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mannien · 1 month ago

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I Don't See Your Mistakes, I See You | Bucky x f!reader

Pairing: Thunderbolts*Bucky Barnes x enhanced female character

Summary: A peaceful evening in Brooklyn turns into emotional chaos when Bucky comes home and brings unexpected guests.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: Thunderbolts* spoilers!, established relationship, enhanced female character with magical powers, third person narration but no name is called, swear words, angst, soft comfort, slow burn, sexual tension, heavy petting, dry humping, (not porn but +18 minors pls stay away!), teasing, flirting, protective and tired Bucky, mild wound description, talk of magical powers, depression, references to past trauma, English is not my first language

Note: Watching Thunderbolts* got me heavily daydreaming about Bucky and his new friends! It's also been a very therapeutic experience to write this for the past 2 weeks (yes, that long). I hope at least someone will enjoy it!

(Edited)Tagging @loving-barnes @kinanabinks @real-jane @cheekybarnes @marvelstoriesepic @aquaticmercy @witchywithwhiskey @sergeantbarnessdoll @mercurial-chuckles @navybrat817 and @captainsimagines because when I think of writing, I immediately think of you! I won’t tag you again if you don’t want it, just wanted to share my inspo with you

The late afternoon carried an ambiance of comfort. The smell of cooling air after a slightly warmer day; the soft hum of the city somewhere in the distance, broken by a clutter of local shops closing down nearby. The sun already hid behind the tall horizon of Manhattan, but the city was still very much alive.

The apartment in Carroll Gardens was like a safe haven. Nested in the middle of a quiet neighborhood, close to the park and surrounded by families or people who crave a respite in the middle of a crowded city. A quiet street of brownstones and aged trees led to a renovated block, slightly modernized to facilitate to the everchanging world, yet still full of soul, of Brooklyn heart, of the things that brought Bucky the most peace.

The long-stretching Thursday was coming to an end, but her night was only beginning. A quick and effective plane trip from D.C., an overly expensive taxi drive from the airport, and you made it to your second home.

Or first, depending on the day of the week, time of the year, time of their lives.

The home in Washington was where legislations, reports, and analyses were read. Where congressman and strategic liaison ate quick breakfast and indulged in a late-night dinner on a commitment-free evening. Walls were bland, countertops marble, and kitchen big enough to fit a multigenerational family. Something that felt closer to a temporary solution rather than a home for years. Only a couple of personal touches here and there – misplaced accessories, loose change, a piece of jewelry she took off once and forgot to put back on. A pair of colorful mugs, because she refused to drink from plain whites that came with the interior. Bucky’s suits and tuxedos were there, fitted to perfection, dry-cleaned and delivered straight to the door, only a couple blocks away from the center of the country’s government life. A place where she managed not to kill only one succulent, because the time spent inside these walls was not dedicated to hobbies. This is where they worked, where they came back after their long days – Bucky from the Capitol Hill, and her from the Agency.

But the home in Brooklyn?

Not ideal or picture-perfect. With mismatched furniture in their bedroom, because they couldn’t agree on one style, yet somehow creating their own world. A soft, off-color sofa, deep and slouchy, remembering many movie nights and hushed conversations. Soft lighting, making the bookshelves glow with colors of many loved and exchanged titles. Spare blankets thrown over bedding and chairs. A place where they laughed, cried and loved. A safe haven for the time they need to breathe, be in peace, be themselves. With a kitchen that hosted a few too-many gatherings for Bucky’s liking, but that proved to them that they can live a normal life.

Entering the building of their Brooklyn home felt like a ray of sunshine after months of gloomy winter. Unlocking the door was a warm hug.

The apartment was empty, but the familiar walls spoke to her in their own way. When she breathed deep enough, she could sense the good, soft comfort of a judgement-free space. The empath in her recharged in a place full of hers and Bucky’s things and memories. She quickly fell into a routine that brought her so much ease. She took a shower, to take off the smell of office buildings and public transport, put on a quick laundry load, and slowed down.

Slowing down was as close as she could get to relaxing, when she hadn’t heard from Bucky in two days. Three, if we count the whole day he was held up in meetings, before he shared with her a change of heart, a new plan, and promised to be back soon. She knew he had reasons, had a hint of what this might entail, and just waited, trying to carry on.

The soft glow of the semi-open plan kitchen welcomed her. The floors were soothingly cool against her bare feet, grounding in the moment. With hair still wet from the shower and seeping through the shoulders of Bucky’s old t-shirt, she fixed the waistband of her leggings and exhaled some of the tension that was still left and strong in her body.

The quiet whirring noise of the washing machine died down in the background when garlic and shallots started sizzling on the pan. When she occupied her hands, her mind could focus more and wander less. She tried really hard not to look at her phone, and really poured her heart into making a hearty meal. A therapeutic resolve, some might say, but it really was one of the healthy outlets she could use so that her magic doesn’t go on an uncontrollable rollercoaster of anxiety. She stirred in two cans of the good tomatoes from the Italian shop two streets away and let the sauce simmer. With the dinner slowly cooking away, she leaned on the kitchen island over a notepad and a bright screen of her laptop, reviewing some of the files from the last intel she requested, before the CIA went through a major lockdown due to events that Bucky was supposedly notinvolved in. She knew better than to read too much into it, so she focused on the facts – the data logs, mission reports, and a side of agency’s new recruits’ evaluation, that she was actually being paid for.

Long minutes passed, the sauce sizzling away and pasta water ready in the pot. She was rinsing her hands when she felt it – an emotional tug at her heart. A sprinkle of tension pulling her magic through the veins, making her aware of her heartbeat and suddenly perked up attention. She stopped the music playing from her laptop and turned off the stove, listening in. She was hyper sensitive, but lacked the enhanced hearing of a super soldier, so the silence that followed only frustrated her. She closed her eyes and tried to listen to her senses, but a heavy bang at the door startled her instead. She visibly flinched, loose sparks flying around her fingertips at the intrusion.

Another harsh movement against the door and before she could even react, it burst open, the handle hitting the wall in the hall. She spun around and felt the heat trickling down her fingertips, right when a familiar voice rung out through the apartment.

“Hey, it’s me. Not alone. Don’t hex anyone.”

Right when she exhaled, she felt how tight her chest had been a second earlier. The sparks swirling around her hands died down with the flow of his voice, and she briefly touched her chest, taking one more grounding breath.

“I swear, if you scare me like that one more time…” She walked out to the hall and saw him. A bloody bruise on his cheek, dusty forehead and a trickle of either dirt or dried blood down the side of his neck. His tactical shirt cut in a few places, definitely by something sharp and she hoped not by a knife. Left shoulder lifted in slight discomfort and right palm of his hand flexing uncomfortably. But he was standing, breathing, and looking at her with a tinge of relief.

He was most definitely not alone – the crowd behind him was bigger than she could have expected:

John Walker, scrunching his forehead so hard that at least one of these wrinkles could become permanent.

Yelena, assessing her surroundings with caution and desperately needing a band aid to her temple. She let go of the forearm of a guy whose picture covered half-a-page in the files that she briefed through mere minutes earlier.

Red Guardian, blocking off almost the entire entryway, smiling in awe and in a suspiciously cheerful nature.

Ava, leaning her side on the door, limping and tugging at the neckline of her suit with desperation.

When her eyes were quickly assessing the situation, Bucky stepped closer to her and exhaled with visible remorse.

“I should’ve given you a heads up,” he said, voice low, eyes scanning her face. “I know we planned a quiet weekend. Things just went sideways fast.”

She lifted her hand to his chin, angling it gently to examine the gash above his stubble. The blood had dried in a jagged trail down his neck. “You need patching up.”

“We need to lay low and figure out our next step,” he said, though his eyes stayed on her more than the group behind him. His tone held that familiar thread of guilt — like he’d brought more than dirt into their home.

She did pay attention to what he was saying, but not more than to the exhaustion visible around his eyes, the tension that he carried in his muscles and nerves that trickled from behind him, from the group of guests he brought.

“When you said you know someplace safe, I thought you meant like a safe house,” John pitched in, taking measured steps forward, still cautiously watching his surroundings as if it was a trap.

“It is a safe place, and it is a home. Anything else you need to fit the description?” Bucky turned back and gestured them to move forward. He made sure to close the door with the secure lock and offered Ava his arm to offload her weak side.

Some of them knew who she was, but she offered her name anyway, just to stick to the friendly pleasantries. They needed security, she could feel it. She invited them in and made a beeline for the heavily equipped first aid kit hid in the bathroom.

She carried the large box and a few towels in to the table, laying the kit out. Bucky gestured for Ava to sit down and helped her find the antiseptic and sterile bandages.

Yelena leaned over the table with a surprised look on her face.

“That’s not an ordinary first-aid kit.”

“You’re in a house of people who refuse to go to urgent care,” she piped in with a lightness to her voice. She took a look at Yelena’s gash on the temple and sprayed an antiseptic over a gauze. “and in case you didn’t notice, he is the type to attract knives and bullets.”

“Yeah, I know the type.” Yelena replied, nodding in thanks for the help.

“If you want to clean up, bathroom is down the hall,” she pointed to the corridor and already started walking that way. “I’ll get more towels.”

She got accustomed to tuning out people’s feelings. It took years of practice as an empath. But the moment a group of troubled, battered and bruised fallen heroes entered their home, her mind was struggling. So, she switched into action mode, preferring to be of service and of help, rather than linger around and fight the feelings that creep in. She piled the spare cloths on the dresser in the corridor and made sure Yelena got the right door – which she did, because she immediately let out an impressed whistle.

Taking a moment to breathe in the empty hall was a mistake – she started spiraling. She didn’t understand why. Bucky is home. He is safe. He trusts these guys, because he brought them in. Why is my mind screaming?

The apartment became too loud. Not in volume, but in energy. Something was stretching her mind to stay open, and she couldn’t contain the input of feelings. She didn’t dare pull on the threads – they weren’t hers to play, not tonight. But something definitely triggered her soul – something powerful and unknown. A new source of energy that she hadn’t felt before.

She moved. Mechanics and focus were a taming tactic, so she settled on a kind attitude and acts of service. A large pitcher filled with water, ice packs that were always on the top shelf in the freezer, and almost all of the glasses they owned. She set them all on the table. The heat on the stove put back on, water slowly coming to boil under the pan.

When she carried a bunch of napkins to the table, Bucky was closing the first aid box. She looked up to his face and still saw the bright red scratch atop of his cheekbone. That woke her up from the haze.

“No, no. You’re getting cleaned up.” She tried taking the box from him, but he pulled it behind him too quickly.

“I’m fine.” He said it too calmly and too confidently, so it riled her up. Steered her hears away from whatever ate at her, and made her narrow her eyes at him.

“Fuck fine, you’re bleeding.” She tried reaching out for the box again, but took a hold of her hand instead. He shook his head lightly and let their gazes meet for a silent conversation.

“I am fine. Later, I promise.” He softens his voice, squeezing her palm briefly in reassurance. It makes her release a heavy breath and finally nod in acceptance, understanding that she won’t be able to push him now.

“We’re waiting for pasta to boil. Dinner should be ready soon.”

That sparked interest. While she was still looking up his gorgeous eyes, trying to find comfort in his presence, the word dinner seemed to have perked up almost everyone in the room.

A packet and a half of spaghetti was carefully thrown into the boiling water, barely fitting and almost overflowing the pot. People started moving, matching the rhythm of the bubbling heat on the stove. Someone dragged a chai and moved the table to fit more people; the clinking noise of jackets taken off and weapons meeting the floor echoed through the walls almost naturally. A few relieved exhales followed, mimicking a moment of peace for the loud minds.

“Can I help you with anything?”

The question startled her, pulling at the invisible trigger of her anxiety even harder, making her drop the spoon. The quietest guy, Bob, shyly lurked into the kitchen. His eyes were kind, soft, almost scared, but something dangerous and dark tingled her fingertips when she paid too much attention. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The harsh noise of the metal spoon against the tiles kept on ringing in her head, but she tried to shake away the feeling. The unnerving moment stretched until Bob took a cautious step forward, probably in worry, and Bucky walked into the room, intentionally.

“Yeah, um…” She started to break off the static that clouded her brain in weird, dark clouds. “The plates are just above you,” she pointed to the cupboard and started moving towards him to help.

“I got it,” Bucky stopped her, and pulled the door open instead. He looked to her with quiet concern painted on his face, lips pursed. The unusually tall stack of plates was laid on the counter near the stove. She focused on trying if the pasta is soft already, adding spices to the sauce and stirring more than necessary.

In the fleeting moment of quiet cooking, Bucky stayed with her. Eyed her for a moment, resting his hip against the counter and switching his attention between her determined movements, aggressively boiling pasta and focused eyes that watched the steam blow away from above the pot. He moved closer, his side meeting hers, and rested his hand gently on her waist, enveloping her in a cautious embrace. The heat that travelled from his body made her eyes flutter and upper back lean into his side, resting some of her weight on him. The thread of anxiety loosened where he held her. He was leaning in, the way he always was when he wanted to kiss her head, but his breath only escaped near her forehead, interrupted.

“It smells like you’re actually gonna feed us,” Yelena appeared, hair slightly wet and skin visibly cleaner, even the gash on her temple was smaller once the dust was not sticking to it. Bucky moved away towards the fridge, and her fingers subconsciously wandered over the countertop to find the oven mitt and safely drain the pasta.

“Well, it looks like it,” she gently poured the pasta into the pan with bubbling sauce and blew air over her hands, feeling the heat from the steam prickle at her skin. “I don’t expect you all had a shawarma on your way here,” she glanced at Bucky, who has already taken out cheese and still fresh enough salad mix from the fridge, but was still fidgeting to find a quick snack. “I’m not going to eat by myself and have you watch me. That’s creepy.”

“Ah! That’s a good home with a good hostess. Whatever else would you need from a safe house?” Alexei’s loud voice shook the walls and made Bucky sigh with exasperation.

“Your hands to set the table,” she smiled, holding out a handful of forks and knives. He took them with a small bow and a hand salute, and it weirdly fit to his huge posture, bright red costume and a crooked smile.

With focused precision, she laid out hearty, more or less even portions of pasta for their guests.

“You are so calm for a person whose night just got ruined by a bunch of strangers with guns and knives,” Ava wondered in curiosity from her spot at the table and showed a shadow of an honest smile when a steaming bowl was set in front of her.

Others were already coming in to the table and grabbing a bowl, only John was still standing off to the side, his eyes cautiously eyeing the corridor to the bedrooms, lurking in to get a peek of what is on the pictures hung on the wall.

“Walker,” Bucky’s warning made everyone look up at him in curiosity, “if you’re so desperate to snoop around, there are spare chairs in the entryway closet.” It made the others snicker or hide a chuckle.

“I’m not snooping around,” he mumbled like a stubborn child. Before she carried in the last two portions – a bigger one for Bucky, smaller and just enough for her - John was already carrying in four folding chairs, a confused grimace still glued to his face. “I just- I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything,” he turned to her briefly with a somewhat apologetic tone. She only raised a brow and took a seat at the last free corner of the table, next to Bucky.

“Usually when you say you don’t want to be disrespectful, you already are.” Yelena chipped in, blowing on the pasta wrapped neatly around her fork.

“No, listen –“he hesitates, rubbing his eyes in frustration. She could feel the bubbling confusion threatening to slip out from his aura, and it made her hide her smile. She should not laugh at their guests, even if it was John Walker. “it just doesn’t make sense. Why would Barnes bring us to a place like this?”

“Like what?” Bucky raised his eyebrow, which could pass as a warning, but she could see a tint of amusement in the way his lip twitched.

“I don’t know, this feels too… cozy,” He gestured vaguely around the living room. “I didn’t expect you to hide away at a place that has colorful pillows and scented candles.”

Ava snorted, “You thought he sleeps in a cell?”

“No,” he replied almost too quickly, defensive mode kicking in. “It just doesn’t fit the general description, I guess.” He shrugged, then looked from the flickering candle on the countertop, to the soft lights that shined near the corner of the living room. “I thought you would crash somewhere between government reports and military bases.” He said the last sentence directly to Bucky across the table. She could feel his chest rising heavier than before, so she laid her hand on his thigh, massaging in calming rhythm.

“That’s not really a nice thing to say to someone who trusted you and invited you to their home.” She said calmly, with a tint of a kind smile on her face, looking carefully to Bucky. Her sentence made him loosen up, exhale a breath and almost chuckle. Almost, because it died down in the awkward series of coughs from the team, and earned a wide-eyed stare-down from John.

“Wait, hold on—”

“You really didn’t see that coming, Walker, did you?” Ava cut him off between bites.

“You’re a clueless boy, John Walker,” Yelena mused, and then turned to her. “This is really good, by the way. Do you have any hot sauce?”

“Yeah,” she nodded and almost got up, but Bucky beat her to it, putting away his napkin and steadying her on her chair with a warm hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll get it.”

John watched Bucky retreat back to the kitchen like a hawk, the gears in his brain working overtime. Then he looked back to her, like he tried really hard to match two puzzle pieces together.

“I know you.” He said bluntly, which made her smirk.

“Do you?” She asked from above her bowl, twirling the fork around another string of spaghetti. She tilted her head, almost in a challenge, surely in amusement.

“You were there when we fought in Riga,” he started, his eyes focused like in a distant memory, “and then in New York… Shit, yeah. You were with Sam and Bucky there.”

“And you were acting like authority, yelling and breaking things.” She blew on another bite of pasta before eating with composure. The unnerving feeling danced around the table, she could still feel it, but John provided her enough of a distraction to lower the tension in her chest.

“Ha, I wish I could see it!” Ava’s chuckle lifted the atmosphere.

Bucky came back with a bottle of sriracha and passed it to a brightly smiling Yelena.

“Okay, alright – as far as I remember, you weren’t exactly a definition of peaceful, either.” John held up his hands in defense. “I mean, you were waving your fingers with this weird energy, making people dizzy.” John doesn’t let go, but at least manages to sit down at his waiting spot and take a hold of his fork. “You were giving very strong ‘weird glitter witch’ vibes.”

Bucky chose to walk around the table to his seat. His stride didn’t break, but only faltered for a millisecond, when his open palm flicked into Walker’s head with dull force.

“Hey!” He held his hand up and recoiled. Bucky was already sliding into the chair. “What was that for?”

“For the weird glitter witch.”

She bumped her knee into Bucky’s and sent him a grateful look. She put down her fork and cleared her throat, before speaking up with a measured tone.

“I like glitter. My magic shines like sparkles when it’s visible, look,” she turns to Alexei right next to her and lifts her hand above the table. She let a tingle of emotion to travel through her body and stop at her fingertips. A few light sparks started to dance around her nails, swirl around like calm beacons of energy, delicate enough to mesmerize whoever watched.

“Oh, that is pretty.” Alexei widened his eyes and leaned closer, admiring the spark of magic.

From next to John, Bob spoke up with curiosity and fascination. His voice resonated with calmness, but it made her hand tremble with something unknown. “What else can you do?”

She pursed lips and tried to choose her next words wisely. Looking to Bucky and seeing no hesitation from him, she took a breath and continued.

“I’m an empath.”

“So, you mess with people’s heads. I thought so.” John nodded to himself, but his face was not dismissive anymore.

“Do you really?” Yelena perked up, more curious than wary.

“Not exactly,” she started, letting the sparks die down. With elbows now resting on the table and soft focus, she looked at John and just listened. “Right now, John is curious and very defensive. He’s angry at himself for…” she pauses, filtering what to display for others, and what could be too private. “…some of the things that happened today. And you hate it that the clasp on your jacket is broken.” She smiled up at him gently, trying to not add on to the overwhelming situation.

The table was silent for a moment, broken only by a soft clutter of a fork against the plate. Ava whistled under her nose and avoided eye contact.

“You do that to everyone?”

“No.” She shakes her head lightly and feels Bucky’s fingers rest on her thigh in quiet comfort. “I control it. I know when there’s a lot of emotions bubbling up in a room at once, but I won’t listen in without consent. Well, not unless my line of work requires it.”

“The most accurate intel I’ve ever worked with.” Bucky said quietly, and the fond look in his eyes wrapped warmly around her heart.

“And you make a very good pasta. Impressive, for a last-minute host.” Yelena’s nod of appreciation was enough for the conversation to die down a tone, and everyone to continue their dinner.

She took a deep breath, playing with the last few strings of spaghetti in front of her, letting the twinkles of magic settle in her body. At least Bucky’s arm was still brushing hers, reminding that he’s back home.

They clink of plates slowly died down, everyone resting more comfortably and enjoying the moment of peace. Exhaustion was written all over their faces; some deep in thought, others slowly scrapping off the outer layers of their suits.

Bucky’s arm laid atop of the back of her chair, fingers brushing her shoulder briefly. It made her look up to him, notice his irises already shining. She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Her fingertips brushed the stubble of his cheek for a fleeting moment, before they locked gazes in a silent conversation. He nodded towards the group – a movement barely noticeable, but she could feel it against the palm of her hand. He exhaled a heavy breath and she knew what it meant – they needed shelter. She could only agree to that, so she sent him a sad smile and let him kiss the inside of her hand.

“If you want to avoid being chased by Valentina, her strike force or reporters, I suggest you stay the night,” Bucky cleared his throat. Someone sighed, someone nodded pensively, but she only looked at him with patience and curiosity. “I guess we could fit everyone, right?” He looked back to her, to which she immediately nodded.

