chrissv4mp]

VIDEOS GIRLFRIEND!BILLIE WOULD SEND YOU .ᐟ

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: lookin 4 something???

the video starts quickly—billie holding her phone up above her head, resting comfortably in what looks to be the couch on her tour bus. she hums softly, a soothing melody that you wish you had the chance to hear again face-to-face. then the camera pans back down, her fingers fumbling with the device before successfully setting it onto the couch opposite of where she was perched.

it's only then do you realize what she's wearing—a purple hoodie that's quite similar to yours... and as you squint, trying to remember where you recognize it from. before the answer can click in your mind, billie speaks up.

"i know you're probably wondering where i got this," she grins, cheekily. "or maybe you're wondering why i have this?" she adds, smile breaking out wider. "and—okay, don't blame me—but i snuck it in my bag before tour..."

your favorite hoodie.

and, clearly, hers as well.

"but!" she exclaims, then whips her head to the side at the sound of one of the cabin bunks creaking. then, quieter, "but i wanted to know that you're always here—or, at least, a part of you."

you can see the pink tint of her cheeks flushing even in the dim lighting of the tour bus, and it only becomes more apparent as she pulls the hood further down—covering her face in embarrassment as she giggles quietly, the sound muffled behind the thick, cozy fabric of your hoodie. the one that you'd been losing your mind while trying to find over the past few days. guess it's a huge weight lifted off your chest knowing that the person you trust most has it.

the room goes quiet for a moment too long—and then a long yawn rips through billie's throat, resulting in the girl lifting her arms up and stretching dramatically, a habit you'd also picked up on a few months into the relationship. billie sits up, scooting to the edge of the cushions and snatching up her phone again. she pulls the device close to her face, anything below her nose unseen in the camera.

"okay, well," she exhales, sleepy. "that's my cue."

her eyes flick to the camera, pulling the phone away a bit to grin at you through the phone. "i love you, pretty girl. i'll call tomorrow... if the timezones aren't fucked up—but if they are, still expect a call. just... later."

she blows a kiss, a tired smile pulling at her lips. "g'night."

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: i'd wanna fuck me too !!

"damn," billie purrs, tilting her head to the side. the sunlight from the open curtains of her hotel room illuminate her face. her lips part, eyes flitting across the screen—checking herself out shamelessly. "not to be conceded but... i see why you want me all the time, baby," she teases, leaning back on the couch, maroon and plush.

her hair is in a low bun, loose strands falling on her neck—so effortlessly perfect it's almost like she pulled them out herself. the video is nearly silent for a few seconds, the low hum of the A/C in the background setting a soft, quiet mood, almost like she's at home. her shoulders are relaxed, brows not furrowed like you'd seen them the last time she jumped onto facetime with you.

billie whistles low as she sets her phone down on the table, probably propped against her water bottle. "holy shit, i might actually start drooling over myself right now," she smiles, turning her head to the side and humming upon seeing the sharp line of her jaw.

"woah," she muses, giggling as she turns back to face the camera. "okay, baby—i need to call you, like, now."

she grabs her phone, tugging it off the table. the video still plays for a moment, even while billie looks like she's deep into finding your contact. then, with a quiet—needy—huff from between billie's pouty lips, the video ends.

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: bts for europe pt2... ur lucky...

the first thing you notice is her camera—not her phone, but an actual camera. the thought of billie taking the time to export the video off the camera just for you already had your heart warming. what made your heart warmer was simply just seeing her face, inverted in the mirror yet still looking as beautiful as ever. the camera view shakes a little in the awkward position of her hand, moving a bit closer—showing the background of what seemed to be a closed shop.

"aaahh!" she whispers, mouth opening in a low roar. her nose scrunches as she takes a step back, focusing the camera on the clean mirror for a second longer before stepping away fully and showing you where she was.

there's multiple racks of her merchandise—a plethora of reds, blues, yellows, and whites, colors that she'd been fixated on even before the meetings for her tour plans began. you remember her always coming home with boxes of her first samples of hoodies and t-shirts. unbeknownst to you, she'd ordered one of each sample in your size—feigning surprise whenever you slid the piece of fabric on and found out that it fit you perfectly.

her voice breaks throught the quiet murmur employees in the background. "nobody passing by knows that i'm in here... well, except for you," she thinks out loud, voice trailing off. "wait, but you're not passing by, so—nevermind, still counts."

"this is going in the vlog, by the way," billie announces in a quiet whisper, like it's a secret. "and you're the first person to seee!! i'm so excited for this next part, baby, you don't even know."

her shoes pad on the concrete floors, the camera view getting closer and closer to a rack of multiple hoodies, the designs varying—fabric in red with a graphic of billie from her rolling stone photoshoot ranging from a darker black hoodie featuring a lighter graphic of her name and a photo taken on her latest tour stop, amsterdam.

"dude, this shit is so sick," she admires, flipping the camera to show her happy expression. "might have to get a few to take home to you—gosh, you'd look amazing in the red."

then, she comes closer, murmuring much quieter, "and, preferably, nothin' underneath..." quickly, the camera pulls away from her face.

"okay bye!"

NEW MESSAGE! ⟶ bils: BERLINNNNN

billie's hand is on her cheek, jaw open wide in faux surprise as she points at a poster of herself with her free hand—eyes wide as she frantically taps against the window like she's seeing something that's a once in a lifetime experience. someone—ava—giggles behind the camera, shaking the view for a moment to point at the poster as well, a surprised gasp of her own falling from between her lips.

they're standing outside a shop, the window showcasing a display of billie's latest perfume release—your turn. the gates were still closed due to the early hour, the sun still slowly rising above the mountains. ava zooms in on billie just as she sticks her tongue out—then, unexpectedly, she sprints off camera, nearly tripping over her jeans with her suddenly fast steps. ava trails not too far behind, giggling.

"billie, i'm coming go the show tonight!" someone screams in the distance, loud enough for the camera to pick it up.

she doesn't stop running, and neither does ava—her head just whips around as she stuffs a hand into her pocket, her smile clear in the way she screams, "love you!"

"i love you!" the fan screams back, and ava can't hold in the giggles crawling up her throat.

ava chases after billie until they tumble into the back of their car, breathing heavily as their backs finally hit the seats, lips parted to take the chance to breathe after the sudden interaction. her blue eyes meet the camera again, a dopey smile playing at the corners of her lips. she slumps in her seat, falling to the side and laying across her side of the car with a few quiet chuckles. ava joins in on the laughter, the little sounds escaping billie's throat contagious.

"that was... unexpected," ava comments through her fit of giggles, the words cut off a bit at the end due to the engine of the car rumbling to life.

billie nods. "ugh, i love them," she huffs, pushing herself up again and buckling herself in. the click of a seatbelt echoes in the camera speakers as ava does the same. "if we weren't in a rush i would've ran over and tackled them."

ava huffs a laugh.

"lightly—" billie clarifies. then, with a deep squint of her eyes, hums and whispers, "maybe not, actually. don't wanna catch an assault charge in the middle of tour..."

the blonde behind the camera hums. "they'd probably cherish the bruise, billie."

billie bursts out into laughter—then, the video cuts.

letters. will this get me out of the motivation drought.... fingers are tightly crossed rn bcus i have something big and exciting planned 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @love4madii @livvydunneness @chxhir0 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @mybluebossanova @fleurfiles @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @bilsova @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @ma1spa @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @eilishssiennaa @skinnyhmhas @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize @canthelpit0 @hailwiggly @karaeilish @bilswifee @drunkinyourbenz @aka-persephone @bitchesbrokenpromises @jayjaywetforbils @slvt4subchratt @cantlandonmyfeet @tezzzzzzzz @emi-inspace

[pearlsartblog2019]

I read this.. and I think of my Nanna pearl... and my Paw paw Jim. My nanna pearl was one of, if not the most, prolific reader I have ever met. IF it held still long enough she'd read it. Fantasy was her favorite. The wilder the better. She loved stories of fiction and fantasy..lord of the rings and narnia were her all time faves. As a child she handed me and several others these books and told us to NEVER let your imagination go, imagination can change the world. I know the writer of harry potter is problematic this day and age, but watching my lil 80 year old nanna chase one of my bible beating cousins around the house with a autographed copy of deathly hallows, because she had gotten it for his kids for christmas and he refused to let them have them, was the high light of that christmas. A lil ole lady whacking a dude with a book an inch and a half thick screaming at the top of her lil ole lady lungs "HOW ARE THOSE BABIES GONNA HAVE AN IMAGINATION HEATH!!( cousin) " was so satisfying. My pawpaw was the same. This is the man that told me about Jules Vern and the journey to the center of the earth, the time machine and his fave Jon Carter on mars. He insisted durring the summer i spent in my parents home town that I go down to the libarary and get a card, read my way through it and then tell him all about what adventures I had. He loved it and always told me to read and be educated, that's the one thing no one can ever take away. I am now an artist, and I write too, Id like to think those free thinking oldsters had a part to play in that. I'm sorry if you had the first kind of Grandparent. I hope you had ones like mine.

“My mother confessed to me that at the age of nine or so, she was addicted to fairy stories. You could buy little paper books of them for a penny, she said, and she bought a whole stack and buried herself in them avidly. And her father caught her reading them. He not only took them away; he burned them. Ceremonially, with disgust and loathing. They were not true, he said, not real, and were therefore harming her mind. And he forbade her ever to read such things. So she didn’t. For the rest of her life […] This grandfather of mine died long before I was born, or I would have had a few things to say to him. Among the first things I would have said is that his belief (which I call the Don Quixote Fallacy) - that reading things that are not true damages your mind - was held by far too many people in the first half of this century, and I do not think this is unconnected with the fact that we had two world wars during that time. Certainly my impression is that this burning of books has caused my mother to be one of the most unhappy and maladjusted people I know. And it does bring you hard up against the responsibility adults have, if only because it shows what a truly lasting impression can be made on a child. But this Don Quixote Fallacy is not dead. It is alive and well and living in Britain. Recently I was reading for the Whitbread Prize and I came upon no less than five books purveying this notion in an even more advanced form than my grandfather’s. In the face of it, they were “child with a problem” books. There was this young person who was the wrong color, or disabled, or with divorcing parents and so on, and each of these kids tried to offset their troubles by imagining some vivid, or better or more exciting life. This was usually a world in which they had splendid adventures. Then, halfway through the book it became clear that the child who had invented this world was not able to tell which bit of life was physically real and which was only in his or her mind. In other words, imagining things had driven this young person mad. This struck me as such an appalling, irresponsible threat to hold over impressionable people that I tried to find out who these writers were. Two of them seemed to be teachers who were annoyed that their pupils were addicted to computer games and the rest were social workers who seemed to be equating fantasy with drug-abuse, Possibly none of them were quite aware of what they were saying. But the fact is that be making this threat - imagination drives you mad - they were closing off for their impressionable readers their most important route to sanity. The source of their threat seems to lie in a grand combination of all the mistakes I have mentioned so far: the beliefs that the only reality is dull and unpleasant, that young people must be prepared to confront this and this only, and that the way to do this is to close down the imagination. To these, they have added a further error: that what a person has in his or her head does not exist in everyday life.”

— Diana Wynne Jones on the importance of imagination in the young, A Whirlwind Tour of Australia. (via fyeahdianawynnejones)

[mooningningg]

ᴊᴊᴋ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

Notes, he's just sooo ughhhmmfmm.

★ Bassist!Toji meets you for the first time.

The studio was loud when you walked in — amps humming, drums pounding, Gojo mid-vocal run like he was auditioning for heaven, shirt half off, sweat glistening like a pop star that didn’t pay rent.

You raised your hand slightly, awkward but amused. “Delivery for a diva.”

Gojo turned mid-belt, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, you’re an angel—” Then he tripped over a mic cord.

Sukuna slammed a cymbal. “Fucking hell, Gojo.”

You laughed and held up the tote bag. “You left your charger and sunglasses at mine.”

“Because I live in chaos, baby,” Gojo grinned. “Put it anywhere. You want water? Weed? A front row seat to my raw vocal brilliance?”

“No,” you said sweetly.

And then you noticed him.

Toji.

Off to the left. Bass slung low, body half-turned away, tattoos inked up his forearm where his sleeves were rolled, hair messy like he’d just woken up angry. He was tuning, or pretending to — his fingers barely moved, and his eyes… were on you.

Flat. Sharp. Curious.

Like he couldn’t figure out if you were real or just annoying.

You looked away first.

“Let’s take it from the top,” Gojo called out. “Try not to ruin my godlike momentum, yeah?”