“How do we know they won’t knock on your door in the next five minutes?” Yelena asked, pushing away her plate.

John immediately agreed with that, “Exactly. I mean, she’s Val, right?” He looked around the table, “nothing should surprise us anymore.”

“Well, if she has a reason to, I’m sure she will try hard to find you,” She spoke up carefully, but kept on eyeing Bucky. A slight raise of her brow told him that she has questions, but whether they should be answered right now or later, she left for him to decide. “but she won’t succeed here. We made sure it’s a secure home. Only a handful of trusted people can find it.”

Bucky pursed his lips and nodded.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that a lot more happened than they managed to share. She kept her eyes on Bucky’s face, watching as it scrunched in confusion at a comment that someone made. The way the corners of his eyes dropped told her that he had a long day, and endured more than he was prepared for. With the omnipresent unnerving feeling of anxiety that drifted around the table, she felt even more braced and worried, struggling to not let anything inside her consciousness. Keeping her magic at bay after a bunch of neurotic, special people faced something difficult, was harder than she wanted to admit. Already zoned out of the conversation, she stood up slowly and grabbed a few plates to start cleaning up. Bucky watched her, but was still talking back to John and Alexei about something, so he didn’t manage to stop her.

Ava and Bob helped. She was mid-rinse, still holding the dirty pan, when they came in with two stacks of dirty plates.

“You should be careful with that wound,” She pointed to her bandaged side, but knew better than to stop a hurt agent who wanted to feel useful. “There are some more pain meds in the box if you’ll need them during the night. Just… take it easy.”

“Thanks,” she showed half of a smile, “I’ll be fine.”

She let them take over the dish duty and paid attention to the notorious buzzing that resonated from the countertop. Her long-lost phone laid on top of a closed laptop, screen facing down, but vibrating as if it was ready to burn a hole in everything nearby.

Four missed calls and a long list of new text messages.

SAM WILSON: Call me back.

SAM WILSON: We need to talk.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: You need to see this

Then, a stream of breaking news alerts and notifications. Against the better judgement, she started scrolling through all of the key words and headlines. Her heart rate sped up and her mind started tightening in a mix of worry, confusion, fear and disbelief.

DARK CLOUD ATTACKING MANHATTAN

DISRUPTIONS AND DISAPPEARANCES IN THE CITY. WHAT CAUSED THE MASS PANIC?

THE NEW AVENGERS ASSEMBLED.

VALENTINA DE FONTAINE: ‘THE NEW AVENGERS!’

DID CIA PLOT THE TRAGEDY TO UNVEIL THE TEAM OF FUGITIVE HEROES?

“You didn’t know what happened before we arrived, did you?” Yelena’s voice broke the nauseating screams in her head and made her look up. Cheese grater and an empty glass in hand, her eyes were almost sympathetic. Ava and Bob looked at each other but didn’t speak up.

“No.”

Even though her response was quiet and measured, it sparked a burst of fearful emotions to try and kick into her soul with a crashing effect. She couldn’t pinpoint the source, but with Yelena turning back to wave Bucky over, nothing would make sense. It could be a combination of everything, so she didn’t look for the cause of overwhelming feelings. She only looked up at her partner, walking into the kitchen with a worried look on his face, eyes resembling those of a scared puppy.

“I was going to tell you later,” he started, taking slow steps and looking briefly to Yelena. She didn’t back off, but just leaned on the opposite wall and pretended to help with the clean-up.

“Tell me what?” She didn’t know what was she expecting, but she needed something. She showed him the screen of her phone and let him look through her notifications, speaking for themselves.

“There’s a lot more to the story than the news is covering.”

This feeling, again. A simmering tension, pulling at her emotional strings harder than anything that Bucky’s words could cause in that moment. Sparks shone in her eyes as she quickly looked around the room, uncomfortable enough to break up the conversation. A particularly louder clank of a dish in the sink and that’s when she noticed it – Bob’s staring. Not dangerous, but fearful. Scared, but also fierce and with underlying certainty. He looked away quickly, but not enough to lose her attention.

“What’s up with Bob?” She suddenly asked, and the weight of emotions sounded like shrill cry. Everyone looked up at her and then to Bob, who straightened up and dried his hands on the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m okay…”

“Bob’s just fine.”

Him and Yelena replied at the same time. Bucky sighed in defeat. She felt cornered, attacked by everyone in the room by asking just that question, so she took a breath to calm down. She could read the room.

“That didn’t sound nice, I’m sorry.” Apologizing seemed to have a calming effect. Yelena leaned back on the wall, losing her braced stance. Ava continued to put away the dirty cutlery into the dishwasher, the world moved on.

“You said you’re an empath,” Bob started quietly, with a shadow of a kind smile. “Maybe you could, you know…”

“Not happening,” Bucky suddenly cut him off, stepping one step in front of her, like a predator ready to pounce. He then turned back to her with a determined look, “you are not reading him.”

“Why not?”

“Because you aren’t.”

“Huh,” she breathed, “thank you, honey, that explains it all.”

That shut him up. With squared jaw and soon-to-be pleading eyes, he didn’t have any immediate response. He started to understand that he might not win.

“Bob,” she turned to him, forcing a gentle tone. Bucky’s eyes were burning holes in her face but she just let him. “Are you sure you’ll be fine with this?”

He shrugged, but took a moment before speaking up again. “How does it work?”

“To make it easy on the mind, I would touch your hand and just… feel whatever you feel right now. I might see the emotions that drive you, or how they manifested for you recently. You won’t feel a thing.”

“You might do, though.”

Yelena’s comment made her turn her head.

“How so?”

“I’m a little enhanced, too.” Alexei’s boisterous laugh echoed through the apartment at Bob’s response. “But-but I won’t do anything to hurt you, I promise.” He added immediately.

“This is a terrible idea.” Bucky shook his head, disappointed.

But she did it. She crossed the short distance to Bob and reached out, waiting for him to take a hold of her hand. When the palms of their hands clasped around each other, darkness filled her mind.

She felt it all. The darkness. The Void. The fear of a regular guy who just wanted to be better. The overwhelming dark cloud, turning the minds of thousands of people into their darkest memories. She could seeall of it. She was everywhere with him: in the lab in the Philippines; in Utah, feeling the first spark of something hopeful; in the old Avengers tower; on the streets of New York in the spotlight of cameras, giving way into something too forceful to fit inside her mind. The overpowering depression and its camp set up in Bob’s mind. The depths of it stretched onto everyone who came into their home today. Disturbing images of people struggling, fighting their old demons. A soul-crushing image of screaming Bucky, tied up to a chair.

Then, something strong pulling her in – a weave of power different than hers. Pulling her into a very specific scenery from her childhood, where the sight of her mother was the first alarming point. She was slowly losing control of her magic and giving way to Bob’s powers, and it took a toll on her. Dark fumes wanted to hide her sparks flowing through her blood, and she couldn’t let it happen. The only way was through pulling his darkness in and shifting it into something better, so she focused on the beauty of being an empath. She imagined taking care of a broken mind, tending to a hopeless soul, giving reassurance and caressing the thoughts. She didn’t want to be trapped in a memory she knew as long gone – she pushed away, let the darkness slip, imagined a stream of golden power that could light up every room and pushed it away, towards the heavy train of thoughts.

She let go of his hand as soon as the light gave her enough strength to pull away. The eyes of everyone in their apartment were focused on her; Bob stood there, as if nothing happened, still shyly looking up at her with an expectant look. Tears were streaming down her face and she looked around, trying to ground herself in the walls of their home. Bucky was immediately next to her, steadying her frame against his side, letting her rest. The silence stretched for a very long moment, until she managed to find her voice again.

“I’m so sorry for what happened to you, Bob.”

The rest of the evening carried on with more of a quiet understanding. After they finished cleaning up, spare pillows and bedsheets were pulled out of the depths of the hallway closet. Bucky was in charge of setting up the pull-out bed in the living room and the extra mattress on the floor, and she worked in the peace of the guest bedroom, fluffing the fresh sheets and adding an extra blanket on the armchair. It was comfortable enough for a mid-reading nap, so it had to suffice for a few hours of sleep.

When she carried the last of the decorative pillows that could help someone sleep better into the living room, some guests were already setting camp in their sleeping spots. Alexei started to doze off in the armchair so the voices – if any – were now a bit more hushed.

She noticed Yelena in the corner of the room, standing still, eyes focused on the wall where a few pictures were stuck to the corkboard. The makeshift office corner was full of papers, files and random things that they didn’t clean up the last time, but that didn’t matter. The picture of Natasha was the sole focus, radiating happiness from her captured smile and the tight embrace that they had on each other. The took it during one of their cheer-up movie nights, two years into their new reality after Thanos had snapped his fingers. Another shot from the same night, but with Steve in the frame too, was right next to it.

“She talked a lot about you, you know?” She was careful with her words, but poked Yelena’s hard to read exterior anyway. “She never really stopped looking for you during the blip. The same way I always kept looking for him,” a finger pointed at a slightly bigger picture of the couple, Bucky hugging her from behind and looking down at her with love painted all across his face. “Steve was the only one to actually try and move on, before we found a way to get everyone back.”

Yelena’s eyes didn’t leave the picture of her sister, when she finally spoke up. “She called you Sparkles. Didn’t say much, but enough for me to understand that you kept her company in times she least expected it.”

Her face scrunched in grief, but only for a fraction of a moment. Neither of them moved, just stayed still with heads full of memories that spoke without words. She didn’t have to look into Yelena’s mind to know that grief has started to mix with grace. It reassured her, knowing that her friend’s sister is finally coming to terms with some of the more difficult truths. Natasha would want her to find peace.

“The bed in the guest room is still empty, you can still beat Walker to it if you make it before he leaves the bathroom.” She said after a moment of silence. A corner of Yelena’s lips twitched upwards and she simply nodded, sneaking away to find respite in the more convenient sleeping arrangement.

Most of the lights in the living room and in the hall went off. A peaceful quiet was broken only by random murmurs of movement around the apartment. Their home was full, a questionable mix of characters, preferences, and assassin skills sizzled in their safe space, but there was an odd familiarity to it. Something that she sometimes felt hanging in the air back in the Avengers compound.

Before entering their bedroom, she hovered by the doorframe for just a second. She could still feel the tension hanging low between her and Bucky, the unspoken heaviness was starting to lift slowly with the layer of exhaustion that took the reins of their bodies.

The bedside lamps were on, and a trickle of light traveled from underneath the bathroom door. Their bedroom felt like a soft embrace, even though her heart was still probed at with a stick of emotions. Darkness threatened to loop around her veins, especially when she sat down on the bed and opened her laptop that still had classified files open, screaming at her. Her fingers tapped on the mousepad until they reached the last documents that were sent to her: the designs behind the Sentry Project. Eyes scanning the page, her hands shook with nerves.

The water in the shower was still running when she stopped reading. His shower was now longer than usual. With something forceful still squeezing her heart in discomfort, she let go of the intelligence, files and access passwords. She closed everything she worked on earlier and put her laptop away, desperate to ease her consciousness into something easier. Something she missed in all of this.

She softly knocked on the door that would usually stay creaked open when they were alone. Her knuckles made a rather quiet sound on the wood, so she thought he did not hear her, but then a very low “Yeah?” travelled through her ears.

He was in the shower, standing still under the forceful stream of water, his back to her, arm resting on the wall for support. His head hung low, tilted only slightly when she came in, enough to recognize her presence. He didn’t turn back to her. Didn’t stop the shower or make any move to finish it.

She stripped of her clothes, leaving a pile on the tiles next to the door. Without thinking, she stepped into the shower. Tried not to hiss when she felt how cold the water was. It made her hurt for him, so she reached his body in no time. Wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tight, her lips finding the skin between his shoulder blades. He was tall, stood strong, muscles almost ripped at the seams, and the tension in his body pulsating with each breath. Her hands travelled higher, to his chest, finding the spot where she could feel the steady beat of his heart. He exhaled with something that reminded her of relief and covered her hand with hers, intertwining their fingers. Her lips kept on pecking his wet skin until she also breathed, inhaling the familiar scent that followed her every time they were close. Her mind, gentle touch and kisses begged, Come back to me.

One of her hands wandered off to the shower knob, twisting it until the water warmed up at least a little bit. His muscles softened almost instantly, his skin giving way for her fingers to hold his skin tighter.

“You’re freezing,” she mumbled, caressing the skin of his chest, letting her hands rub on his skin up to the shoulders and down his arms, just to help him get rid of the goosebumps quicker.

“Got lost in thought for a minute,” his voice was softer around the edges now that they were alone. He got a hold of her hands and slowly detached them from his skin, taking measured steps in place to face her instead.

Lukewarm water streamed down their bodies, scars lined up on his torso glistening under the shower. Her hands traced his chest and arms with subtle movements, until she reached his head. Wet hair flopped down the back of his head and she run her fingers through it, gently massaging the scalp and taking out any remaining bubbles of shampoo that he didn’t manage to rinse out. He hummed in soft contentment at the drag of her nails, his hands landing on her waist for grounding.

“Cold shower and poorly washed hair?” Her voice was soft, but with a tint of something bright and warm. She tilted his head under the stream for the last good rinse and rested her hands on his cheeks, caressing his rough stubble. “I might think it you wanted me to come and save you from your poor washing habits.”

He breathed out a small laugh at that, light enough to mistake it for a gasp of air.

“You got me, baby.”

She leaned in to his chest, landing a kiss above his heart and feeling the way his hands started to weight more on her hips.

“I do,” she murmured into the bruised skin. “always.”

She tugged him out of the shower and passed him a fresh, fluffy towel. They both dried each other slowly, and then stood close when they brushed their teeth. She slid back into her underwear, pulled the same t-shirt over her head and grabbed the small tubes of ointment and antiseptic from the drawer.

She made sure there is enough light on his side of the bed, but not too much to disrupt their tired haze. She pulled out the covers so they could slide right in, and sat down on the side of the mattress. He came in to the bedroom a minute later, clad only in his black boxers, excess water shaken off from his dark hair.

“Sit down, Mr. Soldier.” She pointed to the bed and sent him a barely-there smile, mocking the name Alexei kept on using all evening. He shook his head in disappointment, but climbed in bed and rested his back on the headboard nonetheless.

“He thinks I got the ‘fancy stuff’ with the Hydra serum.” His low voice leaked annoyance, but his face was too tired to show it, too.

“Well,” she breathed out a chuckle. She went up on her knees on the mattress and walked up to him, climbing over his lap. “I think you are my fancy stuff.”

That put a brief, but cheeky smile on his face. He took a hold of her hips and helped her land in a comfortable spot on his thighs, but never let go of her body. His warmed-up hands traveled underneath her shirt and set camp on her skin, moving around ever-so-slightly, but never breaking contact.

She leaned to his torso to inspect the bruises that were already formed over his ribs, checking for any cuts. There was an already closed-up gash on his side, wide enough to think that a sharp object was pushed into his skin, and then pulled out quickly. The line was faintly pink, healed nicely because of the serum, but still enough of a tell that recently something caught him off guard.

Bucky watched her in silence. Eyes scanning her focused face, looking down at the delicate inspection of her fingers, and the caring and focused way she watched him, reserved only for him.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he whispered at some point, when her focus switched from his chest to his face. She held his chin gently, inspecting the scratch above his cheekbone. She sat back on his thighs and worked with the ointment tube, pushing out the right amount on a cotton swab. “I should’ve told you that the situation changed. Not just barged in with a group of strangers. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Her eyes still focused on dripping the antiseptic on the right spot beneath his eye.

“You’re allowed to do your thing. You can bring people home,” she started gently, while the cotton swab precisely rolled over the torn tissue. “Just…” she sighed, straightening up and putting away the medication. “Seeing how severe the situation was, what unveiled and how messy it will be now…” Her mind kept going back to every image that Bob showed her earlier. “I just wish I knew sooner.”

“I know. I’m sorry, doll.”

“I didn’t even know you were hurt until I saw your face.” She whispered with a sad smile, caressing his clean cheek. He leaned into her hand and sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “I wasn’t watching the news, I had my notifications off - except for yours, of course,” she kept on talking, feeling her chest swell with the accumulated worry and affection. “and then Bob showed me everything. I saw the pain you were in,” she gulped, trying to contain her emotions. He tugged on her hips to bring her closer, letting her fall forward and rest her forehead on his. “It’s been a minute since you were out in the field. I guess it scared me.”

Bucky took a deep, shaky breath, his fingers flexing on her skin, slowly drying hair loosely falling over his ears.

“I didn’t think it would escalate this quickly.” he whispered right into her lips. His flesh hand traveled up to her face and caressed her cheek, wiping underneath her eye to take away the first tear that threatened to drop.

“I know.”

“And now with Valentina claiming us as the New Avengers?” He mused, letting out a dry chuckle. He kissed her nose affectionately and let them breathe together. “This definitely wasn’t on my campaign.”

She smiled at him then, locking their gazes in a comfortable stare-off. She could feel her magic start to turn blue, the same color as his eyes. Something that happened whenever their hearts were on their sleeves, and where they both were feeding off each other’s love.

“Sam needs an explanation. He called so many times.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, a fake seriousness flashing across his face. “good luck with that.”

She gasped at that, smacking his arm playfully.

“What? He called you, not me. My phone was dead.” He smiled. She started to climb off his lap but he stopped her, sitting up and tugging her in for a very tight embrace. “No, don’t leave me. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“You better do it before I do.” He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, kissing her skin and smelling it deeply.

“Yes, ma��am.” Bucky looked up at her, eyes shining, smile threatening to break.

Finally, she relaxed into his body, leaning in with purpose. Her nose touched his gently, before their lips connected in a gentle, loving kiss. Her hands hugged his shoulders and tugged him closer, deepening the kiss and breathing in his scent. Bucky let out a quiet sound from the back of his throat as they pushed toward each other, with more relief than desire at first. Then, with each of the caress against the other’s lips, with each tug of his hair and delicate scratch of her fingernails, the need grew.

She kissed him like she almost lost him, and he kissed her back like he never wanted to let go. Her thighs firmly wrapped around his hips as she moved impossibly closer, earning another groan from his wet lips. She smiled into his mouth and he bit her lip in response, grazing his teeth across tender skin and teasing her with purpose.

“I thought you were tired,” she murmured against him.

“I am,” he agreed, “but I missed you more.”

His breath got heavier. Their mouths kissed harder, hungrier, chasing each other like careless teenagers who have just realized how magnetic it is to make out with someone you love. Her hips rolled forward, out of habit, causing a whimper to shake her lips against his. He held her tighter, vibranium palming and kneading her ass, the other hand moving freely under her shirt. Magic trickled at her fingertips, making each of her nervous ending even more sensitive to the feeling of his body against hers. Another move of her hips, a raspy groan from Bucky’s throat, and—

A creak of the floor, movement on the pull-out sofa, or maybe even a footstep towards the kitchen. A quiet sound that made them stop, freeze in their embrace. Her hand travelled to his chest, letting his heart beat hard against her fingertips, catching a breath.

“Don’t,” he almost begged, leaning in again to kiss her neck in places that make her shiver. “If we stop now, I might cry.”

A breathy laugh escaped her mouth. She tucked her face into his shoulder, holding him close.

“If we can hear them moving, they will definitely hear us, baby.” She whispered, peppering his jaw in short and chaste kisses. “We’re enough of an entertainment to Walker.”

Bucky groaned in response, wrapping his arms around her waist tightly and rolling them over. With a huff, she landed on top of her pillow and spread her legs enough to let him lay between them. He caged her head with his arms and leaned down for another kiss.

“Don’t talk about Walker when you’re making me hard.”

She chuckled quietly, letting his nose travel along the side of her face. Warmth enveloped her whole body and she wished they could stay like this forever. With no care in the world about politics, agendas, no missed deadlines or events to attend. No one else around them, just her and Bucky, tangled in the sheets of their Brooklyn home.

“Hey,” he nudged her cheek and searched her eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments, engraving this moment in their memories. “How was your day?”

“You’re asking that now?” She lifted her eyebrow in question, gently caressing his face and tucking away the loose hair that threatened to cover his eyes.

“Now is perfect.” He mumbled into her cheek, leaving a wet kiss behind. “It’s just me and you.”

She sighed, trying to focus and gather her most mundane thoughts of the day.

“They put me in the middle seat on the plane from D.C.”

Bucky fake-gasped at that, “How dare they?”

“I know, right?” she smiled at his disappointed face. “but I survived in that middle seat. Can you believe it?”

“Impossible,” another kiss to her cheek, before he rolled over and landed on his side, his legs tangled with hers, tugging her as close as possible so they could still stare in each other’s eyes. “What else happened?”

He listened to her until her eyelids turned heavy. Until her lips started moving slower and slower, pushing forward one last time to touch his skin. He covered them with the sheets and held her close, watching as a single blue spark flew away from her fingertips, fading into the night. Her breathing evened out, arm still tucked in his torso. A quiet ‘I love you’ mumbled to each other in a sleepy haze, like nothing else mattered.

#bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes blurb #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #slow burn #bucky x female reader #Bucky x female character #bucky one shot #thunderbolts #thunderbolts spoilers #marvel #new avengers #smut #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut

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glowettee · 5 months ago

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✧ the elle woods study method: mindset makeover & foundation building ✧

hey lovelies! 💗

omg, i'm literally bursting with excitement to start this transformative series with you all! we're going to dive deep into actually studying like elle woods, and all her study methods. it's going to change your academic life. (while keeping you fabulous, obviously!)

let's start with the most crucial element - the elle woods mindset. you know how elle went from being underestimated at harvard to graduating with honors? that transformation began in her mind, and that's exactly where we're starting too!

the core principles of the elle woods mindset (get ready to take notes!):

unwavering self-belief: elle's iconic "what, like it's hard?" attitude wasn't just cute - it was crucial

authenticity as your superpower: your unique perspective is your strength

resilience through positivity: turning every "you can't" into "watch me"

strategic determination: working smarter, not just harder

maintaining your essence: success shouldn't mean losing yourself

let me break down how to actually build this mindset (because theory without practice is like a perfect outfit without accessories - incomplete!):

mindset foundation building: • start a daily confidence journal (pink, obviously!) • write three daily affirmations • document your wins, no matter how small • reflect on challenges and how you overcame them

goal setting the elle way: • dream big (harvard law big!) • break down major goals into mini-milestones • create realistic timelines • identify potential obstacles and plan solutions • celebrate every achievement (even the tiny ones!)

your personal success toolkit: • a dedicated study planner (color-coded, elle would approve) • positive affirmation cards • vision board (mix academic and personal goals) • progress tracking system • reward system for reaching milestones

practical assignments for this week:

yes, i'm giving you all homework, because what's a lesson without doing homework? <3

mindset makeover tasks: • create your confidence corner (a designated study space that makes you feel powerful) • write your personal academic manifesto • identify and challenge three limiting beliefs • create a morning power routine

organization prep: • get your study essentials (cute but functional!) • set up your planning system • create a semester overview • design your ideal weekly schedule

community building: • find your study buddies (your personal warner hunting club, but for academics!) • join study groups • set up accountability partnerships • create a support system

elle's journey wasn't about memorizing legal terms - it was about believing she belonged in those hallowed halls while wearing her signature pink. you deserve to feel that same confidence in your academic journey. <3

advanced tips for the overachievers (because why not be extra?):

record yourself giving pep talks for tough days

create a study aesthetic that energizes you

develop personal success rituals

build a playlist that makes you feel powerful

photograph your progress for motivation

coming up in this series:

time management secrets

memory techniques that actually work

note-taking methods that slay

exam preparation strategies

self-care routines for academic success

group study dynamics

presentation skills

stress management

celebration strategies

and more of course <3

remember: elle woods didn't just survive harvard - she thrived while being unapologetically herself. that's our goal too! you're not just going to study better; you're going to build an academic approach that celebrates who you are.

homework time (but make it fun):

create your academic vision board

write your semester goals

design your ideal study schedule

set up your success tracking system

prepare your study space

xoxo, mindy

p.s. don't forget to reblog and follow for the complete series! we're building our own little academic sorority here! <3

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sukunasteeth · 1 year ago

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When Sukuna kisses you, it feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest.

You started out perched on his lap, but by now he's reduced you to a boneless, panting heap in his grasp. His arms supporting you are the only things keeping you from melting against him like liquid lust. You're desperate for a moment of solid ground to catch your breath, but Sukuna is adamant on continuously taking it away from you. His calloused hands inching their way up your shirt, brushing softly against your sides, over your rib cage, skimming the underside of your breasts, all in mesmerization at how soft your skin is.

"'Kuna..." You try to capture his attention, which has been taken by his fixation on how sensitive your ears were to the scrape of his teeth.

You're surprised when he answers with a distracted hum, "Yes, my little doe?"

"I -I need a second." You stutter, your heart is thumping wildly in your chest, despite how intoxicated and incapacitated you feel at his mercy. You were starting to forget how to breathe in his close proximity and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to keep your head straight with his natural scent acting like a pheromone.

You feel his wicked grin against your neck before you hear it in his voice, "Poor thing. Am I working you too hard? I rarely see you so out of sorts..."

Sukuna doesn't even try to disguise his amusement at your complete inebriation with his kisses. His tongue presses against the nape of your throat before he follows a line of sweat up to your ear, leaving behind a cold stripe of his saliva against your burning hot skin. He holds you fast when you violently shiver against him, "It's a good look on you."

“Please…” You beg with whatever breath you can conjure for him but it comes out as more of a desperate little whimper. That was Sukuna’s favorite tone of your voice, after all.

And desperate you were. Sukuna had been devouring you for so long, sucking and nipping and licking at whatever part of your revealed skin interested him. You could feel your legs forgetting how to operate.

You just needed a moment.

Without his permission, you push away from his chest and manage to get to your feet in front of him. Your legs buckle, but you're able to catch yourself before you fall face first back into him. Sukuna is looking up at you, as kiss drunk as you felt, blinking slowly with a satisfied smile.

“Give me just one sec-” You’re about to turn away. And then you see it.

Sukuna had you so entranced with him, had your mind so far away from your body, that you hadn’t even noticed the fact that you had cleanly soaked through your panties on his lap. And there, on that oh-so-comfortable part of his thigh, that had quickly become one of your happy places, was a dark spot on his jeans from your wetness.

All you could do was stare down at it, mortified.

Which only has Sukuna following your gaze in momentary curiosity.

“I-I’M…” You try to catch his attention again with the sound of your voice before his eyes can settle on the new mark, but Sukuna sees it first.

His grin quickly fades and your heart careens into your throat. You feel embarrassment shoot through you like a shot of adrenaline, coloring your already pink face a bright and rosy red.

The clear solution to the undoubtedly awkward situation is to run, right?

“I’ll be right back-” But you don’t even move an inch before his hand snaps forward and latches onto the front pocket of your (his) hoodie, stopping you in place.

Your heartbeat thumps in your red-hot ears and you go against every fiber of your being to meet his eyes.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going with my dinner?" The playful lilt of his tone has completely vanished and reveals a deep, dark starvation in its place.

"I work hard for my meals, you know?”

#jjk #sukuna #smut #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk x reader #jjk smut #every day #I get closer and closer to producing the filthiest most jaw-dropping sukuna smut #till then #have a taste test #my writing

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shinig6mis · 5 months ago

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transferring to a new university was nerve-wracking. but finding out on day one that there was no dorm room for you? even worse.

apparently, some glitch in the system left your name off the dormitory list. and now, there wasn’t a single open spot on campus. you wanted to cry, but calling your parents and worrying them was the last thing you wanted to do.

so you spent the entire evening scouring for solutions. a faculty member pointed you to a site where students looking for roommates could post listings, and by some miracle, you found one that seemed decent. the description was short but to the point:

walking distance from campus. only one room available. don’t be loud.

it wasn’t exactly the warmest ad, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. you sent a text, got a short reply, and now here you were.

standing outside the apartment door, your arms ached from carrying a heavy box of books and sentimental junk while your suitcase full of clothes sat by your feet. you hesitated for a second before knocking. the moment the door opened, you almost regretted your entire life.

a tall guy with white hair, scarred skin, and heavy-lidded, almost dead-looking eyes stared back at you. his presence was so intimidating that your first instinct was to turn and run back down the hall. but you froze instead, staring up at him like a deer caught in headlights.

“is touya here?” you managed to squeak out, trying your best not to sound completely terrified.

he raised an eyebrow. “speaking. who the hell are you?” his voice was deep and rough, his tone sharp enough to cut.

“i-i’m y/n. your... roommate? i applied here two days ago, we spoke over t—”

“oh. right.” he cut you off, scratching the back of his neck. “didn’t think you’d be here so damn early.”

if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was complaining. but then again, it was 7 a.m. if anything, you must’ve woken him up.

“ya need help with all that?” he asked, gesturing toward the box in your arms.

“uh, yes... please,” you said, relieved and surprised he even offered.

he grabbed the box with one hand like it weighed nothing, and you followed him inside, dragging your suitcase behind you. he set the box on the dining table and kicked the door shut behind him. the place was neat. not spotless, but cleaner than you expected. the furniture was simple, dark-colored, and kind of mismatched, giving the place a weirdly manly vibe.

“bathroom’s down the hall,” touya said lazily, pointing. “kitchen’s over there. don’t leave your shit everywhere. and that’s your room.”

he gestured toward a door at the end of the hall, and you followed him inside. the room was small but tidy. the bed was bare, just a mattress and a pillow, but it was clean. there was a desk and a small closet, too. it doesn’t look like anyone’s ever stayed there.

“anyway,” he muttered, turning to leave. “don’t make too much noise. i don’t like loud people.”

six months later, you’ve realized that living with touya had been an adjustment. at first, there were awkward “hi” and “bye” exchanges, brief encounters in the kitchen as you grabbed a granola bar or nuked leftovers in the microwave. he wasn’t much of a talker, which was fine because you weren’t either. not to him anyway.

but then, slowly, things started to change.

it began with shared dinners. a random night where you’d made too much pasta, shyly offering him some because it felt wrong to eat in front of him while he sat on the couch scrolling through his phone. he’d taken the plate with a gruff “thanks,” but the next night, there was an extra bowl of ramen waiting for you when you got home from class.

from there, it spiraled into routine. dinners became a shared activity, a small tradition where you’d sit across from each other, trading sarcastic comments and the occasional genuine laugh. somewhere in between, touya went from your intimidating, scar-faced roommate to your closest friend. you told him everything now—your classes, your crushes, your petty grievances. he listened, mostly. sometimes, he’d even chime in with advice, though his tone always bordered on teasing.

so when you burst through the door that night, cheeks flushed with excitement, it felt natural to dump the day’s events onto him. touya was already on the couch, two bowls of noodles on the coffee table. his lips quirked into a small smile as he watched you kick off your shoes and drop your bag haphazardly by the door.

“guess what?” you beamed, practically bouncing onto the couch beside him, knees brushing his thigh. “some guy asked me out today!”

his smile faltered, but you didn’t notice. you were too caught up in recounting the story, your voice light and animated as you detailed every little moment.

touya’s grip on his chopsticks tightened. he forced a small chuckle, though it sounded strained.

“can’t believe this actually happened!”

“yeah, well… it’s about time,” he muttered.

but you didn’t hear the sarcasm laced in his words. you were too wrapped up in your own excitement, oblivious to the way his jaw clenched or how his gaze lingered a second too long on your face.

he should’ve been happy for you. he told himself he was. roommates didn’t catch feelings, not ones like this. and yet, every time you smiled at him like that, so sweet and innocent, he felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

the days blurred after that. you went on your first date, then your second, then your third. touya tried to convince himself it was fine. this was fine. he was just your roommate. but you started coming home later and later, your absence stretching into the kind of silence that made his skin crawl.

the noodles he made for you—carefully cooked just the way you liked them—sat untouched on the counter, growing cold as the hours ticked by. he’d find himself sitting on the couch, staring at the door, half-hoping and half-dreading the moment you’d walk in, cheeks flushed with the afterglow of another date.

he hated it.

he hated him. the guy you wouldn’t shut up about, the one who’d taken up too much of your time, your attention. it should be him you’re coming straight home to after school.

touya couldn’t stand it anymore.

he barely needed to put in the effort. you were so trusting, so sweet, and all that innocent yapping gave him everything he needed. your schedule, your habits, even the places you liked to study or hang out. all it took was one stop after his own classes ended to track him down: the library.

the guy was just sitting there, headphones in, engrossed in his laptop.

by the time touya was done talking to him, the guy was pale and nodding, muttering weak promises to do as he was told. touya left the library without a backward glance, his mind already on you.

he got home with enough time to spare, pulling out the instant noodles he knew you loved, the ice cream he bought on the way back. he even set the table, everything arranged just the way you liked it. he’d planned it all perfectly, down to the minute.

and then the door creaked open, and there you were.

he already expected it but it still hurt nonetheless when he saw you—eyes red and swollen, your lips trembling as you tried to hold yourself together. the faintest sniffle escaped, your hands clutching the strap of your bag like it was the only thing anchoring you.

“he broke up with me,” you choked out, voice cracking.

and he almost regret what he’s done. almost.

you didn’t have to say more. he crossed the room in an instant, pulling you into his chest. his hoodie smelled like laundry detergent and faintly of cigarettes, and you buried your face into the fabric, tears soaking through.

“it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “he’s an idiot. didn’t deserve you anyway.”

his lips brushed the crown of your head, a gesture so soft, so tender, it made your heart ache in a different way.

you melted into him, his arms the safest place you’d ever known. and as he whispered quiet reassurances, a small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

this was how it should be. you, in his arms, leaning on him, trusting him. he’d make sure it stayed that way. you were his, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

895 notes · View notes

vibelladonna · 17 days ago

Text

𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝓂𝑒 𝜗𝜚 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒿𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You are a medical student at the top of your class—brilliant, disciplined, and utterly numb. Burnout has hollowed you out, leaving behind a ghost in a white coat who moves through life on autopilot.

The worst part? You can't feel anything anymore. Not joy, not pain, and certainly not pleasure. Your body is a locked door, and you've long since lost the key. Then you meet him.

A mysterious practitioner operating out of a butcher-shop backroom, known only as Jack. His methods are unorthodox, his hands unsettlingly precise, and his eyes—black as a starless night—seem to see straight through the cracks in your composure.

He offers a solution: sensate therapy.

But the deeper you sink into his treatments, the more you realize—Jack isn’t just fixing you. He’s rewiring you. And the thing that stirs under his touch isn’t just arousal.

It’s hunger.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

Also, huge shoutout to @noctiva—your art genuinely inspired me and gave me the push I needed to return to my roots. Thank you for reigniting that spark.

𝓌𝒸: 16.1k

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: soft dom!eyeless jack x fem!reader, doctor/patient dynamic, touch-starved Reader, possessive but gentle, gothic erotica, slow burn, sensual horror, atmospheric and haunting, sensation play, sensory deprivation/overload, medical kink (clinical but intimate), consent and safe words, body worship and arousal through fear, touch-starved to overstimulated.

Teach me how to scream.

That’s all you think about.

Not in the way a normal person might—in some moment of panic or ecstasy, laughter or fear—no, you think about it clinically, with the same cold curiosity you apply to everything else in your life. You wonder what it takes to break a person.

To tear down the wall of composure and discipline and professionalism until all that’s left is something raw and visceral—a sound dragged from the deepest part of the chest. Screaming seems... liberating.

You’ve forgotten what it feels like.

Your apartment is a minimalist tomb, quiet and sterile. The walls are a tired white, barely catching any of the moonlight that slips between the blinds like skeletal fingers.

Textbooks line your desk in tall, uneven stacks, some with cracked spines from overuse, others still pristine, untouched. Highlighters bleed neon colors into pages already carved with notes in your tight, mechanical handwriting.

It smells like tea and ink and the exhaustion of someone who doesn’t even know they’re lonely anymore.

You’re a medical student. Top of your class. On a full scholarship, too—the kind of golden ticket people envy you for.

Smart, capable, diligent.

You’ve heard all the praise, the admiration. But it doesn’t change the fact that your nights are hollow, your days are repetitive, and your sense of wonder—that spark that once made you dream of saving lives—has slowly been reduced to a clinical grind.

Autopilot. Wake, study, eat something microwaved, maybe sleep. Repeat.

Everyone thinks you have it easy because you’re not drowning in debt. However, you are drowning—just in a quieter way. No one sees it. No one asks. You’re the kind of person people assume will be fine. Always fine.

You’ve become a ghost in your own life, watching your twenties dissolve beneath the harsh fluorescence of hospital lights and the dry rustle of textbook pages.

You are a phantom that drifts from lecture hall to lab, stethoscope in hand, caffeine in veins, and nothing behind the eyes but tired calculation. It’s a life of purpose on paper—of accolades, scholarships, and prestige—but beneath it all, you are starving.

Hollow. And you know it.

The worst part?

It killed your sex drive.

Not just dulled it. Not just reduced it to some manageable inconvenience like a missed meal or a skipped nap. It erased it—surgically, completely, like a tumor you didn’t realize had been excised until you tried to reach for it and found only scar tissue.

There’s even a phrase your over-medicalized brain can’t help but conjure: lateralized sexual arousal suppression—a clinical concept you read once in a study, the theory that arousal, that raw hormonal ache, can be selectively deadened by stress or imbalance, sometimes even felt more intensely on one side of the body than the other.

You chuckled at the time, because God, that’s such a pathetic thing to be academic about—your own inability to get off.

You were reading some obscure psych journal at 3 a.m., probably during a breakdown disguised as “studying,” and there it was: an article on how chronic stress can suppress arousal, kill libido, even change how your brain registers pleasure. Real clinical stuff.

They called it “situational anorgasmia” and “arousal fatigue”—fancy words for why you, a perfectly functional adult with a pulse, haven’t been able to cum since your first anatomy midterm.

You’ve tried. Of course, you’ve tried.

You brought toys—not just the cheap, pastel-colored ones from those random Amazon hauls, either. No, you went full send. Bought the ones your roommate back in undergrad swore by.

She was the type who talked about orgasms like she had a PhD in them—complete with charts, reviews, and the occasional TED Talk. If anyone knew how to chase the Big O in times of crisis, it was her. You thought maybe she'd unlocked the secret.

Maybe it was you who was broken.

Well… Turns out it was you.

Because even the expensive, silicone-coated sorcery with six vibration settings and a glowing LED couldn’t do it. Nothing worked. It was like flipping switches in an abandoned building—the power was out, the lights were dead, and everything inside was covered in a spiritual layer of dust and depression.

Your hands don’t even feel like yours anymore. Just more tools. Instruments. Like forceps. No pleasure, no spark, no warm shiver of release. Just... effort. Awkward, humiliating, mechanical effort.

You used to call it self-care. Now it just feels like CPR on a corpse.

So you gave up.

You told yourself you didn’t want it anyway. What’s the point of craving something you can’t feel? You’ve got a million flashcards to memorize, patients to shadow, vitals to record, and whatever grim flavor of instant noodles waiting for you in your pantry. Sexual frustration doesn’t even rank on the priority list anymore.

It’s been outpaced by exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and your mysterious recurring knee pain. You are one bad week away from becoming a cryptid.

But the silence? The silence is getting heavier.

It presses into you at night like a second set of lungs, breathing damp and slow against your ribs. There’s something waking up inside you—an ache, not sexual exactly, not yet, but primal. Hungry. Cold.

You try to outwork it.

You pile on more studying, more mock exams, more hospital shifts. But it’s still there. Whispering under the fluorescent lights. Nestled beneath your white coat and pressed dress shirts, buried under clinical detachment and years of overachievement.

And lately, that whisper has evolved into a gnawing.

You don’t know when it started. Just that it has. It lingers in the corners of your thoughts like a rotting tooth. It’s no longer about pleasure, about getting off, about orgasms or release. It’s deeper than that. Darker. It’s about being provoked. Violated. Broken open.

Something inside you is begging for rupture—not affection, not safety, but something raw. Violent. Real.

You want to be dismantled. Undone. Taken apart in ways that anatomy textbooks don’t cover. Not by gentle hands. By something sharp. Something relentless. You need to be reminded that you’re not just flesh wrapped around ambition. That your blood still runs hot. That you are more than a breathing corpse in scrubs.

You need to get off. Badly.

Again, not in the playful, flirty, "teehee I need a good dicking" kind of way—no. You were about three nights of sleep deprivation away from putting "Unable to orgasm due to academic rigor" on your medical records.

If only you trusted your university’s counseling office not to slap it on your permanent file next to “burnout risk” and “excessive caffeine consumption.”

So you did something you hadn’t done in... what, months? You left your apartment. Took the train across town with a tote bag and the grim, resigned energy of someone preparing for emotional exposure.

You went go see Z—your old roommate from undergrad.

The one person you could talk to about this without getting put on some kind of watchlist.

Her apartment hadn’t changed—not even a little. It was still giving teenage dirtbag chic, as if Z had stolen the entire emotional atmosphere of a 2007 Tumblr blog and made it livable.

A lovechild between Hot Topic clearance racks and thrifted furniture from someone's cool aunt’s garage sale. You were greeted by the scent of jasmine incense, old vinyl, and something vaguely burnt—maybe toast??

The walls were still a shrine to Z’s unapologetic chaos—plastered in band posters that had definitely survived multiple apartment moves and at least one questionable phase involving safety pins and eyeliner as a personality trait.

A twisted line of mismatched fairy lights looped across the ceiling, dangling lazily like drunk neurons on their last spark of function, simply blinking intermittently in faint hues of dying neon green, casting soft, ghostly shapes that danced along the cluttered walls.

The blinds were obnoxiously open—wide, tauntingly so. Sunlight poured in with a kind of aggression, spilling across the hardwood floors and highlighting every fleck of dust, every stray sock, every single reminder that someone actually lived here.

You squinted at it like it had personally insulted you.

Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you saw real daylight that wasn’t filtered through hospital-tinted windows or the flicker of your laptop at 3 a.m. Your body recoiled from it instinctively, as if your med school-induced vampirism couldn’t withstand such unfiltered natural cheer.

Your tea—which Z handed you with that smug little curve of her lips —tasted faintly of lemon and betrayal. Warm, sharp, slightly too sweet. You suspected she put honey in it just to mock your bitterness.

She sipped her own casually, lounging in what could only be described as her throne of chaos: a nest of cushions, blankets, and plushies that looked. Her legs were draped dramatically over the armrest, her socks were chicken legs?

You, by contrast, sat rigidly on the couch like it might bite you if you leaned too far back. Your shoulders were hunched slightly, as if trying to fold into yourself, to shrink down and disappear into the muted fabric.