They launched into the next take — Gojo wailing into the mic, Sukuna on drums like he was punishing them, Choso leaning on the keyboard like he was underwater.

And Toji—

Missed his cue.

The bass line came late. Not just a second. Noticeably.

They ran the song again. Loud. Messy. You leaned against the wall, half-watching, half-scrolling through your phone.

Then the rhythm dropped.

The room fell off-beat, the bass stumbling just long enough to make everyone stop.

“The fuck was that?” Sukuna snapped.

Gojo threw his hands up. “Why does this band hate my voice?”

“Toji,” Suguru barked. “You good?”

Toji said nothing for a second, then set the bass down with a quiet clunk.

“Take five.”

He grabbed a water bottle from the floor, cracked it open, and walked over to the side—closer to where you were standing. You didn’t move. He didn’t say anything right away.

He just stood there, unscrewed the cap, drank, and let the silence stretch.

You glanced at him. “You always take breaks after messing up?”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Didn’t fuck up.”

You raised a brow. “Sounded like you did.”

His gaze flicked down to your legs, back up.

“Yeah?”

You felt your face heat. He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

“Wasn’t paying attention,” he added after a beat. “S’fine.”

His voice was low, casual. Like he wasn’t saying much—but he was saying enough.

Gojo yelled from across the room. “Toji, you flirting again?”

Toji didn’t move.

“Bro, I felt that bass line die. What, did you forget how to play when she walked in?”

“Shut it,” Toji muttered, mostly to himself. Then, to you, without looking:

“You sticking around or what?”

That was it.

No charm. No smooth lines.

Just Toji—shoulders loose, mouth set, standing a little too close like he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did.

And that was the first time you saw it.

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

He just looked at you like he already knew how it would go.

And you didn’t hate it.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being the non-mc significant other of lead guitarist! Sylus. part3

Imagine walking back into the pub where everything first started falling apart. The lights are dimmer tonight or maybe your eyes are still too tired to see them the same.

Imagine you did not come with the intent to argue. You come because your chest is too heavy and your heart is too loud. You come because something in you whispers that maybe there's still something worth hearing.

Imagine the pub owner sees you first. Her lips twitch with something between surprise and relief. "He's in the back." She said before you even ask. "Haven't touched a single drink. Haven't said a word.”

Imagine you nod and make your way past old wooden tables and soft murmurs of strangers who don't know how your world just cracked open a few nights ago.

Imagine your heart skipping as you see him. Sylus. Hood up, hands locked in front of him, staring at something small in his palm like it's the only thing keeping him together. You don't need to see it to know it's the pick. Your pick.

"Sylus." You say. His head snaps up. You expect surprise, but what you see is something worse, remorse. Deep, carved into his bones. Regret. "You..." His voice cracks. "You came back."

"I needed time." You tell him honestly, watching his jaw clench and release like he's bracing for impact. "I think I overreacted." "No." He says immediately, standing too fast. The table wobbles between you. "You didn't. You didn't overreact. I fucked up."

Imagine the way silence falls between you, tense but not hostile. Not anymore. "I didn't know you were there." He says, softer now. "I wouldn't have played it if I knew. Hell, I shouldn't have played it at all. That song..." He runs a hand through his silver hair. "That song was a ghost I thought I could bury by giving it one last breath. But instead... I ended up making you bleed."

Imagine you didn't speak. Not yet. He seems to need to say it all. "I looked at her because..." He looked ashamed, looking away from you. "I needed to see for myself that it was done. That whatever I thought I still carried was nothing but dust. And it was. It is. But by the time I realized that, I had already hurt the only person I ever wanted to sing for again."

Imagine he took a step closer and hold out something to you. Your pick. The one you gave him with his initials on it. The one that stayed behind when you left.

"You gave this to me like it meant something." He said. "And I threw it away with a song that wasn't ours. I betrayed your trust, and I don't deserve it back. But if you let me..." There was a pause. "If you still want me... I will never sing another note that doesn't have your name in it."

Imagine you take the pick from his hand slowly. His eyes search your face like he's memorizing it for the last time. "You sang like she still mattered." You say. "You looked at her like you forgot I existed."

"I didn't." He says. "Not for a second. I just got pulled back into a version of me I don’t ever want to be again. One that hides, one that lies, one that doesn't deserve the kind of love you gave me."

Imagine you look down at the pick in your hand. It's warm from his touch. He never stopped holding it.

"I'm not perfect." Sylus started, voice rough. "But I love you. More than anything. More than every song I’ve ever written, more than the stage, more than the past. I love you. And I'll spend the rest of my life proving it if you let me."

Imagine the ache in your chest still lingering, but the edges beginning to soften. Maybe he didn’t choose the past. Maybe he just got caught in it. And maybe love isn't about never messing up. Maybe it's about choosing to stay even after the music stops. You look up at him. "Sit" You say quietly. And he does.

Imagine the two of you talking long after the bar begins to empty. No big declarations. No dramatic kisses. Just words. Honest, painful, healing words. You don't promise anything tonight. You don't have to. But for the first time since that song, Sylus looks at you like he found his rhythm again.

Imagine for the first time since you walked out, you believe it might be possible to stay. And maybe as selfish as it may sound. He was going to sing only just for you again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: f*cking b*tch I knew I was forgetting something.

[demie90s]

Your Fault

Diana Taurasi x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’ve been in a mood all damn day—rolling your eyes, being mouthy, and acting like Diana don’t run that.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 2.7k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Smut, Age Gap, Power Play, Brat Taming, Soft Dom Diana, Emotional Burnout Themes

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. Oral (f receiving), strap use, dom/sub dynamics, choking, begging, refusal of touch (at first), light degradation, possessiveness, vacation setting

I woke up agitated. Not irritated. Not upset. Agitated. Like my skin was tight and everything was two seconds from being the final straw. The sun was out. The bed was soft. The AC was perfect. Diana was still asleep, breathing slow, her shoulder bare and glowing with leftover sun from yesterday.

I should’ve been grateful. But I wanted to scream.

The vacation was her idea. You need a break, she said. You’ve been saving the damn world every shift. Your charting looks like a crime scene. You need sand, a tan, and me. In that order.

She wasn’t wrong. But this morning I hated everything.

“Come on,” she said, eyes still sleepy as I stood at the bathroom mirror with my arms folded. “Don’t start today mad. It’s illegal to be fine and fussy on an island.”