Z raised an eyebrow, already halfway to a grin, her lips twitching like the punchline was burning a hole in her mouth. You could almost hear it loading—the way her brain clicked into gear when she had a roast lined up and ready to go.

You didn’t need to see her eyes to know she was aiming.

And God, you already regretted bringing it up.

“You actually came,” she started with a shit-eating grin. “You? Miss White Coat? Miss I-Diagnose-Myself-With-Insomnia-Not-Feelings? This is serious.”

You glared. “Z, for the love of God, stop laughing. You know this is an ongoing issue.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would get worse.” She snorted, barely containing her laughter. “Girl, you probably need medical help.”

“I am medical help.”

She cackled, clutching her chest. “Oh my God, you’re a walking irony.”

You sank further into the couch, drawing your knees up like a sulking cat. “Do you know how embarrassing it is for a med student to need a clinical intervention because she can’t orgasm? It’s humiliating. I'm supposed to be helping people, not... lying awake at 2 a.m. wondering if I died inside during second-year pathology.”

“Honestly?” she leaned forward, stirring her tea lazily. “Maybe you did. Maybe med school killed your libido and buried it under a pile of medical flashcards.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m a disgrace to the human reproductive system.”

Z sipped her tea, watching you with that predator’s smirk she always wore when she knew something you didn’t. “Or maybe...” she said slowly, “what you really need... is for something else to do it for you.”

You paused. Lowered your hands. Narrowed your eyes at her like a suspicious cat. “Well, obviously not you.”

“Please.” She scoffed. “I’m flattered but not deranged.”

“Right,” you muttered, sipping your tea just to avoid eye contact. “Totally. Of course.”

The conversation fizzled into one of those awkwardly familiar silences — not the comfortable kind where two people just exist, but the kind where something unspoken hangs in the air, unacknowledged but dense.

Z picked up her phone and started scrolling absently, her fingers flicking across the screen with the kind of speed that said she was pretending to be disinterested.

You followed suit, sipping your tea like it didn’t feel like your skin was trying to crawl off your bones. The clink of your spoon against the inside of your cup was the only sound besides the occasional buzz of her phone.

Her eyes kept drifting back to you, though. Subtle, but you noticed. A glance too long. A flicker of something behind her lashes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. Or something sharper.

You glanced up, caught her staring. “What?”

Z didn’t answer right away. She leaned back into the pillow throne like a queen about to issue a decree, her phone now forgotten on the coffee table. The soft lights above flickered green, briefly bathing her in something eerie, ethereal.

Then she said, too casually, like she wasn’t about to ruin your whole evening: “There are things out there, you know. Stuff that could probably wake you up.”

You raised a brow, deadpan. “What, like... therapy?”

She grinned over the rim of her mug like the devil sipping tea. “Possibly, babe. If it's been this long, it might be time to admit you need more than a bubble bath and a vibrator with a college degree.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thank you for that incredibly professional medical insight, Dr. Z.”

“Anytime,” she said sweetly, already scrolling on her phone like she hadn’t just diagnosed you with ‘clinical dicklessness.’ “But for real. I found this ad a while back. Weird little flyer. Some guy left it on the bathroom sink at the club—”

You blinked. “Wait. You still go to ‘the club’?” You added dramatic finger quotes like you were talking about some ancient cryptid.

Z didn’t even flinch. Gave you a flat look, her eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Uh, yes? What do you think I do for stress relief? Knit?”

You groaned and collapsed further into the couch cushions. “God, you are still the same chaotic goblin I met in college.”

She grinned, smug as sin. “And yet here you are, begging the goblin for help because you can’t even get your engine to rev. Who’s the tragic one now?”

You look away and took another sip of your lemon-betrayal tea and muttered, “Me. It’s me. I’m the tragic one.”

“That’s right.” She sighed, “Anyway. This flyer. It was handwritten, almost cryptic. Said something about off-the-record consultations. No names. No appointments. Just... results. Kind of urban legend-y, honestly. But people talk. Especially at clubs. And from what I’ve heard, this... doctor... isn’t your typical back-alley quack.”

You stared at her. “Z. Did you seriously consider going to some random off-the-grid sex doctor?”

Z shrugged, grinning wickedly. “I considered it. Haven’t done it yet. Thought I’d let you be the brave one, since, y’know... you’re the actual med student.”

You scoffed, pulling the most odd-looking facial expression, setting your mug down a little too loudly on the table. “Why me? What made you think of me when you saw some creep’s sex clinic ad?”

Her smirk faltered just a little. “Because I know you. And I know when you’ve gone full medical-grade emotionally constipated. Babe, it’s like watching a Roomba try to find joy. You need something that’ll slap the soul back into you.”

You went quiet. Embarrassed. Maybe a little pissed.

You weren’t used to people seeing through the cracks—not the ones you spent so much time spackling over with caffeine and credentials. But she wasn’t wrong.

“And no,” she added quickly, “I’d never throw you into something shady without at least vetting it first. You know that. I’m not an idiot.”

You looked down at your lap. Your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s just... weird, you know? I’m a med student. I should be able to fix myself. Not—go off seeking weird underground therapy from club bathroom flyers like I’m in a Netflix special.”

Z snorted, nearly choking on her tea. “Yeah, well. Sometimes it takes weird to fix weird. And unless you’re ready to walk into your clinical psych rotation and say, ‘Hey, I can’t cum and I think my soul’s in a coma,’ this might be your last option that doesn’t come with a straightjacket and a mandatory 72-hour hold.”

You made a face, but… yeah. She had a point.

A mortifying, scarily accurate point.

You didn’t like the idea—some strange, off-market “doctor” discovered via bathroom flyer in a club known for bad decisions and worse lighting. But God help you, you were actually considering it. Really considering it.

Because the thought of another week—hell, another month—of being this empty husk of a human, this walking flesh-printer spewing out diagnoses and memorizing mortality rates with all the excitement of a houseplant?

No. You couldn’t keep doing this.

So you made the appointment.

After classes—after trudging through another mind-numbing lecture on autoimmune disorders and scribbling down notes with a highlighter you’d long since stopped seeing color in—you sat down and filled out the form.

The website had looked… normal.?? Professional, even.

A minimalist black/dark blue-and-white layout, vague clinical language, and a discreet little logo that looked almost like a mask. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

The questionnaire started like every other patient intake form—name, birthdate, gender. But then there was something else. A line that didn’t make sense. Not in this context.

“Do you fear what watches you when you sleep?”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. Weird question. Probably one of those psych-eval icebreakers. You ticked off another box and kept going, ignoring the pressure that had begun to build in your throat. This was probably nothing. Some edgy branding tactic. Experimental therapy, maybe. Trauma work in a spooky coat of paint.

That’s all it was.

You submitted the form.

Ten minutes later, your phone buzzed with a confirmation and a location that didn’t show up on Google Maps.

Of course it didn’t.

That night, sleep came reluctantly, like a reluctant houseguest knocking on your door well past midnight, and you only let it in because you had nothing better to do.

After a fresh shower, you dress in t-shit with shorts, collapse onto your bed with all the grace of a corpse being dropped into its grave. The air in your apartment felt stagnant—thick and unmoving—like it hadn’t been touched by breath or sound in days. Maybe weeks.

The only light was the faint, glitched glow of your laptop in sleep mode, pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Your limbs felt heavy. Weighted. Your thoughts, even heavier. Again, you’d submitted the form hours ago.

And now you can’t stop thinking about that line.

“Fear? What watches me when I sleep?”

You swallowed and rolled onto your side, burying your face into the pillow that still smelled vaguely of antiseptic hand cream and stress. For a while, nothing came. No dreams. No darkness. Just silence. But eventually, slowly, the world began to slip sideways.

At first, it felt like floating—like your bones had been scooped out of you and replaced with warm fog. The room was no longer your room. Not quite. The shadows were wrong—longer than they should be, bending around corners that didn’t exist. Your bed felt deeper, like a divot in the earth, and the air was… comforting.

Invasive, somehow, but soft. Almost maternal.

You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to move.

And then came the touch.

It wasn’t hands. Not really. Not at first. More like heat. Pressure. A sensation that ghosted over your skin, just enough to make you shiver.

Something brushed your ankle. Light. Curious. Your breath hitched.

Another drifted along the curve of your calf. Up. Higher. Not aggressive. Not rough. Just… deliberate. As though the air itself had grown fingers and was now reading you like braille. Like it knew you. Had always known you.

Your hips twitched, and you felt it—just beneath the surface of your skin—a dull, yawning ache that had been locked away for too long. That absence. That void. You hadn’t even realized how deeply you’d buried your hunger. Your need.

The touch glided higher, a whisper along the meat of your thigh, a reverent sweep that left goosebumps in its wake. It wasn’t sexual. Not entirely. Not yet. But it was intimate. Intrusive in a way that felt oddly safe, like the firm hand of something old guiding you through a ritual you’d forgotten the words to.

You should have been terrified.

But you weren’t.

Your breath came shallower. Your heart picked up. And for the first time in months—years—you felt something: warmth. Thrum. Longing.

The phantom touch curved under the hem of your hoodie, feathering up your stomach. It pressed gently against the cage of your ribs like it was searching for a way inside. You arched instinctively, needing more.

Needing anything.

There was a whisper. A sound. You couldn’t tell if it was in your ear or your bones. Soft, smooth—masculine, maybe—but in that ageless, unsettling way that made it impossible to pin down.

“Let me ruin you.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The words dripped like honey laced with venom—intimate, feral, promising. They bypassed your ears and curled straight into your gut, igniting something molten at your core. Your thighs pressed together on instinct. Your fingers curled into the sheets like you could anchor yourself against a flood.

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation. A threat. A vow.

Your body bucked as heat flashed through you like a short-circuit, static and dizzying and almost holy. It wasn't released. Not yet. But it was the promise of it. The threat. And something inside you whispered back—without words, without thought—yes.

You gasped.

And then—you woke up.

Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Skin slick with sweat, sticking to your sheets in places you didn’t even know could sweat. Your thighs were clenched like you’d just braced through an earthquake—or maybe something far more intimate. The sheets coiled around your legs, your waist, one arm — as if you’d been grasping in your sleep. Or writhing.

You lay there, dazed. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide as the fragmented edges of some half-dream shimmered just out of reach, teasing your thoughts with phantom touches and shapes you couldn’t quite pin down. But your body remembered.

Oh, it remembered.

The morning light creeping in through the blinds was soft and gray, casting everything in shades of faded silver. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind of light that followed unsettling dreams — like the lingering taste of ash and honey on your tongue.

You sat up slowly. Each movement felt like an echo.

Something had changed.

A circuit, somewhere inside you, had quietly reconnected. A wire long-burnt out had sparked again. You didn’t know how, or why, but your whole body pulsed with a strange awareness. Your skin buzzed. The air felt too sharp, like the molecules themselves were brushing too close against you. You ran your palm along your own arm—it felt like someone else’s skin.

Someone new. Something not quite… human.

You weren’t sure whether to be thrilled or terrified.

A sharp laugh escaped you—short, stunned, breathless. You wiped a shaky hand down your face, your skin still tingling like it had been touched by something you couldn’t name. "What the hell…" you muttered to no one, voice hushed in the muted blue-gray light filtering through the blinds.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, your body wasn’t numb.

It ached. It buzzed.

You were horny. And maybe—just maybe—haunted.

Not the jump-scare, crawling-out-of-your-TV kind. No. This was subtler. Seductive. Like something ghostlike had struck a match down your spine and whispered promises to your bones.

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

Then your eyes flicked to your phone screen. Shit.

You jolted upright, the weight of time slamming into your chest. Adrenaline took the wheel. The sheets slipped off your legs as you stumbled toward your dresser, still half-lost in the fog of sleep—or whatever strange thing had wrapped itself around your dreams.

You moved on instinct, grabbing whatever felt softest, lightest, least constraining. You slipped into an asymmetric maxi skirt that flowed around your legs like smoke, streaked in midnight blue and obsidian black. It cinched at your waist with a simple circle leather belt, the buckle cool against your stomach. A cropped top followed—loose, gauzy, a whisper of fabric more than a shirt. Air moved through it easily, kissing your skin.

You looked… casual? A little lost, maybe.

The kind of outfit that felt like something you could disappear in without a sound. Your fingers fumbling, you pushed your hair back, unlocked your phone, and typed with sharp, quick taps:

You: Location shared. Dropped off at that creepy butcher shop you told me about. If I’m not out in an hour, call the cops. Seriously.

The reply came almost instantly:

Z: "Roger that, orgasm-crisis queen 💋"

“Bitch,” you muttered, rolling your eyes with a reluctant smirk. You didn’t text back. You didn’t need to.

You were quick to reach the building was everything your gut told you to avoid. Normal. Painfully, strategically normal. It sat like a tumor on the edge of the block—red-brick exterior faded from years of sun and smog, windows that reflected nothing, and a crooked sign over the door that read “Balkan Meats & Cold Cuts” in peeling paint.

A rusted awning flapped listlessly in the breeze, and somewhere inside, the thick metallic scent of iron and brine curled into your sinuses. It smelled like blood that had soaked too deep into tile.

You didn’t see a sign for a clinic. You didn’t expect one.

Your eyes scanned the side of the building until you spotted the narrow stairwell half-hidden beside a dumpster. You hesitated only once before climbing, hand gliding over the sticky, warm metal of the rail. Above, a flickering bulb buzzed like a trapped wasp, casting shadows that moved just a little too much.

When you reached the landing, everything went quiet.

Unnaturally quiet.

The hallway was narrow and sterile—painted beige so aggressively dull it made your teeth itch. No music. No voices. Just the electric hum of fluorescent lighting and your own pulse, thudding loud in your ears.

You found the door at the end. Plain metal. No placard. No name. Just a tarnished silver handle. You stared at it for a moment, fingers hovering near the knob, chest tight. Every inch of your rational brain screamed to leave. But you were tired of being rational. Rational hadn’t helped.

So you opened the door.

The room inside was quiet. Still. Too still.

There were three mismatched chairs—one metal, one wood, one soft and threadbare like it came from someone’s grandmother’s house. A water dispenser stood lonely in the corner, full but with no cups, like a trick. A desk stood at the far wall—paper neatly stacked, everything aligned with almost religious care—but there was no monitor, no receptionist, no phone.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

You took a cautious step inside. Your shoes made the faintest sound against the polished floor. You moved around the desk, squinting for some kind of bell, clipboard, sign of life.

And that’s when you felt it.

The breath, soft and warm against the nape of your neck. The presence, solid and sudden behind you—too close. A chest. Firm. Immovable. Pressed just a whisper from your back.

You froze. Every muscle in your body pulled taut.

“You have appointment?”

The voice was low, deep, and smooth, and somehow casually clinical. But what rattled you most was how he’d arrived—soundless, like he’d stepped out of the air itself. You spun around, heart in your throat.

And there he was.

Moving toward you with the kind of quiet purpose that didn’t demand attention—it consumed it.

Dressed in layered blacks so matte they seemed to drink in the light, he walked like the air parted for him out of habit, each step slow, deliberate, respectful in a way that somehow felt more unsettling than if he’d stormed in. His presence didn’t crash—it settled, like dusk creeping in unnoticed.

He was tall. Towering, almost. But not in a way that screamed dominance—it was more architectural. Like he belonged in old cathedrals or under moonlight, not in this oddly quiet waiting room above a butcher shop. His build was lean but sharp-edged, tailored by something too precise to be simply "fit."

His hair was a mess of deep brown waves, slightly tousled like he’d forgotten he had it. Strands fell across the top edge of his black surgical mask, softening the austere lines of his outfit.

And then—his eyes. His. eyes.

No whites. No pupils. No clear edges or irises. Just obsidian pools so deep they looked like if you stared too long, they’d start staring back. They weren’t dead or hollow—they shimmered faintly in the overhead fluorescents, alive with something too exact, too alert. It was like he wasn’t looking at you, he was measuring you.

Then the ears. It took a second glance to really process them—subtly pointed, the kind of detail your mind initially dismissed as a trick of the light. Delicate but wrong in the way that made fairy tales dangerous. Piercings traced their way up the cartilage, tiny silver hoops and bars arranged not for fashion, but like some strange celestial map.

His skin was smooth, cool-toned—grayish, yes, but in a way that reminded you of marble, not illness. Preserved. Not decayed. A color that made your brain second-guess itself.

He stopped a careful distance from you, his height folding slightly as he inclined his head. Not deferential, not patronizing—just polite. Attuned. Like a creature who’d spent centuries perfecting human etiquette without ever being human himself.

Instinct made you step back. Your breath caught.

“Holy shit,” you blurted. “Do you have… Argyria?”

He tilted his head, a frown ghosting across his face like he was trying to compute the question. “No,” he said after a moment, voice low, textured. Almost soothing. “I do not.”

Then his eyes roamed you—slow, thoughtful, clinical. Not with desire, not with threat—like he was unpacking a file only he could read. His gaze wasn’t the kind that undressed you. It unspooled you.

He made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “You’re a medical student, yes?”

You froze. “How do you—?”

He walked past you, each step soft and unnervingly quiet, rounding the desk with a smooth turn of his shoulder. His fingers brushed the desk surface like he was orienting himself with muscle memory.

“You carry yourself like someone who’s trained their exhaustion into structure,” he said, more to the desk than to you. “Your posture is clinical. Your eyes never stop scanning. Slight tremor in the left hand suggests chronic overextension. Pair that with the guarded breathing, the subtle shift in weight when approached from behind—textbook hypervigilance.”

He turned back to face you. His eyes locked with yours again.

“Your libido is comatose, yes?”

You blinked. “What—”

“And you smell faintly of herbs,” he added, softly, “something floral beneath the surface. Artificial, like a cheap perfume meant to disguise the real scent. Something sweet, desperate. Useful.”

You stood, stunned into silence.

Every nerve in your body was ringing like it had been plucked. What the actual hell had you just walked into? And why, despite all logic, did it feel like... exactly where you were supposed to be?

The man moved without a word, extending one long arm past the threshold to open a nondescript door tucked into the hallway’s end. The hinges didn’t creak—they glided, soundlessly. The room inside was dimly lit but strangely warm, nothing like the cold sterility of the corridor.

At first glance, it looked like a therapist’s office—or some vague approximation of one. Two chairs sat opposite each other: high-backed, dark fabric, a bit too clean, a bit too deliberate in their placement.

Potted plants softened the corners—large-leafed, thriving, well-watered. The air held a faint scent of petrichor and sage. It was subtle, like the room had been exhaling while no one was there. The walls held a few certificates, two diplomas, and a clock.

You noticed that immediately.

Again, everything was too clean. Not clinical—but manicured. Controlled. As though someone had designed this space not for comfort, but for ease of disarmament. You stepped closer, the doorway framing you. But your feet hesitated. Something primal, buried, and clawed screamed softly inside your chest. A warning. That if you stepped into that room, if your foot crossed that threshold… it wouldn’t be just your body walking in.

You swallowed. Hard.

The man leaned against the doorframe now, arms crossed, his presence still and observant. Watching, not pushing. He didn’t coax you. Didn’t rush you. His voice came soft, measured:

“It’s professional. I assure you.”

You met his gaze—those endless black eyes—and didn’t see a lie. But you didn’t see the truth either. Just… depth. He glanced away, absently brushing a loose curl from his temple. “When did you find my card?”

Your lips twitched. “Friend gave it to me,” you said, fingers quoting air. “Claim they found it at the ‘club’ they frequent.”

That’s when his eyes widened slightly, his face lifting in something that looked like genuine amusement. He let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound curling through the quiet like smoke.

“Ah. That place.”

“You go there often?” you asked, curiosity sharpening to a point.

He straightened slowly, still smiling. “Now and then. Good for getting the word out. Not many people in your situation ask for help in… traditional places.”

You tilted your head, one brow raising. “And what exactly do you do?”

He seemed to pause—not for hesitation, but for precision. Like he was combing through a thousand possible answers and measuring which one wouldn’t make you walk away. Finally, he said: “I work with... bodily systems. Unblock pathways. Redirect energy. Reset patterns. Most of it is touch-based. Topical. Very specific. Not mainstream. But it’s effective.”

You frowned. That was vague enough to mean anything from chiropractic therapy to illicit back-alley sorcery.

“You’re a medical student too?” you asked, more defensively than intended.

He hummed. “Was. For a time.” A pause. “Now I work to pay off the debts.”

Then he gave a slow tilt of his head. “And before we begin, I should mention—my sessions aren’t exactly cheap.”

His eyes glinted faintly.

“Still willing to go through with this?”

You stood, heart somewhere between your throat and your spine. Your body still thrummed from the dream, from the walk, from him. This wasn’t sane. This wasn’t rational. But then again, neither was what was happening to you.

You sighed—the long, tired kind of sigh that sounded like it had aged a decade on its way out. Truth be told, you really didn’t want to leave without getting something resolved. Not after dragging yourself through the iron-scented meat shop, past the flickering stairwell light, and into this strange little time vacuum of a room.

“If I come out dead, I come out dead,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, as you finally stepped forward. “It’s not like I’m missing brunch with a life coach.”

This was, in some weird, macabre way, the most interesting thing to happen to you in months. Hell, maybe years. If you were going to spiral, might as well do it with a little flair and mystery. You squared your shoulders, glanced back at the man, and with the enthusiasm of someone marching into a mild haunting, said: “Alright.”

He hummed—soft, approving, almost like a cat that had just seen you pick up its favorite toy—and stepped aside to let you pass. As you entered, the smell of the room shifted again, warmer now, like bergamot and dry cedar, grounded and oddly calming.

The door clicked shut behind you. A little too gently.

He gestured toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

You chose the one that didn’t face the door—a risk, but also felt like a test—and he slid into the opposite chair with ease. Just fluid motion, like gravity, took him differently than it took everyone else. From a side drawer built into the table, he pulled out a clipboard and a pen. The scratch of it echoed a little too loudly in the stillness.

He looked up at you, eyes glittering darkly. “Before we begin, let’s do a quick intake.”

You blinked. “Didn’t I already fill that out online?”

“Yes,” he replied without looking up. “But this is more for me. A… recap.”

You raised a brow. “So you’re giving me a pop quiz on my own trauma?”

“I find it helps to speak it aloud,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Clarifies intent. Filters out exaggeration. Or embellishment.”

You exhaled slowly. “Alright then.” You tapped your fingers against your knee, pausing before letting the words tumble out. “My issue is… weird.”

He didn’t blink. Just nodded, as if “weird” was his mother tongue.

You hesitated again. “Like, I don’t know if it’s physical or psychological. But I wake up… not exactly aroused, but like my body thinks it is. Except there’s no—” You made a vague, circular gesture. “No stimulation. No dreams I can recall. Just this… residue. Like my nervous system got love-bombed by a ghost.”

He blinked once. Still quiet.

“And I can’t concentrate. Nor get off as I want to for stress relief. Everything’s wired wrong. I feel like a haunted, but emotionally detached.”

The corner of his eye twitched.

You swore—swore—that might’ve been a smirk.

He scribbled something down. “Interesting.”

You exhaled through your nose, slowly, one eyebrow arching with muted skepticism. Of course. Still, you weren’t here to play games. Not too many, at least. “So?” you said, his name careful on your tongue. You looked away for a second, then met his eyes again, sharper this time. “How do I fix my issue? What is it exactly? What do you think’s going on?”

He nodded once, slow and deliberate, and set the clipboard aside with a soft clatter against the side table. “Anorgasmia,” The man said, as if the word wasn’t something that could make you want to melt into the floor.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands folded—long fingers, clean nails, veins just barely visible under that unnervingly smooth, pale skin. “Specifically, it sounds like you’re experiencing Female Orgasmic Disorder. Acquired, generalized. Based on what you put in your intake and your… reaction, I’d guess it’s been ongoing for more than six months, right?”

You blinked, hard, then nodded. That clinical delivery should’ve felt sterile, cold. It didn’t. His voice was low, textured. Intimate without trying to be. And God help you, it was kind of hot. You couldn’t tell if it was his confidence or his complete lack of awkwardness when talking about something that made you want to crawl out of your skin—but it worked.

You were listening, hanging off each word.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, involuntarily tracing the line of his throat to where his collar rested—loose black, matte fabric, something tactical and breathable. His posture was perfect: relaxed but with intention. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t blink too often. There was a heaviness to him, a quiet focus that made you feel pinned, studied… and not in a way that made you want to leave. Damn it.

“So basically,” you said dryly, forcing your gaze back up to his face, “my vagina’s in a coma.”

He cracked a brief, silent laugh through his nose—lips curling just slightly beneath the mask. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And you’re telling me the solution is…” You hesitated, bracing. “To build sensations back up?”

“Yes.” He said it simply, without any waver.

“That’s the starting point, at least. If you were hoping for a prescription or an easy out, I’m afraid there isn’t one. There’s no single medication that resolves this. At best, there are supplements that might help increase blood flow or sensitivity, but they’re not proven. What you need is guided stimulation therapy—Sensate Focus, gradual reintroduction of arousal, maybe eventually partnered techniques—”

You cut him off, “You sound like you’re assigning more homework than I already have to deal with on a daily basis,” you muttered, cheeks heating. “Just with more nudity.”

That earned another small smirk. “Only if you’re an overachiever.”

Oof. You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He continued, not unkindly. “You’re not broken. This is more common than most people think. Stress, medical trauma, interpersonal issues… and in your case, high-functioning academic burnout. You’ve been so focused on achieving, suppressing, managing everything, that your nervous system no longer registers pleasure as safe or worth prioritizing.”

You blinked, stunned. “I—I didn’t even say—how do you—”

The man tilted his head slightly. “Again, you carry exhaustion like armor. And guilt. You intellectualize your body instead of inhabiting it.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your throat felt tight.

“And…” he added, tone dipping lower as his eyes flicked over your face, “you haven’t had the time. Or the space. Or the kind of partner who asks you to stay in the moment.”

You swallowed thickly. “…So what now?”

“Now?” he said, gently. “We start small. Sessions like this. Focused touch. Retraining your response system. Making your body feel safe again.”

You felt your fingers twitch in your lap, not sure whether to bolt or laugh or just melt into the chair. Then, because you needed to feel like you had some control, you leaned back, folded your arms, and asked, “And before we go further… are you gonna tell me your name? Or am I just supposed to keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Mildly Threatening?”

That finally cracked something. His smirk deepened, the smallest glint of teeth visible behind the mask.

“You can call me Jack.”

You raised a brow. “…Just Jack?”

He tilted his head, eyes glittering like obsidian in the low light. “For now.”

“…So, Jack,” you said, dragging his name out with a hint of sarcasm, “you do this often? Therapize poor souls out of their orgasmless despair?”

Jack leaned forward, just slightly. “Only the .” He said as he stood smoothly, setting the clipboard aside with practiced ease, and gestured for you to follow him.

You did—hesitantly at first—rising from the stiff chair and trailing after him as he crossed the hall and unlocked another door with a soft click. When he pushed it open, the first thing to hit you was the warmth.

The lighting was low and amber, diffused through soft bulbs hidden behind velvet-draped sconces. The space smelled faintly of cedarwood and something sweet you couldn’t quite place—almost like jasmine.

It was… not what you expected. At all. You’d prepared yourself for a clinical space, something sterile or weirdly kinky, but this room?

It was intimate. Luxurious, almost.

Rich textures blanketed every surface: soft velvets, high-thread count cotton, brushed suede. The walls were painted a deep, dusky blue that made the shadows look heavier, closer.

A plush bed with dark sheets dominated one side of the room, framed by heavy curtains and stacked pillows in earthy tones. There were other touches too—soft rugs layered beneath your feet, a tray of water and mints, tissues neatly folded. A single mirror, gold-framed and slightly fogged, leaned in the corner.

And then there was the chair.

It looked like something halfway between a modern art sculpture and a spaceship seat—sleek, curved, contoured like it had been made to cradle someone. It was upholstered in black leather with subtle seams and built-in supports. Strange as it was, it didn’t feel perverse. Not cheesy or tacky.

It was… functional. Designed. Like everything else in this room.

Jack gestured toward it casually, like it wasn’t anything to raise an eyebrow over. “That,” he said, “is a sensual lounge chair. Enhanced positioning. For alignment, breath regulation, deeper physical feedback.”

Your stomach flipped again. Christ.

He turned toward a cabinet and pulled out another clipboard, this one thicker than the first, and handed it to you. “Before we go further,” he said, “you’ll need to sign this waiver. Standard practice. And—” he paused, meeting your eyes with that intense calm—“we’ll need a safe word.”

You blinked. “A safe word?”

Jack nodded, leaning back against the counter, hands folded loosely in front of him. “Yes. My sessions—whatever form they take—require that the patient always feels in control. If, at any moment, you feel unsafe or overwhelmed, you use it. No questions asked. Everything stops.”

That… wasn’t what you expected. For someone who looked like the personification of a Victorian ghost with resting murder face, he was oddly considerate. Thorough.

“And,” he continued, “you should also indicate if there are any areas of your body you don’t want touched—or if touch in general is an issue.”

You hesitated. Jack watched your silence carefully.

“I’m… not exactly comfortable being touched,” you admitted, voice lower now, unsure. “Not really.”

He tilted his head, brow faintly furrowed. “As in, discomfort from trauma or—?”

You shook your head. “I’ve never… been touched. At least by someone that’s not me. I’ve tried. It just—never worked. Nothing felt… real. Or good. I don’t think I’ve ever had an actual orgasm. And it’s not like I even want sex, really. I just—” You exhaled, rubbing your temple. “—use it to sleep. For stress relief. However there’s never been feeling.”

Jack didn’t speak right away. His gaze didn’t shift, but it softened—just slightly. He stepped forward, retrieving the clipboard gently from your hands and flipping through your answers with quiet focus.

“I see,” he murmured eventually. “That’s… unusual. Not unheard of, but rare. You’re likely dealing with a variant of the Disorder. Possibly psychogenic anorgasmia, possibly neurochemical. But your phrasing—never felt real, never wanted—it’s more complex.”

You nodded, arms crossed tightly. You felt vaguely ridiculous standing in a velvet sex room, discussing the void that lived between your thighs with someone who looked like a cursed Renaissance painting. But oddly enough… you didn’t feel judged.

Jack reached for a pen, jotting something down. Then, after a moment of consideration, he looked up. “I’m registering you as a special case,” he said simply. “Again, we’ll go slow. No expectations. No pressure. Just sensation. Understanding. Rebuilding the pathway.”

Your breath caught. Despite yourself, your eyes drifted over him again—his posture, the quiet precision of his movements, the way his sleeves had pushed up just slightly at the forearms.

Even the way he held the pen. God, even that was hot.

You cleared your throat. “And you’re… trained for this?”

That smirk again—barely there, but you caught it. “Let’s just say I’m highly practiced.”

You looked at the waiver. Then at him. Then, slowly, you picked up the pen.

“…What’s the safe word?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Your choice.”

You glanced around the room, then muttered, “Velvet.”

Jack nodded once, like it was sacred. “Velvet it is.”

Jack's hand lingered at the back of the chair, fingers grazing the leather as he gestured for you to sit. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice deep but even, “relax back, let it support you. It’s built for comfort.”

You eyed the chair, skeptical but curious. The leather was cool against the backs of your thighs as you slowly settled into it. Jack crouched beside you without a word and gently slid your bag from your shoulder, placing it neatly beside the chair like it deserved a designated resting place of its own.

He looked at you with quiet concentration, one hand resting on the edge of the seat. “May I touch you?” he asked.

There was something respectful in the way he said it—not hesitant, but patient. You gave a small nod, and he murmured, “Say it.”

“Yes,” you said, just above a whisper. “You can.”

He nodded in return, then reached up… and touched your ears? Your expression must have said ‘what the hell are you doing’, because Jack actually gave a soft huff of amusement under his breath. “There are over a dozen zones in the female body that can stimulate a neurological arousal response,” he said smoothly, his thumbs brushing gently around the outer edge of your ears. “Ears are one of the most overlooked.”

You blinked at him. There was no reaction. Nothing flared in your stomach or between your legs. You weren’t even sure it tickled. You just stared at him, flatly. Jack pulled his hands back, nodding to himself like he was taking mental notes.

“Alright. Not the ears.”

Next, he moved to your scalp, his fingers spreading through your hair with practiced ease. You expected it to feel awkward, maybe even clinical, but instead it was… gentle. Thoughtful. His fingertips pressed down just enough to release tension, circling at the base of your skull, following invisible patterns across your scalp.

Your eyes softened. Your breath evened. It didn’t arouse you—not in the way you feared or expected—but it felt good. Normal. Like something you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

Jack noticed, clearly. “Noted,” he murmured, withdrawing again. “Some feedback, not enough to trigger arousal. Good to know.”

He stepped around the chair, “The neck, then.”

When his fingers touched the back of your neck, it was subtle—almost like he was testing the current in a live wire. He barely pressed at all, and yet your entire body tensed beneath the surface like a ripple across still water. Your breath hitched.

Jack froze.

“…Interesting,” he muttered. “Odd tingle, but not necessarily pleasant?”

“It’s—” you started, but hesitated. “It’s something. I don’t know what.”

He gave a faint frown, filing that away. “Alright. Moving down.”

Then his fingers gently circled your inner wrists. You watched him as he focused—his brows slightly drawn, touch featherlight, like he was reading braille in your skin. “These are usually extremely responsive,” he said quietly. “Especially in individuals with dulled primary zones. The nerves are close to the surface here.”

You just stared at him. Nothing.

He looked up at you and raised an eyebrow. “Still nothing?” he asked.

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He gave a quiet exhale through his nose, but not out of frustration. Just… reassessment. “Okay,” he said. “Lower back next. The muscular network there is directly tied to your abdomen and pelvic floor. Sometimes, tension here bottlenecks sensation.”

His hand slid to your waist, firm but not invasive, and pressed into your lower back. The motion was a slow knead, thumbs working just beside your spine. A small breath escaped you—not from pleasure, exactly, but from release. It felt like something began to melt from your muscles. Like heat unfurling.

Jack stilled again.

“Better,” he said. “Still not there. But… warming.”

You let out a low sound of agreement, your body leaning back more deeply into the curve of the chair. Your muscles weren’t buzzing, but they weren’t frozen either.

Jack stood upright, arms crossed loosely as he studied your posture, your breathing, every inch of your subdued response. “Shit… definitely a complex case,” he said, half to himself. “You have all the parts—just not the ignition.”

You quirked a brow up at him. “Are you calling me broken?”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he said. “I’m calling you… locked. That’s different.”

You watched him. Even his frown was attractive—concentrated, thoughtful, not overdramatic. He wasn’t rattled. He was just… intrigued. Motivated. Somehow, that made the heat in the room just a little thicker.

Jack didn’t say anything right away.

He watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. There was something unsettling in his stillness—something restrained. Like he was holding back more than just words. You sat on the edge of the chair, shoulders tense, knuckles pale as you clutched the armrests like they might anchor you in reality.

He crouched in front of you slowly, making sure not to invade your space too suddenly. Then, in that same low voice he always used when speaking seriously, he asked, “Would you feel safer if I guided you through the rest? Or would you prefer to take the lead?”

Your throat was dry, your thoughts in knots. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted softly, hating the vulnerability in your voice.

He nodded, taking your words without judgment. “That’s alright. I’ll take care of the pacing,” he said. Then he stood and gently reached out a hand.

“May I?”

The question hung between you, soft as a pulse. You glanced down at his outstretched hand—palm upturned, fingers slightly curled—then back to his face. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes held yours with a quiet intensity. Not hunger, not impatience. Just waiting.

You swallowed, then placed your hand in his.

His grip was warm. Not the dry, clinical touch of a doctor, but something living—calluses you hadn’t noticed before brushed against your knuckles, subtle proof of hands that worked, that knew their own strength.

He guided you up carefully, his other hand lifting the clipboard from your lap with a precision that bordered on reverence. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Would you be comfortable sitting on my lap?"

His voice was low, barely more than breath against your ear. The question shouldn’t have felt so intimate—not here, not like this—but something about the way he asked it, the way his thumb traced a slow arc over your wrist as he waited for your answer, made your stomach tighten.

You hesitated.

Not from fear, but from the sheer strangeness of it.

When was the last time someone had held you? Not for sex, not for comfort, but just—held you? The thought was almost embarrassing in its simplicity.

Yet you nodded.

Jack stepped back, settling onto the chair first. His posture was relaxed but controlled, thighs slightly parted to make space for you. He didn’t pull you down, didn’t rush. Just lifted his chin, watching you with those endless black eyes, and let you come to him.

You lowered yourself slowly, every nerve alight. The first brush of your back against his chest was electric—not from arousal, but from the sheer warmth of him. He was solid, real in a way that made your breath stutter. His arms came around your waist, not trapping, not demanding, just there.

A steady weight. An anchor.

And then—his breath.

You hadn’t expected that. The slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your spine, the heat of his exhale skimming the nape of your neck. It was too much. Too close. Your own breathing was shallow, uneven, a frantic counterpoint to his calm.

"You’re safe."

His voice rumbled through you, deeper now that you were pressed against him. One hand rested lightly above your ribs, his palm a brand even through the fabric of your shirt. The other stayed at your side, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip. Not teasing. Not yet. Just… measuring.

"We’re going slow. All you have to do is exist here."

The words sank into your skin like a balm. Your shoulders dropped, your lungs expanding fully for what felt like the first time in months.

The room came into focus around you—the faint scent of lavender and something darker, earthier, clinging to his clothes. The muted hum of a ceiling fan you hadn’t noticed before. The plush give of velvet beneath your fingertips where you’d gripped the armrest. And beneath it all, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time in too long, you felt something.

"Just follow my hands."

His voice was a murmur, barely louder than the brush of his thumbs along the slope of your neck. You shivered—not from the cold, but from the sheer attention of it. His hands were warm, palms broad enough to cradle the base of your skull as he worked slow circles into the tense cords of muscle there.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

His touch trailed downward, following the curve of your spine, pausing at the dip between your shoulder blades. There was no hesitation in his movements, no fumbling—just the smooth, deliberate drag of skin against skin. When his fingers reached the hem of your shirt, he didn’t push. Didn’t assume. Just splayed his hands over your ribs and waited.

“You okay, there?”

You nodded, your "yes" escaping as a shaky exhale.

His palms slid beneath the fabric, warm against the bare skin of your stomach. You tensed instinctively, but his grip tightened—not restraining, just steadying. "Easy," he soothed. "This isn’t about getting you off. It’s about learning how you react."

His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, so light it was almost teasing. You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he traced the outer curves, mapping you with a patience that bordered on maddening.

Then—his fingers curled, lifting the fabric higher. Cool air kissed your skin as your shirt rucked up beneath your arms. You glanced down, watching as his hands dwarfed you, his fingers spanning the width of your ribcage.

"Jack—"

He stilled. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you grabbed his wrists, guiding his palms back to your chest. His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Let you press his hands flush against the soft swell of your breasts through your lace black bra, your nipples pebbling under the rough heat of his touch.

Your voice was thin, frayed at the edges. "Pinch them. Like I do when I—when I try to hurry."

A few seconds of silence. Then—

Jack laughed.

Not mocking, not cruel. A soft, breathless sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "That’s your problem, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumbs already circling your nipples with agonizing slowness. "You’re always in a rush."

You whined, hips shifting restlessly.

He ignored it. Just kept his touch featherlight, maddeningly gentle, even as you squirmed. "You don’t need to chase it," he chided, his voice dipping into something darker. "Let it come to you."

Then—finally—he gave you what you asked for.

His fingers tightened, just shy of pain, and your back arched off his chest with a gasp. "There," he murmured, satisfied. "Now you’re listening." He simply grinned.

“Also, you came prepared."

His voice was low, amused, as his thumbs brushed the hem of your maxi skirt—dark fabric pooling around your hips where you sat straddling his lap. You stiffened slightly at the words, fingers twitching against his hands.

"What do you mean?" you asked, though the heat creeping up your neck already betrayed your understanding.

Jack didn’t answer right away. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the notches of your ribs through your thin top before his thumbs found the peaks of your nipples. He pinched—just so—not harsh, but enough to make your breath hitch. A slow, circular rub followed, the friction deliberate, studying the way your body tensed and released beneath his touch.

“Black lace bra, matching black lace panties,” he observed, voice rough with something that wasn’t quite approval. "Skirt easy to remove. You knew what this session would require."

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hands were already moving down, palms skating over the flare of your hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt.

The leather belt came undone with a quiet snick, the circle buckle cool where it grazed your stomach before he set it aside. His knuckles brushed your navel as he pushed the fabric down, letting it slide to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

His hands settled on your bare thighs now, just shy of the lace edge of your underwear. You could feel your own dampness—faint, but there—and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

Jack noticed. Of course he did.

"Show me," he said, fingers flexing against your skin.

"How you usually touch yourself."

Your pulse thudded in your ears. For a moment, you just stared at him—his gaze unwavering, those black eyes absorbing every twitch of your expression. Then, hesitantly, you crossed your legs, pressing your thighs together in a slow, practiced grind.

Jack’s brows lifted. "What are you doing?"

"I don’t… use my fingers," you admitted, voice barely audible. "They don’t— It doesn’t feel like enough."

A few seconds of silence. Then, a low, incredulous laugh rumbled in his chest. "You get off like this?" His grip tightened slightly on your thighs, as if to emphasize the absurdity. "No wonder you’ve numbed yourself. This much pressure—crossing your legs would dull anyone’s nerves."

You flinched, but his hands gentled instantly, one sliding up to cradle your jaw. "I’m not mocking you," he murmured. "But if you’ll let me—" His thumb brushed your lower lip. "—I’d like to teach you how to do it properly."

Your mouth went dry. "Okay," you whispered.

Jack’s smile was sharp. "Good."

Then his hands were on your hips, lifting you effortlessly to reposition you—knees bracketing his thighs, lace-clad cunt hovering just above the hard line of his own arousal. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but now it was impossible to ignore: the heat of him, the way his breath shallowed when your inner thighs brushed against him.

"First lesson," he said, fingers tracing the soaked seam of your underwear. "You don’t need to crush the sensation to feel it. You need to tease it."

And then—slow, torturous—he dragged the lace aside.

"You’re wet."

His voice was low, matter-of-fact, as his thumb brushed over the soft, puffy lips of your cunt. Not probing, not demanding—just noticing. The contact was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you anyway. Your hips twitched, a reflexive flinch, but his other hand anchored your thigh, keeping you still.

"Probably from me touching your breasts earlier," he mused, more to himself than to you. His fingers retreated, glistening faintly in the dim light. He studied them for a moment, then met your eyes. "You don’t even realize it, do you? Your body reacts before your mind catches up."