I cut her a look. “It’s not fussy. It’s overstimulated and under-fucked.”

“Exactly,” she muttered, already dragging the covers off and tossing a bikini my way. “Put this on. We’re going to the water.”

She didn’t give me room to protest. Practically drug me out the room like a toddler in time-out, grinning like she hadn’t just ignored my very real cry for help. And maybe that’s what pissed me off the most. I was telling her. Plain. Calm. Mouthy. But honest.

I needed her. And she just kept walking.

The morning became the afternoon. The beach got louder. My mood got worse.

She bought me a coconut, held my waist when I rolled my eyes at strangers, whispered shit in my ear just to watch me huff.

“Why you so pretty when you mad?”

“Shut up.”

“I should’ve filmed this.”

She wasn’t helping. She was making it worse. Then came the moment.

We were standing near the rocks, sun hitting the water like a goddamn oil painting, and I was staring at it like it offended me.

She sat behind me on the stone bench, arms draped around my hips lazily.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “I love you, but you got the worst attitude on Earth when you don’t get your way.”

That hit. Not hard. But deep. I swallowed. Kept my eyes on the tide. “…So fuck it out of me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even kiss me.

By the time we got back to the room, I was fuming in silence. She knew it. She was eating it up. That smirk was back on her face, smug and slow as she leaned against the patio door, eyes flicking toward me every time I moved like she was watching a volcano warm up.

“You done sulking?” she asked, peeling off her tank top with no urgency.

“No.”

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“You still mad?”

“…Yes.”

She laughed. Laughed.

Then laid on the bed like she wasn’t the problem. Head on the pillows, long legs stretched out, watching me like I wasn’t mentally screaming.

I stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed again. “Why couldn’t you just fuck it outta me earlier?”

She blinked slow. That smug-ass look turned into something hungrier.

“…Say that again?”

I didn’t. I got in the bed. Got close. Didn’t touch her—just leaned in like heat was enough. My lips barely touched her shoulder.

“You wait until I’m begging,” I muttered. “You wait until I’m crawling. That’s not fair.”

She turned to face me, hand sliding over my waist as I straddled her thigh without thinking. My hips didn’t move—but my mouth did.

“You like when I act like this?” I asked, lips brushing her collarbone. “You like when I’m miserable with an attitude? That turn you on?”

“I like when you act like you don’t need me.”

She kissed my jaw, lips soft but firm.

“And then melt the second I touch you.”

I scoffed. But my hips rocked slow against her leg.

“That’s evil.”

“That’s honest.”

She sat up. Kissed me like she’d been waiting all day—hands under my thighs, mouth opening over mine, tongue slow and deep. I moaned and felt stupid for being mad. For going the whole day aching when I could’ve just thrown myself into her lap.

But no. She liked that I waited. I liked how she made me come apart for it.

Her fingers found me without a word. My whole body shivered.

Just when I gasped—whined, needy, almost crying from how good it felt—she whispered “There’s my girl.”

She didn’t say it soft. She said it like finally.

Like it took all day to break me down just to rebuild me open and wet and obedient under her hand.

But I was still a brat. She slid two fingers along my slit—over my panties—and watched my thighs twitch. I exhaled like I hadn’t breathed in hours.

Then her voice dropped low, calm as ever.

“…Tell me.”

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Tell me about work, baby.”

I almost laughed. Almost. But she didn’t. Her mouth brushed my neck. Her fingers stroked again. Slow. Lazy.

I narrowed my eyes. “You wanna talk about work?”

She hummed like yes. Like I didn’t have a pussy leaking for her right now. Like she wasn’t slipping the pad of her thumb over my clit through soaked fabric.

I swear—swear—I tried to ignore it. I looked up at the ceiling like that would keep my mind straight.

I started slow. “It’s been… long. Stupid.”

“Mhm.” She mouthed at my throat, still warm, still moving her hand with zero rush.

“I’m tired of people acting like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I didn’t graduate, like I’m not licensed. You know this old man tried to—f-fuck—”

Her mouth was lower now, smirking against my chest. I paused.

“Keep going,” she said.

My stomach clenched. I should’ve told her to stop. But my hands were already in her hair.

“I had to cover three patients on restraints. One bit me. You saw the bruise.”

“I did.” She licked slowly over my nipple. Bit it. Sucked it.

“Keep talkin’.”

“You’re such a bitch,” I whispered. She laughed into my skin.

Then kissed down. Slower than necessary. Mouth dragging over my stomach, my hip, my inner thigh like she was reading a script off me.

She kissed my pussy through the panties—one kiss. Two. I gasped. She didn’t move them yet. Just flattened her tongue over the fabric and moaned, deep and smug like this what you wanted, huh?

She looked up. “Mad again?”

I glared. “Yes.”

“Mhm.” She kissed again. “Keep goin’, nurse.”

I whimpered. “He told me I was rude… for not smiling. While I was cleaning shit. Actual shit.”

That’s when she moved the panties. One hand, no hesitation. Slick and sticky and hot underneath, and she grinned.

“Aw. That why you been actin’ out?” she teased, running her thumb over my clit now, bare and throbbing. “Needed a little attention? Thought I forgot how nasty you get when you’re tired.”

I tried to sit up. She pushed my hips down. She didn’t even look at me.

Her mouth found me again. No warm-up. No soft licks. Just her tongue, slow and firm, licking right up the middle while her hand spread me wider.

I whined. Embarrassingly. Loud and helpless. My thighs shook, but her hands were locked around them—tight grip, holding me still.

I wanted to grind, to press harder, to roll my hips.

She did not let me.

“Diana—”

She paused. Glanced up. “Say it right.”

“…D.”

That got her going. She hummed low and started sucking on my clit. Tongue firm. Circles. I yanked at her hair—moaning, open-mouthed, legs trying to close.

She didn’t let me. She moved lower, tongue dipping into me, deep. Then up again—licking through everything, slow and wide and endless.

“You taste so mad,” she teased. “So fuckin’ mad at me. Can’t even focus.”

Her fingers replaced her tongue, two slipping in like nothing, making me arch.

“Oh my God—” She curled them. Hit it. Smirked. Bit my inner thigh.

“God’s not here right now, nurse.”

I was panting now, voice stuck in my throat, heat crawling up my neck.

“You said you wanted me to fuck it outta you,” she said, dragging her tongue back over my clit. “So stop running.”

I cried out. Actual tears stinging a little. Not from pain. From overwhelm. From the slow, deep suck of her lips around me like she was drinking a mood swing out of my body. Like she was cleansing me.

I grabbed the sheets. She kept going.

No breaks. No mercy. And still—still—so fucking slow. I felt the build. All of it. A full-day ache tightening into one perfect climax.

“D—I’m—fuck, I’m—” She moaned, loud and proud, mouth locked on me, fingers never slowing.

And I Came hard. Legs shaking, pussy twitching, toes curled, moaning her name like a secret I couldn’t keep.

She licked me through it. Then back up. Then kissed my lips like she hadn’t just ruined me. I could barely speak. She grinned against my mouth.

“Still mad?” I blinked. Then nodded.

She was smirking.

But not sweet. Not teasing. Not that I told you so look from earlier. No. This was different. This was dangerous.

This was the look of a grown woman who’d been waiting to make you cry since the first week you whined about your hours.

Since you slammed the car door, threw your bag, and muttered shit under your breath. She let you live. Let you talk slick. Let you sulk through a vacation she paid for.

Now she had the strap on. Now she was gonna make you apologize.

“…D-Dee.”

It barely came out. My throat burned. I was already shaky and tender from her mouth, but this? This wasn’t fair. The way she fucked—it didn’t feel good in the moment. It felt like I was losing my mind. Like I couldn’t breathe right. Like I was vibrating from the inside out and couldn’t find the sound that matched what my body was screaming.

Butterflies. Not the cute kind. These were the wild, erratic, emergency alarm kind.

The kind that told you something was happening in your body that your brain couldn’t catch up with.

Diana didn’t care.

“Come here,” she said, voice flat but full.

Like she meant business. Like she was certified in this shit.

I climbed over her, knees shaking, pussy aching. She didn’t wait. She grabbed my hip, lifted my leg, and pushed in again—slow, mean, deep.

My eyes rolled. My mouth dropped open. Her other hand slid up my back, holding me close while her hips rolled into me like a damn curse. And she kissed my neck. My shoulder. Whispered shit I couldn’t even hear over the sound of my own broken breathing.

“This what you needed?” I nodded. Couldn’t even lie.

“Then take it.”

She fucked me like she was fixing something.

Like my attitude was a medical emergency and her strap was the cure.

She hit every spot, slow enough to feel like it was personal but hard enough to break rhythm. I was grinding, panting, eyes fluttering.

Just when I felt it—right there, right there—she pulled out.

I gasped. Clawed at her forearm. “No, no—Diana please—”

She laid back. Calm. Hands behind her head like she wasn’t just inside me seconds ago.

“You wanna act brand new?” she said.

“Cool. You do all the work. Don’t touch me.”

I stared at her. Stunned. Heart racing. “Now.”

I climbed on like I had no pride.

Slow. Needy. Sinking down on the strap with a shaky moan that made my knees buckle. She didn’t help. Didn’t move. Just watched. Eyes locked on my face like she was enjoying the show, the breakdown, the sweat glistening on my chest.

I tried to fuck her right. Roll my hips. Find a rhythm. But my thighs were weak, my clit pulsing, my brain scrambled.

I tried to kiss her. Tried to lean forward and press my mouth to hers like that would make her touch me.

She turned her head.

“You hard of hearing?”

I froze. Sat up straight again. My hands clenched on her stomach. I was losing it.

“You said not to touch you…” I mumbled. Voice cracking.

She raised a brow. “I meant all of me, smartass.”

My breath caught. I gave up. Whined. Actually whimpered, lips trembling.

“…Please touch me.” Still nothing.

I ground down on her anyway. Hips desperate. Neck arched. Whimpers turning to cries. And finally—finally—when I shook so hard I had to collapse forward, she caught me.

One hand around my throat, thumb on my chin, bringing my mouth to hers.

“You gon’ act right now?” she whispered, dragging her hips up, slow and deep again.

“Y-yes.”

“Good girl.”

She said it like a reward, like a verdict—like I hadn’t been anything close to good all day, but somehow, she’d trained me there. Hips still moving under mine, hands tight on my waist, guiding my body like I was just something she’d decided to break in slowly.

I was gone. Fully. Head back, lips parted, brain blank. All I could do was ride. And let her fuck me up.

Her thumb dragged across my bottom lip, and her voice was low, barely above a hum. “That’s it, baby. Don’t think, just feel it.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t form a single sentence. My moans weren’t words anymore—just breath and pitch, soft at first, then ragged. The deeper she hit, the wetter I got. I could feel it. The mess. The slap of our bodies. Her name falling out of me without permission.

She loved it.

Her hands slid down to grip my thighs, pulling me down rougher, meaner. Her strap curved just right, hitting that spot that made my stomach twitch.

“D… D—fuck—”

I reached for her again, desperate, fingers curling on her chest. I needed something—anything to ground me—but she grabbed both wrists in one hand and pinned them behind my back like no. Like take it.

That’s when the tears hit. Not sobbing. But the kind that slid out quietly, uninvited, just ‘cause the pleasure was too much. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t scared. I was overwhelmed.

She noticed. Of course she did. She kissed the edge of my jaw, her voice syrup-slow.

“There she go. Look at you.”

She rocked up deeper. “This how you act when you finally get touched right?”

I nodded. Barely. My whole body tensed, locked down on the strap so hard I felt my orgasm choke halfway out my throat.

“I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

She grabbed a handful of my ass, her other arm wrapped around my waist, and she fucked into me. Intentional. Punishing. Her goal wasn’t to get me off. Her goal was to empty me.

I came. Hard. But it didn’t stop there. She kept going. Stroking through it. Pushing past it. My thighs shaking so bad they gave out, and that’s when it happened.

My whole body snapped forward—and I squirted. Loud. Wet. Shameless.

She groaned into my neck. “There she is.”

I whimpered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes you did. You always do.”

She eased the strap out slow, dragging my body with it, guiding me back onto my side like I’d been spun in a dryer. She kissed my temple. My shoulder. My spine.

I was twitching. Barely conscious. Breathing like I’d run laps around the planet.

“Next time you get mad on vacation,” she whispered, “just ask.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But the next tear that slid down my cheek had nothing to do with frustration. And everything to do with how full I finally felt.

She kissed my back, whispered a smug little, “There you go…” and tucked me in like I wasn’t still twitching from the inside out.