You swallowed. You hadn’t realized. The slow, methodical way he’d palmed your breasts—thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric of the lace bra, his breath hot on your neck—had felt clinical at the time. Like an assessment. But now, with his fingers hovering just above your clit, the evidence was undeniable.

Jack tilted his head. "One last chance," he murmured. "Is there anywhere—anywhere at all—that makes you feel good? Even just a little?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Your mind was blank, your nerves alight but directionless. You’d spent so long numb that the mere possibility of pleasure felt like a foreign language.

He sighed. Not frustrated. Resigned.

"Then I need you wetter."

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly. "Stand up."

The command was quiet but absolute. You obeyed on shaky legs, and you rose. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for you to tense—

Slap.

The sound was sharp, sudden. His palm connected with the curve of your ass, not hard enough to sting, but enough to make you gasp. Your muscles clenched, a startled noise catching in your throat, but he was already lifting you, effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. Your underwear peeled away, the fabric dragging against your thighs before pooling at your ankles.

"Step out."

You did. The air was cool against your bare skin, a contrast to the heat building low in your stomach. When you turned to face him, Jack was still seated, his gaze dark and unwavering. He held your discarded underwear between two fingers, studying the damp spot with detached interest before setting them aside.

"Good," he said, as if you’d passed some unspoken test. His hands returned to your hips, guiding you forward until you stood between his spread knees.

"Now. Let’s try something simple."

One broad palm settled on the inside of your thigh, pressing in—not teasing, not stroking, just pressure. The heel of his hand ground against your muscles, slow and firm, and your breath hitched.

"There it is," he murmured, watching your face. "You don’t need finesse. You just need to be felt." His other hand mirrored the motion on your opposite thigh, fingers digging into the tense flesh. You swayed, your knees threatening to buckle, but his grip held you upright.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his thumbs creeping higher. "Just breathe. I want to test something."

Jack’s voice was low, a rumble against your spine. You felt his hands shift on your hips, his grip firm but not demanding—just enough to steer. His thumb brushed the jut of your hipbone, a silent question.

You tilted your head, frowning. His thigh?

Before you could voice the confusion, he was already moving you. His palms pressed into the softness above your waist, guiding you forward until your bare cunt settled against the hard muscle of his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the heat building beneath.

"Slowly," he murmured, his breath warm on your shoulder.

His hands moved you first, a deliberate rock of your hips against him, letting you feel the drag of friction. It was clinical at first—an experiment, an assessment—but then your body reacted. A spark, faint but undeniable, flickered low in your stomach.

Your breath hitched.

Jack stilled, his fingers flexing against your hips. "You felt that." It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, your throat tight.

"Good." His voice was dark with satisfaction. "Now, do it yourself."

He released you, his palms sliding away until only the ghost of his touch remained. For a moment, you hesitated, hovering above him, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. Then, tentatively, you rolled your hips.

The sensation was sharper this time—less controlled, more yours. A quiet sound escaped you, barely more than a sigh. Jack’s exhale was ragged against your neck, his own restraint fraying at the edges as he watched you.

"Again."

You obeyed, rocking forward with more confidence this time. The pressure was perfect—just enough to tease, not enough to overwhelm. Your fingers dug into his knees for balance as you moved, your pace quickening without thought.

"Look at you," Jack murmured, his voice thick. "Finally feeling something." His hands returned, not to guide you, but to feel you—his thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist, his fingers spanning the curve of your ass, tracing the way your body moved against him. Every touch was possessive, reverent. Like he was memorizing the way you came undone.

Your breath came faster, your hips grinding down in desperate little circles now. The coil in your stomach tightened, your nerves alight with something raw and new. You weren’t just touching yourself—you were using him, his strength, his stillness, the unyielding muscle of his thigh giving you exactly what you needed.

"Slow down." His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet—smooth, but with an edge that made your breath hitch. His fingers curled around your wrist, halting the frantic rhythm of your own touch. You hadn’t even realized you’d started moving against him, hips stuttering with restless need. His grip tightened just enough to emphasize the point, his thumb pressing into your pulse like he was counting every erratic beat.

“Be careful, don’t rush your lesson now.”

Before you could protest, his hands were on your hips, turning you in his lap until you were straddling him backward—your spine pressed flush to his chest, his thighs bracketing yours. The shift was effortless, his strength unsettling in its ease. One arm banded around your waist, holding you in place. The other—

Slap.

A sharp, stinging bite against your bare cunt, just hard enough to make you gasp. The sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by the slick, obscene proof of how wet you were.

"Look at that," Jack murmured, his voice a dark hum against your ear. His fingers glided through your folds with clinical precision, spreading you open like a specimen he couldn’t wait to study.

"Dripping. And we’ve barely started."

His touch was cold. Not unpleasantly so, but enough to make you flinch—a stark contrast to the heat between your legs. You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of his control, but now it was all you could focus on. The chill of his skin as he dragged a single finger up your slit, circling your clit with agonizing slowness.

"Good girl," he praised, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Look how far you’ve gotten. All tense and desperate, just for me."

You could hear the smirk in his voice. Could feel it in the way his fingers worked you—teasing, taunting, never giving you enough. Just slow, maddening circles that had your thighs trembling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, holding you steady as your hips jerked, seeking more friction.

"Ah-ah." A warning nip at your earlobe. "I decide when you come. Not you."

His sharp smile pressed against your throat as you whined, fingers clawing at his thighs. "Patience. There you go," Jack murmured, his voice a dark velvet rasp against your ear. "Just like that."

You didn’t remember when you’d gotten fully naked.

One moment, you were perched on his lap, his hands mapping the tension in your hips—the next, your clothes were gone, discarded somewhere in the hazy periphery of your awareness. Jack’s cool skin was against your bare skin, but your body was warm, more like a furnace against him.

His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, slow and methodical, pausing just shy of where you ached. "Tell me what you feel," he said, his breath hot on your shoulder.

"I—" Your voice cracked.

You were wet. So fucking wet it almost embarrassed you—a slick, shameful heat that had no business pooling this fast under the touch of a man who spoke like a surgeon and held you like a sacrament.

Jack hummed, low and approving. "Good. That’s exactly how you should be." His free hand slid up your stomach, palming your breast with a possessiveness that made your back arch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles. "So responsive. So eager to learn."

You whimpered.

His chuckle was a dark, honeyed thing. "Ah, there’s the sound I’ve been waiting for." He pinched your nipple just so—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your hips jerk—and you gasped, your thighs trembling around his.

"You’re perfect like this," he continued, his voice dipping into something rougher. "All soft curves and pretty, desperate noises. I adore the ones with meat on their bones—something to hold, to savor." His teeth grazed your shoulder, blunt and teasing.

"You’re exactly my type."

Your breath came in shallow pants.

It was too much. Not enough. His words coiled hot in your belly, his touch everywhere—one hand still working your nipple, the other now dragging through your slick folds with agonizing patience. "Jack—"

"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. "Let me teach you." His fingers parted you gently, his middle finger circling your clit with just the barest pressure. "This is where you start," he murmured. "Slow. Gentle. Let the ache build."

You bit your lip, hips twitching.

"No, no—look." He caught your wrist, guiding your hand down between your legs, his fingers overlaying yours. "Feel that? The way your body pulses when you touch here?" His voice was a sinful whisper, his breath damp against your neck. "That’s your hunger. Don’t rush it. Feed it."

You shuddered, his words searing into your skin. His fingers moved yours in slow, slick strokes—showing you the rhythm, the pressure, the filthy, perfect angle that made your vision blur.

"You’re so quiet."

Jack’s voice was a low murmur against your ear, his breath warm where his lips nearly brushed your skin. His fingers, still curled gently around your waist, flexed once—a silent prompt.

You hadn’t realized how little sound you’d made until he pointed it out. No moans, no hitched breaths. Just the soft, steady rhythm of your lungs fighting to stay even.

His head tilted, those black eyes scanning your face, again like a surgeon assessing an incision. "Not even a sigh," he mused. "Care to explain?"

You swallowed. "There’s no point," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack went very still behind you. Then, slowly, his hand slid up your torso, his palm skimming the curve of your ribs before settling just beneath your breast. His thumb pressed there, not quite teasing, not quite cruel—just present.

"Are you sure?"

The question hung in the air for half a heartbeat before his other hand dipped between your thighs.

You gasped.

His fingers were bigger than yours—wider, rougher in a way that shouldn’t have been as intoxicating as it was. A single digit pressed inside without warning, stretching you in a single, smooth motion.

Your back arched instinctively, your nails digging into the arm still wrapped around your waist. "Breathe," Jack reminded you, his voice dark with amusement. "And explain."

You tried. God, you tried. But your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm as he began to move—slow, deliberate drags in and out, his knuckles brushing sensitive flesh with every retreat.

Your hips jerked, chasing the sensation, but his grip on your waist held firm, keeping you pinned against his chest. "I—" You choked on the word as his thumb circled your clit, feather-light. "I never—needed—to moan."

Jack tsked, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast, fingers plucking at your nipple just hard enough to make you jolt. "Try again."

"It was just—quick," you panted, your thighs trembling around his wrist. "Just to—to relax. Never—ah!—never like this."

He hummed, considering. His finger curled inside you, pressing up in a way that made your vision blur. "Can you handle another?"

You nodded frantically.

Jack’s grip on your breast tightened in warning. "Words, sweetheart."

"Y-yes—"

The second finger breached you before you could finish, stretching you impossibly wider. Your legs spasmed, a broken sound tearing from your throat as your body clenched around him. It was too much—the stretch, the heat, the way your own slick coated his fingers with every thrust. You could hear it, wet and obscene, and the sound alone sent a fresh wave of heat flooding between your thighs.

Jack’s lips grazed your shoulder. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something like pride. "Dripping all over my fingers and you’ve barely made a sound."

You sighed softly, your hips rocking helplessly against his hand.

Then Jack stops.

You don’t realize he’s moved until his hands leave your waist, the sudden absence of his touch like a cold draft against your skin. You start to turn your head, confused—

And then he lifts you.

Effortlessly. As if your weight is nothing. One arm hooks under your knees, the other cradles your back, and in a single motion, he stands, taking you with him. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling for purchase against his shoulders as the world tilts.

"Wha—?"

No warning. No explanation. Just the dizzying shift of gravity as he carries you the few steps to the bed and drops you—softly, deliberately—into the nest of pillows. Your head sinks into the downy embrace, hair fanning out around you.

And then he’s over you.

Knees bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head, his shadow swallowing you whole.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Up close, the sheer size of him is startling. You knew he was tall, but like this—his torso blocking the light, his thighs pressing yours wider—he’s overwhelming. Lean, yes, but corded with a strength that makes your stomach flip. His shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining with the faintest shift of muscle as he leans down.

"I’m offering you an experience," he murmurs, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. "A real one."

Your pulse stutters. "W-why?"

His lips curl—just slightly. "Because I’ve touched you everywhere. Played with your breasts. Slapped your pretty cunt. Even fingered you." A pause, deliberate. "And you didn’t come. Not once."

The words shouldn’t burn. Not when he says them like he’s reciting lab results. But they do. Your face flames, thighs pressing together instinctively—only for his knee to nudge them back apart. "You got wet," he continues, thumb brushing your lower lip. "But wetness isn’t your goal. You want you to come. Hard. And I’m willing to make that happen."

Your breath is coming too fast now. "H-how?"

Jack’s smile is all teeth. "By eating you out."

Your entire body locks up. Eating you out. The phrase rattles in your skull like a stone in a tin can. You’ve never—no one’s ever—God, you don’t even know what it’s supposed to feel like. Just the thought of his mouth there, his tongue—

No. No no no.

You jerk your head to the side, one hand slapping over your eyes like a child hiding from a nightmare. It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. A medical student, for Christ’s sake. But the heat in your cheeks is volcanic, your chest so tight it aches.

A chuckle—amused—vibrates through the mattress. "Tiny thing," Jack muses, "and yet so scared." Then his fingers wrap around your wrist, prying your hand away from your face. "Look at me."

You don’t want to. You do.

And—oh.

The face mask is gone.

His face is—Handsome isn’t the right word. It’s too… non-human, too soft. Jack is all edges: sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, lips just a shade too red against the cool gray of his skin. His brown hair is a mess of waves, half-tamed, like he’s been running his hands through it. And his ears—those damn pointed ears—twitch faintly as he studies your reaction.

But—with his full face, his eyes that steal your breath.

Pitch black. No whites, no pupils, just endless depth—like staring into a well at midnight. And beneath them, those faint, inky tear lines, as if he’s been crying shadows.

You should be terrified. This isn’t a man. This is something other. Something that shouldn’t exist outside of folklore or fever dreams.

But he’s also hot. Professionally, clinically hot.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the fascinating one.

Your throat bobs. "I—"

Jack doesn’t let you finish. He lifts your captured hand to his mouth—and bites your palm. Not hard. Not enough to break skin. Just a slow, deliberate press of teeth, his tongue flicking against the fleshy base of your thumb. A shiver rockets down your spine.

"It’s okay to be scared," he murmurs against your skin. "I’ll be gentle." A pause. "Unless you want me to be rough."

The option hangs between you, ripe as fruit. You groan, rolling your eyes like you’re not already arching into him. "Just—just fucking do it, Jack."

His grin is wicked. "Good girl." His lips pressed against yours without warning, but not without permission—the kind you’d given with your breath hitching, with your fingers curling into the sheets of the bed. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming, a hot, deliberate slide of his mouth over yours, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Open," he murmured against you, voice dark as spilled ink.

You hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before parting your lips.

He didn’t wait. His tongue swept in, hot and relentless, tangling with yours in a way that felt less like an invitation and more like a taking. Your mouth felt full, overwhelmed, every flick and twist of his tongue dragging a muffled sound from your throat. He kissed you like he was mapping you, like he could taste the years of numbness on your tongue and was determined to burn it away.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were wet, swollen. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching a thread of saliva, and his eyes locked onto yours. "Good," he said, low and rough.

"So good for me already."

Then he was moving down.

He didn’t rush. Every inch of you was a ritual. His lips traced the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse, the hollow of your throat—each touch a brand. His hands followed, sliding down your sides, fingertips pressing just hard enough to make you arch.

When he reached your breasts, he paused. His breath was hot against your skin as he looked up at you, those black eyes glinting. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said—but it wasn’t a question. It was a reminder. That you were still in control. That he wouldn’t take what you didn’t give.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue circling slow and wet before his teeth grazed the peak. Your back bowed off the chair, a broken noise tearing from your lips. He hummed, pleased, his free hand cupping your other breast, thumb rolling over the neglected nipple until it ached.

"Jack—" you gasped.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. "You sound pretty when you say my name." Then he switched sides, lavishing the same torment on your other breast, his fingers pinching the first just enough to make your thighs jerk together.

He didn’t let you. His knee slid between yours, forcing them apart. "None of that," he chided, voice dripping with amusement. "I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet."

His lips trailed lower—over the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, the trembling plane of your stomach. Every kiss was a brand, every nip of his teeth a spark, then glancing up at you. "Last chance to say no."

You didn’t.

His hands slid up your bare legs, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider. The first breath he took against your cunt was audible—a slow, deliberate inhale. His groan vibrated through you. "Fuck. You smell perfect."

You shuddered, hips lifting instinctively, but his grip tightened, holding you down. "Ah-ah. I’ll take care of you. Just let me." His hands slid beneath you, palms broad and warm against the curve of your ass, lifting you just enough to adjust your weight.

The grip was firm—not demanding, but certain, like he knew exactly how to hold you without letting you strain. Your thighs fell open wider, almost embarrassingly so, the cool air of the room brushing against skin that had never felt so exposed.

Then his mouth.

Cold at first—a shock of contrast where you were already throbbing—his lips pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. Not where you wanted him, not yet. He was savoring this, tracing the delicate crease where leg met hip with the tip of his nose, inhaling like you were something sacred. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, then found his face, cupping his jaw as if to steady yourself. His stubble scraped lightly against your palm, rough and real.

When his tongue finally dragged a long, flat stroke up your center, your back arched off the chair. A gasp tore from your throat, your hand fisting in his hair before you could think to stop yourself. Brown strands wrapped around your fingers, silky and thick, and you pulled—just enough to hear him groan against you.

The vibration rolled through your nerves like a shockwave.

"Fuck—" you choked out, hips jerking.

Jack’s breath hitched, his nose bumping your clit as he glanced up. "Sorry," he murmured, voice already wrecked. But you didn’t let him retreat.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back, holding him in place with a desperation that should’ve embarrassed you.

"Don’t you dare stop."

A huff of laughter warmed your skin before he obeyed, diving back in with a focus that made your toes curl. His tongue was relentless now—flicking, circling, then pressing inside with a twist that had you seeing stars. One of his hands slid up your body, palming your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple in time with every lick.

You whimpered, the dual sensation short-circuiting your thoughts.

And the sounds—your moans pitched higher, breathier, tumbling from your lips like prayers. His ears twitched at each one, the pointed tips flicking forward as if to catch every broken sigh. You could feel how much it pleased him, the way his fingers flexed against your ribs, the way his hips shifted restlessly between your legs like he was holding himself back from grinding into the chair.

Then his free hand gripped your thigh, pushing it wider, deeper, as he sucked your clit between his lips.

Your vision whited out.

"Jack—" you sobbed, thighs trembling around him.

He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and you ground against his face, chasing the pleasure like you’d die without it. His fingers pinched your nipple just shy of pain, and you came with a cry so loud it echoed off the velvet walls.

Jack didn’t let up. Not until you were squirming, oversensitive, your hands fluttering weakly against his shoulders in protest. Only then did he lean back, lips glistening, chin damp, his breathing as ragged as yours.

"Good?" he asked, though the smirk in his voice said he already knew.

You could only stare at him, dazed, your chest heaving.

Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips.

"Let’s try that again."

Your breath hitched. Again? You’d already come once—shaking, gasping, your thighs clamped around his head like a vice. But Jack wasn’t satisfied. No, the way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his lips glistened with you as he pulled back to smirk up at you—he wanted more.

"You didn’t scream," he murmured, dragging his tongue—tongues?—slowly up your inner thigh. "You didn’t even beg. And from the way your body locked up just now?" A chuckle, dark and knowing.

"You wanted to come hard."

Damn him. Damn him for reading you like a medical chart, for seeing the truth in the way your back arched, the way your fingers twisted in the sheets. You had wanted it rough. Needed it. Months of numbness, of dull, mechanical friction, and here he was—ruining you with just his mouth.

And then—

His lips sealed over you again, and this time, there was no teasing.

One thick, slick stroke of his tongue from entrance to clit, and your back bowed off the chair. A whimper tore from your throat as he flicked—sharp, merciless—against your oversensitive bundle of nerves. The noise you made was pathetic, broken, and Jack growled against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.

"There it is," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face as his tongues—what the fuck—pressed against your entrance. "That little gasp. That’s the sound of you feeling something."

Then he pushed in.

One out of his three tongues. Your vision whited out.

The middle one was thick, ridged, fucking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts while the other two coiled around your clit, lapping and squeezing in tandem. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

Your hips jerked, desperate, but Jack’s grip on your thighs was iron, holding you open, forcing you to take it. "You wanna take a closer look?" he teased, pulling back just enough to let you see.

Your stomach dropped.

Three tongues. Long, sinuous, glistening with your arousal. The middle one tapered to a wicked point, the other two slightly shorter but no less skilled, curling lazily in the air like they were tasting you already.

"Wha—" you choked out, but Jack just grinned, all sharp teeth and dark amusement.

"Special case, special treatment," he purred, lowering his mouth again. "And you, sweet thing? You’re very special."

The middle tongue speared into you, deeper this time, fucking in and out with a rhythm that had your toes curling. The other two twisted around your clit, one applying steady pressure while the other flicked rapidly, brutally, over the swollen bud.

You sobbed. "Jack—fuck—!"

He hummed, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "That’s it. Let go." You couldn’t. You were too busy unraveling, your orgasm crashing into you like a tidal wave, your thighs trembling, your nails clawing in his brown hair beneath you. It was too much, the overstimulation bordering on pain, but Jack didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Just kept working you, dragging out every last shudder, every broken gasp.

And then—

"Teach me how to scream," you begged, voice raw.

Jack’s eyes gleamed. "Gladly." He quickly stops.

The shift is sudden, but not rushed. One moment, you’re cradled against the bed, lulled by the rhythm of his tongue was just deep inside you; the next, his hands are guiding you up, turning you with a quiet certainty that leaves no room for hesitation.

He leans back onto the bed, creaking softly. His movements are fluid, almost predatory in their precision—stretching out like a shadow given form, his head propped against the pillows, those black eyes fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter.

“Come here.”

His voice is rougher now, the clinical detachment fraying at the edges. A command, not a request.

You hesitate, knees sinking into the mattress beside his hips. The air between you is thick with the scent of your own arousal, the slick heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. Jack’s nostrils flare, his tongue darting out to wet his lips—too sharp, too pointed—and suddenly, the reality of what he’s asking crashes over you.

Sit on his face.

Your breath hitches. “I—I don’t know if I can—”

“You can.” His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees. “And I can take it.” There’s a dark promise in his words, a dare.

“I want you to scream my name like it’s going out of style.”

You move.

Clumsy with want, you straddle his chest, one hand braced against the headboard for balance. Jack doesn’t rush you. He watches, eyes swallowing whatever faint light exists in the room, as you lower yourself—inch by trembling inch—until your thighs frame his face, until the heat of your cunt hovers just above his mouth.