Didn’t even bother wiping me up all the way—just enough so I didn’t stick to her chest while you curled up against it, knocked clean out. Face buried in her neck, thighs still sore, pussy pulsing like it knew better next time.

I didn’t say another word. Didn’t need to. She had me slumped, soul quiet, body fed. Just what her baby needed.

She laid there wide awake, arm wrapped tight around my waist, smirking in the dark like. Attitude? Where? That’s what I thought.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai

[layla25708]

Stray kids reaction when they see you and it’s love at first sight ̨ ! ୨୧ 一 스트레이 키즈 ՞

﹙ They fall in love with you at first sight ﹚ .ᐟ

OT8!스트레이 키즈・ fem!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ Fluff, Light Romance ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ wc ・3,430 ‎ ‎ ‎

This fanfiction is a work of fiction written by me for entertainment purposes only. I do not own or claim to own any characters or idols of the real-life individuals mentioned. All characters, events, and scenarios are entirely fictional and do not reflect the actual personalities, relationships, or actions of the people involved.

﹙ 𐙚 : BANG CHAN ﹚ .ᐟ 방찬

It was supposed to be a quick stop for coffee. He had five minutes before heading back to the studio, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds in, trying not to be noticed.

The cafe was half-empty, soft lo-fi playing overhead. He stood in line, eyes scanning the chalkboard menu, when the door chimed behind him. He didn’t turn around — not until he heard a laugh. Not loud. Just soft. Unbothered. Real.

He turned instinctively, and that’s when he saw you.

Your hair was slightly windswept from outside, your cheeks rosy from the cold. You were laughing with the barista about something—he couldn’t even hear what—but it didn't matter. Because in that split second, the entire room dimmed and focused on you.

Is this… happening?

You hadn’t even noticed him yet.

“Sir?” the barista asked, snapping him back.

“Oh—uh, yeah. Just a flat white, please,” he muttered, eyes flicking back toward you.

You moved to the side, waiting for your drink, scrolling through your phone.

He debated. Don’t be creepy, Chris. Just say something.He stepped forward slowly.

You looked up as he stood next to you. “Hey,” he said, voice cautious but warm. “Sorry to bother you… but I just—wanted to say your laugh made my day.”

Your eyes lit up, a mix of surprise and amusement. “That’s… unexpectedly sweet. Thanks.”

“I’m Chan,” he added with a nervous chuckle.

“Y/N,” you replied.

The barista called your drinks at the same time.

It felt like fate.

﹙ 𐙚 : LEE KNOW ﹚ .ᐟ 리노

He hated grocery shopping. But the dorm was out of eggs, and the manager said if he ordered takeout one more time, she’d personally cancel his credit card.

It was late — 11:09 p.m. — and the convenience store’s fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly as he scanned the shelves. He was squatting to grab instant noodles when your cart accidentally bumped his back.

“Oh god! I’m so sorry!” you blurted.

He turned around quickly, ready to shrug it off — and froze.

You were wearing oversized glasses, hair tied up messily, hoodie too big for your frame. And you looked like a goddess.

Something inside his chest went boom.

You looked mortified. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you there.”

He blinked. “Yeah—yeah, I’m good. Uh… that’s a strong cart,” he joked lamely.

You giggled. “It’s my secret weapon. Especially when I’m fighting for the last pack of shrimp chips.”

He smiled. And then couldn’t stop.

You tilted your head. “Wait, do I know you? You look kind of familiar.”

“Nope. Definitely not famous,” he said way too quickly, grabbing a random snack and tossing it into his basket.

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He panicked. “Do you, um, live around here?”

You nodded. “Just a few blocks away.”

“Cool,” he said, heart racing. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

You smiled. “Maybe you will, mysterious noodle guy.”

And just like that, he stood frozen in the snack aisle, grinning like an idiot.

﹙ 𐙚 : CHANGBIN ﹚ .ᐟ 창빈

The underground gym was nearly empty at 2:37 a.m. It was Changbin’s favorite time — no distractions, no small talk. Just beats in his ears and the burn of lifting.

He’d just finished a set when he noticed someone entering — which was already rare — but what caught him off guard was that you weren’t a regular.

You had headphones in, hoodie sleeves rolled up, hair tied back. You headed for the punching bag with focused determination. He watched you wrap your hands methodically, then launch into the cleanest combo he’d seen in a while.

Damn.

He didn’t even realize he was staring until you caught him in the mirror. You pulled your headphones down, arching a brow. “Something wrong?”

He stepped forward quickly, shaking his head. “No—no, sorry. You just… hit like a pro. Wasn’t expecting that.”

You grinned. “Thanks. It’s my favorite way to blow off steam.”

He nodded, trying to play it cool. “You new here?”

“Just moved to the city. Trying to find my midnight rhythm.”

He chuckled. “You’ll fit in here, then. I’m Binnie.”

“Y/N,” you said, holding out your glove-clad hand.

The touch was light, but it jolted straight through him.

He couldn’t help it. The next time he hit the weights, he sneaked glances in your direction, unable to stop the warmth blooming in his chest.

Something about you was magnetic.

And for the first time, the gym felt too quiet without your voice.

﹙ 𐙚 : HYUNJIN ﹚ .ᐟ 현진

He wasn’t supposed to be at the art gallery. The exhibit he wanted to see had ended the night before, but somehow, the wrong date saved his fate.

The soft echo of footsteps over marble floors was the only sound as he wandered, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sweeping over oil-painted canvases — when he noticed someone else standing alone in front of a piece he barely glanced at before.

You.

Hair down, bag dangling from your shoulder, you stood quietly, completely still, admiring a stormy landscape. There was something about your posture — the tilt of your head, the calmness in your expression — that struck him deeper than any brushstroke on the wall.

You turned your head just slightly, and his heart stuttered.

You noticed him watching and smiled softly, a little curious, not startled.

He walked closer. “That one’s your favorite?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. “It feels… honest. Don’t you think?”

He looked at the painting again, and for the first time, he saw it. Really saw it.

“I do now,” he replied.

You chuckled, then held out your hand. “I’m Y/N.”

“Hyunjin,” he said, brushing your fingers gently.

Time slowed.

You didn’t move on for another ten minutes, and neither did he.

﹙ 𐙚 : HAN ﹚ .ᐟ 한

The bookstore was quieter than a whisper.

Han had slipped in to avoid the chaos of fans down the block, hiding behind rows of fantasy novels and coffee-scented air. He didn’t expect to run into anyone — until he knocked over a whole stack of books trying to grab a snack bar from the shelf near the register.

“Oh no,” you gasped, appearing out of nowhere. “That was a beautiful disaster.”

He turned, cheeks already burning. “I swear the shelf attacked me first.”

You crouched down beside him, laughing as you helped gather books. “Guess I’m not the only clumsy one.”

He stared at you for a moment, too long.

You glanced up. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just… you have the nicest voice,” he said before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

You blinked. “That’s a new one.”

“Sorry,” he stammered. “I meant… not just your voice. The laugh, too. And… your face. Okay, I’ll stop talking now.”

You smiled. “No, don’t. You’re funny.”

He coughed. “Han. I mean Jisung. I mean… both?”

“Y/N,” you said, extending a hand.

He shook it with his whole heart.

By the time you left the shop, you were exchanging podcast recommendations — and he had your name saved in his Notes app with a little heart beside it.

﹙ 𐙚 : FELIX ﹚ .ᐟ 필릭스

Felix loved sunsets.

So it wasn’t unusual that he ended up sitting on a bench by the Han River at 6:42 p.m., hoodie up, camera beside him, watching the sky burn gold and pink.

What was unusual was the girl who sat next to him without a word.

You didn’t look over — not at first. You just sighed, long and content, like someone who knew how to enjoy silence.

He turned slightly, curious. You were hugging your knees, a novel tucked under one arm, earbuds dangling around your neck.

“You always come here?” he asked softly.

You smiled, not startled. “Only when the world feels too loud.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

You looked over, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Your gaze was open, kind. His heart stuttered painfully.

“I’m Felix,” he added shyly.

“Y/N.”

“I like your energy.”

You tilted your head. “Is that your way of saying I don’t talk too much?”

He laughed. “A little. But mostly… you feel like peace.”

Your eyes softened.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, he offered to walk with you to the train.

You said yes.

﹙ 𐙚 : SEUNGMIN ﹚ .ᐟ 승민

He didn’t expect to meet anyone at a dog park — especially not without bringing a dog.

It was 9:56 a.m., and Seungmin was just there for a walk, hoodie zipped, coffee in hand, when a golden retriever bounded toward him and knocked his drink out of his hand.

“Max!” you shouted, running over. “I am so sorry—”

He looked up, drenched but grinning.

You skidded to a stop. “Oh my god, your sweater—”

“It’s okay,” he laughed, shaking off the coffee like it was nothing. “Strong dog.”

You sighed, tugging the leash. “He loves knocking over innocent bystanders.”

Seungmin’s gaze lingered. “I don’t mind. I think he’s doing me a favor.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Well…” He gave you a small smile. “Now I get to meet his very cute owner.”

You stared, caught off guard. Then you laughed — full and surprised.

“I’m Y/N,” you offered.

“Seungmin. I swear I usually smell like vanilla lattes, not wear them.”

You laughed harder. Max barked in approval.

He offered to walk with you for a while — and suddenly, his morning felt warmer than any coffee ever could.

﹙ 𐙚 : JEONGIN ﹚ .ᐟ 아이엔

It was his first day trying pottery class — something he secretly signed up for on a dare from Hyunjin.

The studio was small and cozy, soft jazz playing through a dusty speaker, hands covered in clay as Jeongin nervously tried to center his wobbly bowl.

“Hi,” came a voice beside him. “First timer?”

He looked up and nearly dropped the entire lump of clay.

You were smiling at him, apron already dusted with white powder, your wheel spinning perfectly.

“Uh… yeah. Is it that obvious?”

You laughed, not unkindly. “A little. Want some help?”

He blinked. “You’d help a total stranger?”

“Only if he looks this nervous,” you teased.

You knelt beside him and gently guided his hands over the clay. “Like this. Easy pressure.”

Your touch was light, voice calming.

And just like that, he was smitten.

When class ended, he blurted out, “Do you… want to get hot chocolate or something?”

You beamed. “I’d love to.”

And for the first time, Jeongin walked out with something better than a finished bowl — a name, a smile, and a hope.

Please do not repost, translate, or claim this writing as your own without permission. Reblogs are appreciated to support the author!

Thank you for reading :)

[sunshinedaisywrites777]

Post-Mission Intimacy (Leon Kennedy x Reader)

A/N- Hello everyone! I'm deeply sorry for being late. Vacation got the best of me and I was (still am) slacking so hard right now but you're all waiting for a smut so here you go! I kinda rushed it to be honest and I know it's not going to be the best smut you'll ever read BUT it's my first time writing smut soo yayy! I hope you like it and don't forget to leave comments and give me feedbacks 🙂💜

Warnings- Smut! MDNI! +18, tigh riding, no foreplay?, aftercare, feels of aftershock, sex without lube, softdom!leon, praise kink.

The clock read 12:43 AM. You were curled up on the couch, lights low, the faint hum of the TV playing a rerun of some show neither of you watched. A cup of chamomile tea sat cold beside you. You hadn’t touched it in an hour. Not since the last time you checked your phone for any message, any update. Still nothing.

Then the door finally opened.

You were on your feet before you could think. Leon stepped inside, shoulders heavy under his black jacket, hair sticking to his forehead, the weight of a mission lingering on every inch of his body. His blue eyes found you instantly. And softened.

He didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, breathing in the sight of you — small in his oversized flannel, barefoot, eyes red from waiting. You closed the distance first, hands curling around the back of his neck.

“You’re home,” you whispered.

“I’m home,” he murmured back, voice rough and low.

He kissed your hair, your temple, your cheek, before you finally pulled back and wrinkled your nose. “Leon… you smell.”

That made him huff a tired laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“Go shower,” you said, nudging him toward the bathroom. “I’ll wait.”

He didn’t take long, but every second felt stretched thin. The sound of running water was oddly comforting. When he returned, steam trailed behind him, his chest damp and pink from the heat. His hair was messy, curling slightly at the ends, his body wrapped in nothing but a towel low on his hips.

He looked like a dream — exhausted, but clean, real, yours.

“Still waiting for me?” he asked, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You nodded, eyes lingering on the droplets trailing down his chest. “Always.”

Leon came to you slowly. The towel slipped to the floor before he even reached you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, skin-on-skin, his body warm and damp against yours.

You reached for the buttons on your flannel, but Leon stopped you. “Let me.”