His breath ghosts over you, hot and deliberate.

Then contact.

The first lick is slow, almost reverent. A flat, wet stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair. Jack groans, the vibration against your sensitive flesh drawing a broken sound from your throat.

“Fuck—!”

He doesn’t let you recover. His tongue flicks, teasing your clit before plunging deeper, fucking into you with a rhythm that’s too perfect, too practiced. You gasp, hips jerking forward, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place.

“Stay.” The word is muffled against your skin, but the order is clear.

You whimper, nails scraping his scalp as his tongue curls inside you, fucking in and out with obscene precision. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Your thighs shake, your breath coming in ragged pants, but Jack doesn’t relent.

Then—a sudden second pressure, another tongue—thicker, rougher—joins the first, lapping at your entrance before pushing in alongside it. Your eyes fly open, a strangled moan tearing from your lips. What the hell—?!

Jack’s grip on your thighs tightens, his breaths coming faster now, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, dragging both tongues over that sweet, spongy spot inside you. Your vision goes whites out.

“J-Jack—!”

He growls, the sound vibrating through your core. His mouth is still on you when you feel it—something wrong. A slow, slick pressure, thinner than his tongue, curling against your inner thigh like a living thing. Your breath hitches, muscles locking, but Jack doesn’t let you pull away. His hands tighten on your hips, pinning you in place as that third tongue—fuck, it’s a third tongue—slithers up through the mess he’s already made of you.

It flicks once, twice, against your clit, teasing the swollen bud before pushing in alongside the others.

You scream.

It’s too much—the stretch, the fullness, the way he spears into you with a hunger that borders on violence. His teeth graze your thigh, his nails carving half-moons into your skin as he fucks into you with that unnatural muscle, coiling and twisting inside you like he’s trying to carve his name into your walls.

Jack’s eyes roll back, his hips jerking beneath you as if he’s the one being ruined. His face is glazed with your slick, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in ragged, animal pants. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when you sob his name like a prayer, not when your nails tear bloody furrows through his hair, not when your thighs shake and your vision whites out—

—because then you’re coming, hard enough to choke on it, your orgasm ripping through you like a live wire.

He drinks it down. Every spasm, every pulse, his tongues working you through it until you’re wrung dry, until your screams dissolve into broken whimpers. Only then does he let you collapse, your body limp, your mind wiped blank.

Jack exhales, slow and satisfied, his fingers tracing idle, possessive circles on your trembling thighs.

You just came hard enough to black out—vision tunneling, muscles seizing, a silent scream locked behind your teeth—but he catches you before you fall. His arms wrap around you, cradling your limp form against his chest with an unsettling gentleness. His lips brush your forehead in a mockery of tenderness, the gesture sweet enough to make your stomach twist.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he drags his teeth over your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to bruise.

You gasp, jerking in his hold, but he doesn’t let you pull away. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your waist like he’s memorizing the give of it.

"Shhhhh…"

His voice is a dark purr, thick with something that isn’t quite human. You feel it vibrate through your ribs, deep and resonant, like the hum of a predator after a good meal. His breath is warm against your skin, but his mouth—when he licks a slow stripe up your throat—is cold.

Too cold.

You try to twist away, but his free hand slides up to cover your mouth before you can scream. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your jaw open just slightly, and he leans in, inhaling like he’s savoring the scent of your panic.

"Shhhh... There’s no need to scream now," he murmurs, voice dripping with false reassurance.

That’s when you see it.

The black.

Not just his eyes—no, those have always been voids, endless and depthless—but the slick, tar-like substance now trickling from the corners of his sockets, slow and syrupy, dripping down his cheekbones like tears. It doesn’t fall. It clings, viscous and shimmering, before vanishing into the sharp line of his jaw.

You freeze.

Jack notices. Of course he does.

His lips curve into a smile—too wide, too knowing—and he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "Perfect," he whispers, and this time, when his tongue drags over your pulse point, you taste it—copper and salt and something sweet, something rotting, something that shouldn’t be inside you—

You whimper.

He hums, pleased, and nips at your earlobe. "You did so perfect for me."

His hands slide down your body, mapping the tremors still wracking your limbs, the damp heat between your thighs. He lingers there, pressing two fingers against your clit with a slow, rhythmic pressure that makes your hips jerk despite yourself.

"But I’m not done with you yet."

Because the taste of you—fuck, the taste of you—is better than anything he’s ever had. Better than blood, better than flesh, better than every desperate, writhing thing that’s ever begged beneath his hands.

And he will have more.

He’ll take it slow this time. He’ll let you catch your breath, let your heartbeat settle, let your body remember how to want before he ruins you all over again.

After all, you’re a med student.

You’ll understand the importance of thoroughness. And Jack?

Jack always finishes what he starts.

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twisted-broth · 1 month ago

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Emergency Rendezvous

Introduction

TW: accidental drugging, aphrodisiacs (no actual smut yet but reader is v horny)

You swat Grim's paws away from the ingredients on the table for the third time while Crewel continued explaining the science behind your assigned potion. He grumbled impatiently, resting his chin on the workbench. With the hand not prepared to Throw Down, you copied Crewel's drawing of some kind of chemical synapse with little bubbles in between labeled "endorphins".

"What makes this solution so potent is the ability of our magic ingredients to act directly on endorphin-releasing pathways in the brain, encouraging the body's natural painkiller system rather than introducing an artificial one. This greatly reduces the risk of addiction seen in non-magical analgesics. While this potion is relatively low risk, and hopefully easy enough that even you pups can't mess it up, there is a significant overlap with nearby pathways that may produce unintended effects. I trust that I've trained you properly enough to thoroughly check the labels on your ingredients and weigh them carefully."

The moment Crewel ended his lecture, Grim was grabbing at the various powders and herbs. With barely a glance given to the textbook in between you two, he started haphazardly shaking the magical- and probably expensive- elements into a weigh boat on the scale.

"Grim! What part of 'read the label' did you not understand?" You reach for the bottle, but are too slow to stop Grim from tossing the ingredient into your cauldron. You sigh wearily, resigned to leave the fate of your grade in Grim's trigger-happy paws. You manage to double check most of the ingredients before they're added to the mix, surprisingly in the correct order. After over a year spent with your troublesome pet/friend/roommate/co-student, you've learned to adopt an "it is what it is" mindset.

When the concoction is finally done, you're honestly shocked to see that your potion is the same color as everyone else's. To make it even better, nothing exploded in the process! You swirled the blue potion around in the flask, admiring the iridescent tone.

"Good dogs!" Crewel congratulated the class, almost sounding surprised that nothing had gone wrong. "Since you've all signed your waivers, and the risk associated is low, I'll allow you to test your products now or save them for later. If you experience any adverse side effects, inform me at once. Class dismissed!"

You eyed the potion on the desk in front of you, weighing the risks it posed. A tap on your shoulder stole your attention, and you swiveled around to see Ace sporting his usual self-righteous smirk. Beside him, Deuce was curiously sniffing their own creation.

"What d'ya think, prefect? Gonna give it a taste test?"

You respond with a weary laugh, finding that the shimmer of the potion was becoming less and less appealing. "I don't know... I mean I don't really have any pain right now. I guess my back is a bit sore?" You reply noncommittally.

Ace rolled his eyes with a tsk. "Aw, c'mon! Crewel never lets us try the potions we make. I, for one, have a killer headache. Cough it up Loosey Deucey!"

Ace swipes the flask from Deuce's hands, ignoring his scoff of protest. With disturbingly little hesitation, he downs the potion in seconds and licks the stray blue droplets from the corner of his mouth. The three of you watch him with mixed expressions of anxiety and curiosity, waiting for the potion to take effect. After another minute or so, Ace's eyes widened in excitement. "Hey, it's totally working! Damn that's a lot better!"

"And of course you had to go and hog it all to yourself," Deuce grumbled, resting his head on the workbench.

Grim pushed your experimental product closer to you. "Well? Go on, henchhuman! Anything the Great Grim makes will be 10x better than those two."

You raised an eyebrow, highly doubtful of Grim's claim considering his disregard for proper measurements. You open your mouth to voice your hesitation, but the excitement in his eyes gives you pause. Well, Crewel did say the potion was pretty low-risk, even if you did make it wrong. And you suppose even Grim deserves some semblance of a win on occasion. With a heavy sigh, you raise the flask to your lips and down the concoction.

You're pleasantly surprised by how good it tastes. Not that you were really paying attention to the ingredients, but you just assumed it would be terrible. Instead, the faint taste of honeysuckle and lavender dances across your tongue, gracing your throat with a warm coating on the way down. You can trace the warmth down your chest and into the stomach, where it slowly dissipates throughout the rest of your body. Despite the pleasant sensation, you say with certainty that your back ache had gone away. Rather, you were distracted from the dull pain as the same warm feeling flooded and settled in your groin.

Either from the potion or the realization of your situation, a furious blush burned your cheeks and ears. It took nearly a minute for you to regain your composure and notice the voices of your friends calling out to you in concern.

"Y/n! Are you alright?" Deuce gently placed a hand on your forearm, trying to bring you back to reality. You gasp at the touch, quickly withdrawing your arm as though you had been burned. Noticing your friends hurt expression, you cleared your throat in embarrassment.

"Sorry! Just a different sensation than I was expecting. You did great Grim! It works really well." You laugh unconvincingly, already feeling a drop of sweat budding at your temple.

Ignoring the various expressions of concern and confusion, you stand up abruptly, nearly knocking your chair over in the process. You make quick work of gathering your belongings, using all your focus to hold onto your last bit of composure.

"Sorry guys, I forgot that I uh... told Azul I would help out at the lounge! It'll be suuuuper boring though, so you guys should go on without me. I'll catch up to you later!" Without leaving room for protest, you rushed out of the lab room, hiding your beet-red face behind your free hand.

Within minutes, you were urgently knocking on Crewel's office door. The sudden noise summoned two large black noses to the narrow gap under the door where they sniffed intently at your feet. From within the office, you hear Crewel call out for you to enter. The dogs retreat from the door at the sound of their master's voice, allowing you space to slip in and close the door quickly behind you.

Although Crewel initially only glances in your direction, he does a double take at the sight of your flushed face and sweat-drenched brow. Two lanky Dalmatians regard you with mild intrigue from their large bed in the corner, where they lay daintily on top of one another. A rare look of concern crosses Crewel's features. "Prefect? Are you alright?"

You stay pressed against the door, trying to distance yourself from the tempting scent of Crewel's cologne. Your hand feebly attempts to cover your nose and mouth, and you shake your head no. "O-our potion," you stutter, "I think something went wrong".

Continuing to test your self control, Crewel stands and approaches you, assessing your vulnerable state. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead to feel for a fever. To your continued humiliation, a quiet whine escapes you at the contact. His eyes widened slightly, but he quickly dawns a mask of professionalism as he retracts his hand.

"I see. Well, as I mentioned in lecture, slight alterations in the potion's formula can trigger alternate pathways which are also mediated by endorphins. One such pathway is the arousal pathway. It would seem that significant enough errors were made that your potion activated your arousal pathway, rather than the intended pain relief pathway". He explains the error matter-of-factly, returning to his desk.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. Arousal pathway? Doesn't the universe ever get tired of playing practical jokes on you? The persistent throbbing in your core sent the clear message that it doesn't. You groan, burying your face in your hands in an attempt to disappear from the face of the earth. "Can you undo it?"

"I'm afraid the only inhibitor of such endorphins is prolactin, the neurotransmitter released after orgasm. Unfortunately, we've yet to artificially synthesize an effective substitute. Otherwise, your body should metabolize the potion in eight hours." You were appreciative of Crewel's calm and even tone. Even if it didn't cure your current predicament, maybe you'll be able to look him in the eyes again someday.

Making the choice to not dig this hole even deeper, you gave him a grateful bow and quickly departed. Your mind was swimming as you made a beeline for Ramshackle, hoping to make it home before your knees started buckling. At last, you shut the door to your quiet dorm building. Your heart pounded in your ears, though if it was racing from the speed walking or the overwhelming arousal coursing through your blood, you weren't sure.

In any case, your options were to suffer for eight hours, or to get fucked. Well, you would be fucked either way. Your legs finally gave out by the time you had crawled to your bed and curled up on your side. The pillow trapped between your thighs did little to reduce the pressure that consumed every thought. As you stripped down to your underwear, your trembling fingers and raging heart made it very apparent that you weren't in any state to be able to take care of this yourself.

Several faces flashed through your mind, innocent encounters with your friends being quickly perverted in your brain. With less apprehension than was probably warranted, you pulled out your phone and opened your contacts. It wasn't an impressively long list, but nonetheless you quickly found the name you were looking for. The voice of reason in your head insisted that you would never live this down, but it was quickly gagged by the larger majority of your brain that was begging to be fucked.

With shaky hand, you pressed the call button.

A/n: if you missed the poll, I'm hoping to make this a series (no promises). Either way, the first victim will be Leona 😮‍💨

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oddlylovingaddiction · 3 months ago

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Mark Grayson is truly the ‘I love my partner!!!’ T-shirt with socks and sandals wearing guy.

If you play animal crossing? He’s moving onto your island. Every time you’re offline he’ll plant like 100s of roses outside your house (in your fave color too), He wants to live inside a shared animal crossing house if he can’t he’ll settle for having his house close by. He’ll also approve of all terraforming you do to the island. And in his house on the island? It’s just full of spider crabs and if you question him on it he will get offended. (He’ll also occasionally smack your head with his net. He also has several ongoing one-sided beefs with Tom nook)

If you play tomodachi life? He FORCES your mii to marry his. If your mii shows interest in any other mii he will sabotage it. He’ll also dress your mii in the funniest costumes ever. He spends the most time with your Mii. If he accidentally feeds you your least favorite food he’ll say out loud “NOO I’m so sorry!!”.

He’s also really good at Mario kart, he beats you every damn time and you don’t know how. He also gloats about it too it’s both the most obnoxious and the cutest thing ever.

Also I read from another Tumblr post that apparently Mark canonically doesn’t care about the weight of his partner and I think that’s a 100% true. He’s super strong. Like RIDICULOUSLY strong so why would he care he could lift a car above his head.

He loves surprising you with things you want or need, and he is obsessed with you when you show interest in his comic books. I feel like he’d definitely give you a gag gift at some point which is like his face plastered on a T-shirt for you to wear. He’s like an energetic but slightly sassy lab. He’s so babygirl…

Oh! And when you two first start dating? HES SO NERVOUS. SWEATING BULLETS. He researched so hard for the perfect date and when it inevitably falls apart and you manage to come up with a solution he knows right then and there you are the one.

Mark is definitely not perfect by any means but you don’t care about that because no one is and he’s literally the cutest guy ever so why should you care

#🩷 ~ short fics || oddlylovingaddiction #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader

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c0wboylikeharry · 11 days ago

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BATHING SUIT SHOPPING (h.s)

(masterlist) || (taglist) || (requests)

harry styles x fem!reader

summary: after your luggage gets lost on vacation, harry agrees to take you out shopping to replace what was lost. but after you put on a little show, bathing suit shopping takes a different direction.

word count: 6.3k

cw: smut, dirty talk, penetration, oral, unprotected sex, spanking, exhibitionism

a/n: this is literally pure smut with a small backstory for context. enjoy!!

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

I’m going to strangle the person responsible for losing your luggage. The loss has threatened to ruin our vacation in Rome nearly five times—we’ve been here a total of 24 hours. They told us it’d take a few hours to locate the bag, and when they did, we found out it was heading to the US. Literally the furthest place it could’ve gone. But, hey, at least they tracked it down. Managing to get it back on a plane to us, you won’t have it until late this evening or tomorrow morning. But that just won’t do with you. Oh, no.

After your 5th breakdown, I had to come up with any kind of solution. Something to get you to take a breath and realize that this isn’t the end of the world. I’d already offered up the clothes off my back, but you grumpily refused. There was only one option left.

A shopping spree.

Only when those words left my lips did your whole attitude change. It’s not like you need to go out and buy a whole new wardrobe and makeup routine, your bag will be here soon, but you’ll take this opportunity to do just that. And my wallet is already cursing me out for it.

Walking down the small beach town, hand in hand, you’re practically skipping across the cobblestone. Shops litter the streets ranging from ice cream to jewelry and everything in between. I’m just glad you skipped right past that last designer store.

Wearing one of my old t-shirts and the sweatpants you wore on the flight yesterday, you look completely out of place. Adorable, yes, but also getting weird looks from locals dressed in their swimsuits and summer wear. You could care less, though, not even noticing their sideways glances as you drag me through the streets. And your careless nature is infectious, bringing a reluctant smile to my face when I’m supposed to be angry for agreeing to this.

Today was supposed to be a beach day, spent lounging on the sand and soaking up the warm sun. It wasn’t supposed to be spent wracking up credit card debt. I don’t even accept my fate until your skipping halts and you yank me into a store. It’s a small business with the smell of sand and sunscreen wafting in the air. With a mix of products in here, from tacky souvenirs to home decor pieces, I can’t seem to place why this is the store you chose. I mean, sure, there’s some clothes littered on sparse racks, but it’s not like the usual clothing stores we passed on the way. Doubting we’ll find anything of substance in here, you continue dragging me through the store until I’m proven wrong.

A wall full of bathing suits staring back at me. Men and womens, though bikinis are clearly favored here. So many different colors, patterns and sizes all thrown together in a dizzying mess. And you’ve already thrown yourself into the belly of the beast, scouring through the masses to find ones you like. In the matter of a minute, your hands are already full.

“Can you hold this for me, babe?” you ask at the same time as you drop the pile into my hands. And now my hands are full.

Searching through the bunch, I pull out what I assume to be is a string of floss. It’s thin enough to be just that. But, no, this is a bathing suit… Oh, Jesus.

“Sweetheart, you can’t be serious with some of these?” I speak up, dangling the dental floss bathing suit between my fingertips.

“What? It’s cute!”

You dutifully ignore my pained protests as you continue to toss more and more sets into my hands. Soon enough, I’ll be buried beneath them. Following you around like a puppy dog, finally—fucking finally—we leave the bathing suit section. But you only allow me to believe that we’re leaving for a fraction of a second. That hope is crushed when you steer us to the right—to the dressing rooms.

Great.

Now I’ll have to sit here for hours as you try on the mountain of stuff you picked out. This is definitely not how I wanted to spend our first 24 hours on vacation.

Plopping down on the uncomfortable wooden bench they have outside the curtained off rooms, I try to come to peace with my current situation. It’s hard. You seem quite pleased with yourself, though. Joyfully scooping up the hoard of things in my arms and walking your happy ass into the small room. I only allow the annoyed groan to leave my lips once the curtain closes behind you.

I pull out my phone to mindlessly scroll as I wait, hoping it’ll make the time go faster and help my brain forget about the back pain that’s sure to come. But I don’t get two scrolls in before the curtain is swinging open again.

Eyes glancing up, I immediately have to clear my throat at the sight. You’re standing there in nothing but one of the two piece bathing suits you picked out. It’s pink and white gingham with a tiny as hell top and scandalous matching micro shorts that leave absolutely nothing to imagination. You don’t even notice me staring with the way you’re too focused on adjusting the material in the far off mirror. If anything, it just gives me more time to lazily drag my eyes up your dangerously long legs, over the curve of your ass, and the swell of your beasts in that revealing top. Damn.

“What do you think?” You turn toward me, hands on your hips, clueless to my burning gaze from a few seconds ago.

“It’s nice,” I choke out, my eyes dropping down to thinly covered tits.

“You don’t think it’s too ‘cute’?” you ask that like it’s a bad thing.

“I don’t know what that even means, sweetheart. You look good, that’s all.”

You sigh like I’ve said the wrong thing and disappear back into the dressing room. Rolling my eyes at your attitude, I try to settle in on my uncomfortable seat as I listen to the sounds of rustling material from behind the curtain. Bouncing my leg seems to be the only thing that can keep me from going crazy out here. That is, until you drag open the makeshift door again.

This time, my groan stems from anything but annoyance. Now wearing a skimpy little bikini, littered with black and white polka dots, I’m surprised my jaw hasn’t dislocated and hit the floor. And when you turn—Jesus, when you turn—your whole, glorious ass is on display. It has me, literally, jumping out of my seat. Latching myself behind you, my hands grip your hips and use myself as a shield from anyone else seeing you like this.

“Jesus, baby, are you trying to kill me?” I practically growl the words, feeling your soft skin beneath my rough fingertips.

“Do you like this one?” you ask, acting innocent.

“Do I like it?” I pull away just just enough to land a good slap to one of your ass cheeks, watching the skin recoil. I physically have to swallow down a moan from the sight. Pulling you back against me, I squeeze the skin I just spanked. “I like it so much that I’m thinking about taking it off of you right now,” I drop my voice to a whisper so only you can hear.

“Harry!” you whine, digging your elbow into my ribs. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I!” I argue back. Grabbing your hips again, I align mine up against your ass, letting you feel just how much I truly do like this. “See?”

You scoff and pull away from my embrace. “You’re impossible.”

And then you just leave me hanging, sitting at half-mast in my pants, all alone in this shop while you change again. I sit back down and try to think of some not-so-sexy things to calm myself down. It’s uncomfortable enough sitting on this bench with no back support, but doing it half-hard is making it worse. Suddenly, I’m very eager to sit here and wait to see what you come out dressed in next. My knee still bounces, but for a whole different reason.