He undid each one with deliberate slowness, exposing more of your bare skin with every pass. No bra, no underwear. You hadn’t been wearing anything beneath it. His eyes darkened.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You were just sitting there like this?”

You smiled and nodded.

He growled low and kissed you hard, backing you toward the couch, hands never leaving your skin. You dropped back into the cushions, and he followed you down, slotting his hips between your thighs.

“Need you,” he said, voice rough. “Been thinking about this since I left.”

You guided him in, no resistance, just slick warmth and the sigh of relief that left both of your lips as he filled you.

Leon moved slow, deep, deliberate. He wasn’t trying to fuck the pain away. He was savoring you, grounding himself in every kiss, every touch, every breathless moan you made. You clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails in his back.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Take me. Let me feel you.”

Your orgasm built slowly, coiling in your stomach, heat pulsing behind your eyes. He whispered to you the whole time, telling you how beautiful you were, how perfect, how tight you felt, how much he missed you.

When you finally came, it was sharp and silent, your body seizing around him, head thrown back, lips parted. Leon held on as you broke, kissing your shoulder, your throat, your jaw. He followed you moments later with a deep groan, burying himself inside you.

You laid together tangled on the couch, your body still twitching from the aftershocks. One leg was draped over his, and Leon felt the slight pulse of your hips shifting.

“Still shaking,” he murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “You need to ride it out, huh?”

You nodded, barely able to speak. He guided you, gently shifting your hips until you were straddling one of his thighs, bare skin against bare skin.

“Use me,” he whispered. “Come on, baby. Just let it out.”

You moved slowly, grinding against the solid muscle of his thigh, slick and sensitive, trembling as the last waves passed through you. Leon held you steady, kissing your cheek, his hand splayed on your lower back.

“That’s it… Good girl.”

When it was over, you collapsed onto his chest, breath ragged. He held you close, wrapping both arms around you, rubbing small circles into your back.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he whispered.

You believed him.

And in that moment, you didn’t need anything else.

[farfromharry]

Summary: Lando’s girlfriend broke her leg and obviously he had to be the first to sign it

lando norris x reader

w/c 963

A broken leg, that was Y/N’s diagnosis. That and being incredibly clumsy. And she had been sulking about it for the better part of a day.

Lando had been scared to overstep. He knew she was upset, her movements for the next 2-3 months were limited, of course she would be upset. But he missed her. Being a boyfriend had taught him a lot about himself and one of those things was that he was extremely clingy when the right person was involved. He just wanted to spend time with her.

He gave it till 2pm the day after they left the hospital before he broke. He needed bribes and a smile and hopefully everything would go to plan.

The man knocked on the bedroom door, getting no response just as expected. “Are you still moping or can I come in?” It was a dangerous game he was playing. Poking the bear. Luckily for him, this bear had a soft spot. That soft spot was named Lando Norris. She was just as gone for him as he was for her. A match made in heaven.

A huff came from beneath the blankets. It made him smile. “Depends. Did you bring ice cream… or chocolate?” Her voice was quiet, like she was being shy about it. He knew her too well though.

“Chocolate ice cream okay?”

She lifted her head like she was checking he was being honest. The man waved the tub where she could see with a spoon in his other hand. For the first time in a full day, she smiled. “You beautiful man, get over here.”

That was his green light. He basically jogged over to the bed, throwing himself in beside her. He offered the ice cream and a kiss, both doing wonders to lighten her mood.

“How you feeling?” He brushed her hair from her face.

She frowned, curling into his side. “Like I can’t go anywhere without burdening someone.” Considering she had never used crutches, everyone agreed it was best to accompany her places in case she stumbled or fell. It was out of love. No one wanted her to hurt herself more than she already had.

Now it was his turn to frown. He couldn’t even begin to tell her how much of a burden she wasn’t. “I will literally carry you everywhere until it’s healed. You’re not allowed to be sad anymore.”

Unfortunately she knew he was being serious. “Lan, you can’t just—“

“Yes, actually, I can.” He raised an arm, pulled up his sleeve and flexed. “I have incredible biceps. It’d be a breeze.” He winked for good measure and she hated how it made her a little flustered.

It all started with his finger tracing shapes on her leg. That was probably where he got the idea from. Then it graduated to him shuffling down the bed, deciding he had to make his mark on her cast.

She didn’t know where he got the pen, probably in one of his many pockets for some random reason. It did take her by surprise though that he was just blindly helping himself. She might not have minded if he had written her a nice message or something. “Did you just sign my cast?” She blinked, blankly.

“Obviously, that’s what you do with casts.”

Her eyes flickered down to the ink now soaking into the plaster. It was there clear as day. The squiggly lines that somehow made up ‘Lando’ with a little 4 beside it. “No, Lando, you literally autographed it.”

He looked down with a furrowed brow, like he hadn’t even realised what he’d done. It was sort of a reflex. When a pen was put in his hand and he was supposed to sign something, that’s exactly what he did. His signature was scrawled mindlessly across the cast because that’s what he was so used to doing. Over the years he’d signed everything from skin to wrappers. Apparently now he even signed his girlfriend.

“Shit.” Any normal person would have felt guilty or even feigned it, but not him. Lando laughed, like, full belly laughed at his mistake. “I’m sorry, baby.”

The woman rolled her eyes. Admittedly she couldn’t help but feel slightly amused herself.

“I’ll fix it.”

“How?”

There was that evil grin on his face again. “You just eat your ice cream. Let me work my magic.”

She didn’t even want to know what he had planned. When it came to Lando sometimes it was better to turn a blind eye and let him do his thing. She sighed, doing as he said. As long as he didn’t draw something phallic like the child he was, she supposed she could get over it.

The man was concentrating hard. Every now and then she would glance at him, find him with his head practically buried in her thigh and his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. It was adorable.

10 minutes must have gone by before he finally announced he was done with his masterpiece. “All done.” He sat back with a proud smile on his face.

When she finally took a look, it was like something a crushing teen might draw in the margin of their high school notebook. Hearts, everywhere, followed by a ‘Lando <3 Y/N.’ It was silly, but it made her smile and that was all he wanted to do. Plus now that he’d dedicated his love to her, at least everyone would know she was his.

“I love it, you’re a real artist.”

He beamed. It would be with her for the next 3 months so he was glad she liked it. He stole a quick kiss and then a bit of ice cream when she wasn’t looking. “Good, ‘cause I love you.”