But you’re taking longer than usual. The sound of you changing has stopped, so I know you’re wearing a new suit, but you haven’t come out to show me. That almost angers me. I kind of liked this little fashion show we had going on. Well, more than liked it, clearly. Maybe that’s what’s keeping you closed up inside?

That just won’t do.

I stand up quickly, too on edge to care about how the bench skids against the floor from my abrupt movement. Making my way to the curtain you’re hiding behind, my heart speeds up as if it knows what lies behind it. As my hands slowly drag it open, I hold my breath, but it doesn’t last long. Expelling the hot air in one quick huff when I see you standing there.

Now this one has to be the best—or the worst, whatever way you’re looking at it. A tiny little thing, barely even there, showing off that body you know I fold for. Covered in scraps of leopard print like you know exactly what you’re doing. It’s torture even being just a few feet away.

“Are you trying to make me lose my mind?” I make my presence known, even though you probably already felt my eyes devouring you.

I’m quick to shut the curtain behind myself, blocking out anyone who dares to peek at you like this. Giving us some much needed privacy.

“Harry, what are you doing? I’m trying to change in here,” your voice sounds exasperated, like you’re tired of my antics. Like you’re not purposefully putting on this little show to rile me up.

I ignore your words and let my hands jet out to grip your waist, pulling you back against me. Just feeling your ass brush the front of my swim trunks has me hissing. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

My hands are frenzied against your skin, smoothing up and down your sides like they can’t get enough. And it’s true, I can’t. I never have been able to, and I still can’t today. You’re addicting.

I lean down toward your ear, watching you watch me through the dirty mirror.

“Now take it off,” I whisper, “slowly.”

“What? Harry, no—“

“Fine… You don’t want to listen?” I slide my hands up your ribcage, eyes locked on yours through the reflection. “I’ll do it for you then.”

In the blink of an eye, I’m cupping your breasts in my hands, feeling their weight in my palms like a reward. Squeezing, I feel you shiver against me, already giving into temptation. My eyes drift to watch my work, tweaking your pebbled nipples through the fabric of your bikini top. “God, your tits are fucking perfect,” I whisper my groan, not needing anyone else to hear what’s happening.

I grope and tease you some more before slowly pulling the top down, the fact that it’s strapless makes it easier. Your breasts come spilling out of the material like they’ve been eager to be free. I can feel your breathing turn shallow when my hands reach for your bare skin, and a shaky sigh leaves your lips when I squeeze your breasts possessively. I have you just where I want you.

My mouth finds your neck, pressing slow and sensual kisses to the skin. Licking and nipping as I continue to tease your nipples, marking you in every way as mine. One hand leaves your breasts, trailing down your body tantalizingly slowly. You’re practically panting now, right beside my ear. It only spurs me on. Reaching down between your legs, I cup your pussy, feeling the heat and wetness through the material.

“Looks like you have to get this one, sweetheart. You’ve made a mess in it already,” I tease, growling into your ear before taking your lobe into my mouth.

Your hips buck against my hand as a desperate whimper leaves your lips—the sound goes straight to my cock. I mimic your movements, thrusting my hips up against your ass, unable to stop the groan from leaving my lips. Leaving the warmth of your clothed center, and the weight of your breasts, I grip your hips in my hands again. Slamming you back against my front a few times, I watch in a daze, but I can’t get lost in it just yet. Instead, I push on your lower back, forcing you to bend at the hip and reach out to stabilize yourself with the glass. Just the sight of you bent like this, ready for me to do whatever I want with your body, could have me finishing in seconds. But for now, I sink to my knees behind you, holding your gaze through the mirror.

With a perfect view of your ass and covered cunt, right in my face, I’m a happy man. Leaning forward, I place two gentle kisses to each of your ass cheeks and then a few to the insides of your spread legs. All open and ready for me. Working my way up, my nose nudges your cunt, making you gasp and me smile. Your back arches, pushing yourself further toward my face, and my smirk deepens.

In one swift motion, my tongue darts out and licks a strip over your covered folds, front to back. Your unrestrained whine has me pulling back.

“You’ve gotta stay quiet for me, baby,” I warn, hands sliding up and down your calves.

I watch you through the reflection, nodding eagerly to my request as your hips move in a way that begs for more. Who am I to deny you?

I settle back in between your legs, reaching for the scrap of material you call a bathing suit, and pulling it to the side to expose you to the cool air. Forcefully biting back a groan, I focus in on your dripping folds, like they’re the bright light calling me home. With my free hand, I pull your lips apart, and I blow a cold breath against your throbbing cunt. Watching your entrance clench around nothing nearly sends me to an early grave.

I bring my mouth forward, my flat tongue swiping over your slit with no warning. You gasp against the mirror, and I have no doubt those dangerous lips of yours are now pressed up against the glass. Moaning again when I take another taste into my greedy mouth. A high pitched, needy little mewl that has all the blood in my body rushing south. Shivers wrack through your body when I circle my tongue around your clit, feeling it throb. My lips wrap around the bud and suck, just how you like it. Working you with a death grip on your hips to keep you stable.

The taste of you on my tongue has me feeling a lot less patient than I intended to be. I’m not sure how much more teasing I can give before I lose total control. My grip tightens as I pull you down closer onto my face, nose burying into your cunt as I lap and suck on your clit. I’m trying to get as close as possible, but nothing ever is with you. I’m not satisfied with just a little taste, I need more. More of you. I want everything. Having been craving you since we walked into this godforsaken store.

I pull back for a quick breath, muttering, “Fuck, you taste like a dream,” before diving back in for more.

My mouth is demanding against you, working your sensitive skin skillfully to make you feel nothing but pleasure. And with the way the mirror fogs up with your heated breath, I’d say I’m doing my job. I can feel the precum leaking from the tip of my cock in my shorts, making my own mess. But with your wet, little pussy pressed against my face, I have no plans to leave this spot anytime soon. Lips and tongue relentless as I eat you out the way you deserve.

Your legs are shaking in my firm hold, threatening to give out, but I keep you standing. Pushing my tongue deep into your folds, I circle your entrance with the tip of it, eliciting a harsh moan from you. I take no mercy, and your body is telling me you don’t want me to. But I also can’t have everyone knowing what’s going on in here.

Reluctantly, I pull back. “Baby, you know how much I love your sounds, but I’m not gonna let you come if you can’t stay quiet.”

You whine and whimper and everything in between to protest against the thought of me stopping. I reassure you by gently licking at your core just once. It has you shakily replying, “I-I’ll be quiet… I promise.”

“Good girl.”

And then I’m back to it. Sinking my tongue into your entrance with no warning, I lap up anything and everything you can give me. You keep your promise of staying quiet, biting down on your bottom lip with enough force to cause damage. Fucking you with my tongue has your hips writhing in pleasure, grinding against my face as you seek your release. “You’re a mess, baby,” the vibrations of my voice against your pussy have you jolting in pleasure. “Soaking wet and all spread out for me…”

I feel your thighs twitch and tense under my grasp, every muscle tightening up. Slowing my pace, I focus on the most sensitive parts of you. Swirling your clit and sinking into your entrance.

“That’s it,” I murmur, knowing you're holding yourself back. “You can let go, baby… Come all over my face like a good girl.”

My lips are back around your bud, sucking and teasing as my hands push your legs further apart. I flatten my tongue against you again and allow you to fuck my face how you want. Grinding your whole pussy along my nose, mouth and chin. Covered in your juices, the corners of my lips twitch upwards as you coat me. This is my happy place. Your hips move faster and sloppier, desperately gripping onto the flat glass with your hands to give you some leverage. Something to hold onto when your release crashes into you. I stay unmoving, letting you use me, other than the occasional flicks of my tongue. I can’t help myself.

Quiet cries leave your lips, too quiet to hear from outside, but loud enough for me to revel in. Soaking them up, my hands grip your thighs tighter, pressing my face as close as I can to your cunt. You’re so close, I can feel it. Teetering on the edge of madness, I do the one thing I know will send you toppling over.

Blindly reaching up, my hand smacks your ass with as much force as I can. Your hips jolt forward as a pained whine escapes you. So I do it again. Spanking the sensitive skin and then soothing the redness away. Over and over again until I feel your muscles contract, and your hips still. A muffled moan breaks free from your throat as you come undone. Moving again, I lap up all that you give me, tasting your cum on my tongue like a delicacy. My cock is straining to be buried deep inside of you.

I actually can’t take it.

I stand up abruptly, leaving you shaking and spasming, still obediently bent over. Not for long. Grabbing your hips, I force you up straight again and slam you against the too-thin wall next to the mirror. Facing each other now, I finally get a good view of your flushed face, still painted with your pleasure. Dazed eyes, blotchy cheeks, and swollen lips from biting them so damn hard.

I’d like to bite them too, I think.

So, I do.

Leaning in without any warning, I capture your lips in mine, letting you taste the remnants of your release on my tongue as I thrust it into your mouth. Swallowing up your moans, I bite down on the lip I promised myself I would. Soothing the sting with a graze of my tongue, my hands glide up and down your body without restraint. I can feel your pebbled nipples pressed against me, begging for some attention. Before I give in to them, I reach behind my head to whip off my ratty t-shirt, tossing it in the heap of clothes in the corner of the room. Chests pressed together, silky skin pressed against my own, and an exchange of heated breaths between our open mouths.

“You’re fucking perfect.” The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them, not that I would, it’s the truth. Cemented as I peer down at your breasts squished against my chest from our closeness. “One day, I’m gonna come all over your tits,” I voice my thoughts, making a shaky breath leave your lips. “But today I’m gonna do it in that sweet, little pussy of yours.”

You shiver and I smirk, reaching down to grab one of your thighs and hitch it over my hips, pressing my bulge against you. Your tiny little bikini has since taken back its residence covering your core, and the two layers of material are killing me. Not enough, though, to stop myself from rocking against you. I can’t get enough of how good you feel.

Feeling your arms wrapping around my neck, I push myself impossibly closer, grinding my clothed cock against your clothed slit. Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging on the strands to summon a groan from my lips. I need more and more.

Burying my face in your neck, my teeth graze the curve, scraping over your skin, as my hips grow desperate. I’m panting into your neck at this point, pathetically. Trying to get any and all friction against my aching length, my hips move faster, pressing you harder into the wall behind you. One hand on your thigh to keep you spread open for me, and one creeping up your torso to grip onto your breast like my life depends on it.

“You drive me crazy,” I mutter against your skin, gently licking a patch I know makes you feel the same. “Gonna make me come in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

Resting my forehead against your shoulder, I stare down at where our hips are making contact. Watching my bulge rub up and down your center, spotting the wet spot you're leaving on the front of my trunks; the hot sight has a shiver running down my spine. It’s so much, I have to grip your thigh a little tighter to keep my head on straight.

I need you. Need you on me. Need you around me. I need you in all the ways you could possibly give me. I’m not lying when I say you make me crazy.

“Harry,” you whine, bringing me back to the present. Only then do I notice how fast my hips have been grinding against yours and all the small moans that have been leaving my lips.

I lift my head from your neck to press my forehead against yours. “God, I love it when you say my name like that.” All you can do is whine in response. “Yeah? You need me that bad? Need me to fill you up, baby?”

“P-please,” you cry, tugging on my hair harder, until my resolve begins to show its cracks.

“Oh, baby, I’m gonna fill you up so good. Gonna stretch you around my cock.” I’m working myself up more and more with my own words, slamming my clothed length against your heat. I’m surprised the wall behind your head hasn’t given away.

But the minute one of your hands leaves my hair to travel down my neck and over my chest, I lose all patience.

Pulling back just enough to grab at the waistband of my trunks, I unsteadily push the material down. Finally, my cock springs free, fully hard and throbbing with its own heartbeat. I grip the base of myself, feeling the heavy weight begging to have something warm wrapped around it. And I know just the thing.

As I pump myself, I use my free hand to slowly drag your bikini bottoms down your hips and thighs. Picking up speed as your cunt comes into view, I groan as I stroke myself, getting sucked into the sensation. My cock twitches in my hands, like it knows your pussy is near, begging me to speed up the process. Luckily, you help me by shimmying the bottoms down the rest of your legs and kicking them off to the side.

I grab your thigh again and hold it up against my hip, feeling the heat of your center aching for me. My hand never stills on my length, especially not at the sight of your glistening folds pleading to envelop me.

Gently, I drag my tip through those folds, spreading my precum and letting it mix with your mess. You moan unabashedly, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

“You feel that?” I say, keeping my body pressed up against yours. “Feel what you do to me?”

You nod, a whiney sound deep in your throat as you clench around nothing. I drop my forehead back against yours as I drag my tip up to your clit, feeling your sensitive jolt. I can’t help myself but to tease you, circling the bud with feather-like pressure.

You pull me closer, looping an arm around my neck and bringing me down for a heated kiss. “Please,” you beg against my mouth.

The pleading, desperate tone of voice has my hips thrusting up through your drenched folds, making us both gasp a moan. It shudders me, making me lose grip of myself and force me to hold onto the wall to keep myself up. You claw at my back, needy for more. So I don’t waste any time.

Reaching down between us, I grab my length again, wrapping my hand around it tighter. I moan low and loud against your open mouth, guiding my head toward your entrance. I’m shaking from how much I’m aching and holding back. My other hand slides up your chest, leaving its vice grip on your breast, and grabs your jaw instead, pinning your attention on me.

“You’re all mine, aren’t you?” I watch as every emotion passes through your eyes. Pleasure, lust, and adoration all swirled into one.

“Y-yes, baby,” you shakily reply, nodding against my restraint.

“Are you dripping for me? Aching?” I murmur, eyes dark and half-lidded as I stare back at you. Your chest rises and falls, brushing against mine, with every unsteady breath you take. You’re wrecked before I’m even inside of you.

“Always,” your voice is more confident this time. It has a wicked smirk growing on my lips.

I squeeze your jaw just a fraction tighter. “Such a good, good girl for me.”

The hand that’s on your thigh threatens to leave marks from its grip as I finally press my tip against your entrance, just barely pushing in. I watch as your eyes flutter shut as I feed my cock into you slowly, inch by inch. Gasping when you feel the first stretch, your pussy squeezes me the second I get just the head in. I curse under my breath, trying to keep myself from coming too fast.

“Sweetheart… You’re so tight,” I grit out between clenched teeth, holding myself back from just snapping my hips and burying myself deep inside of you.

Before you can get used to it, I’m pushing in again. My mind goes blank as I feel your walls milking and clenching around me. I trust you’ll keep your leg in place as I let go and move to press my thumb against your clit, hoping it’ll open you up enough for me to reach the hilt. You cry out and on the next flutter of your cunt, I’m sinking fully in. “Jesus,” I hiss.

I slowly pull my hips back, dragging out of you at a pace that has you squirming. It doesn’t last long. Not when my hips rapidly snap back against yours, making you jump and gasp. I do it again. And again and again and again until your gasps and whines are all that I hear. I drop my forehead to your shoulder again to get a better listen, feeling my deep moans rattle against your skin. It all grows when I feel your hips start to grind to meet my thrusts.

“Need…more,” you gasp, trying to get my hips to speed up. Your hands pull at me needily, doing anything you can to get me to comply.

I ignore your request, keeping the slow, languid pace instead. “No,” I say, fingers digging into your skin. “You take what I give you.”

But, despite my words, I do find myself moving faster. I can feel my pleasure building, feeling myself slipping into the daze, but I’m far from finished with you.

So, I pull out, just for a second. Doesn’t mean you aren’t crying out in protest, though. But I make quick work in scooping you up, forcing your legs to wrap around my hips and holding my hands under your ass to support you. I even give it a nice squeeze, so you should drop the pout.

I let go with one hand, easily holding you up with just the other, and reach between us. Grabbing my length again, I waste no time in lining it up with your entrance and sinking in deep. It’s a whole new angle, letting me hit deeper than before. Which means your cries of pleasure intensify.

Oh, we’re definitely getting caught in here. Might as well make the most of it while we can.

With you wrapped around my cock, I grab onto your hips again and hold you against me in the air, no more wall to support you. I take control of your movements, guiding you to pull off my dick and then take me back in. I do it slowly first, letting you get used to the movements led by my hands. Your whimpers tell me I’m doing good.

Losing control, I guide your hips faster and meet you with my own thrusts, slapping our hips together and definitely making our presence known. Your tits fly around right in front of my face, bouncing from the force of our movements. I can’t help myself from leaning forward to take one of your nipples into my mouth. Swirling the bud with my tongue, my eyes stare up at you to gauge your reaction. Your eyes pressed shut, brows knit together, jaw dropped with soft moaning breaths leaving your lips; I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

And I’m not sure how, but my feet find the purchase to move as I continue fucking you against me. Moving us around the small room until I’m facing away from the mirror and standing in front of a small seat.

A devilish and delicious plan forms in my head.

Pulling out, you whine and try to find friction against my abdomen. No words need to be shared to show my refusal, only actions talk as I unwrap your legs from my body and set you down on shaky limbs. With my hands on your hips, I flip you around, your back to my front again. And like deja-vu, I’m pressing your back down until you arch and take the hint to hold onto the stool in front of you.

Your ass is pressed up against my groin, wriggling around seeking attention and pleasure. I scold you with a fast smack against the needy skin, but it only spurs you on. Gripping both cheeks in my hands, I spread them apart, giving me the perfect view of the most intimate part of your body. I can’t help but to grind myself against you again, giving us what we both need.

“Are you gonna be good for me, baby?” I speak up, my eyes glued to your perfect skin as I smooth my hands up your back. Pressing you further down until you’re arched into perfect form. “Gonna stay nice and quiet?”

“Y-yes… Yes, baby,” you shakily reply, whole body shivering when I line myself up with you again.

I know how this position has you, so I doubt your promise. “We’ll see about that.”

With a bruising grip on your hips, I slam my whole cock into you in one fell swoop. And just as I predicted, you scream out. But I can’t find it in me to care. Not if anyone hears, or walks in, or—hell—if they call the cops. Being buried deep inside your wet, hot cunt makes every worry disappear.

“Fuck!” I groan. “You’re clenching me so hard, baby. So fucking tight.” I keep up a brutal pace, leaving my hips slapping against your ass.

Your ass that wiggles and grinds to meet my thrusts, desperate for anything I give you. My grip somehow tightens, guaranteeing fingerprints on your skin for weeks. It’s an effort to hold back and not just explode into you, release every bit of cum I know you’re desperate for, but I do. Though watching my cock disappear into your pink pussy probably won’t help my case.

Looking away, I catch sight of our position in the mirror, seeing your shaky legs and blissed out face. Not a good idea to look here either, but I can’t hear my gaze away.

“Look at yourself,” I demand, slowly my hips until I see your eyes in the glass, seeing what I’m seeing. “Look at the way I sink into your tight fucking cunt.”

My hips emphasize my words, picking back up where I left off so you can watch too. I’m entranced by the sight, like watching my own personal porno. It’s the best damn one I’ve ever seen. Eyes flicking to your face, I watch your jaw drop as you lock onto the contact of my disappearing length, watching me rock and slam into you.

“Oh my god,” you breathe the words, eyes glazing over and threatening to roll back.

So I smack you ass to keep you alert. Back arching from the painful pleasure, I sink deeper into your heat. Pants leave my lips as I force myself to tear my gaze away, staring at the wall ahead of me and trying to get my head on straight again. It’s impossible, though. With the way your pussy clenches around my cock, I know I won’t survive much longer.

“Shit, baby, you’re killing me,” I hiss out, succumbing to watching our hips connect again. “Feel me stretching you out?” You moan. “You’re taking me so well. Taking my big cock deep inside.”

“I-I’m gonna come!” You yell, far too loudly for my liking. It has me leaning over your body and clamping my hand over your mouth to keep you silent. But it also changes the angle once again, leaving me to repeatedly hit up against that spongy spot inside of you. You scream into my hand, hips meeting mine with a greedy desperation.

I’m losing myself here, leaning my forehead against your back as I try to keep myself from coming. At least until you do. Reaching between us and grabbing at your bouncing tits might not have been the best idea for that. A strangled groan leaves my lips as I struggle to keep my hips at an even rhythm. Groping and squeezing at your supple flesh, your hot breath hits my hand almost erotically.

And with one pinch of your nipple, you’re a goner.

I feel your back arch up against mine, straining your muscles as you come—hard. My hand isn’t enough to silence your screams, a mix of curses and my name tumbling from your lips as you’re overcome with pleasure. I feel it around me, pulsing and sucking and getting impossibly wetter as I continue to drive into you. It forces me to let out my own stream of curses against the skin of your back, my eyes pinched shut with immense pressure.

“Fuck, baby… So good. So fucking good coming on my cock like that—shit! I’m gonna fucking come. You’re so tight, trying to milk me, baby. Fuck!” the words tumble out of me without a second thought, slipping under the wave of pleasure.

You're still spasming around me as I pull out just before I come, and my whole body screams in protest. You whine from the abrupt loss, but with a clearer head, you’d be thanking me.

Taking my cock in my hand, I stroke myself to the same rhythm I was just fucking you with. Keeping my eyes trained on your cum dripping cunt, I pretend I’m still buried to the hilt. Streams of moans and grunts escape me as I watch your legs threaten to buckle and your juices drip down the apex of your thighs.

I did that, I think, I wrecked you.

That thought and this sight is what sends me over the edge, gasping out as I feel my muscles tighten. Transfixed by the sight of my hot, white, beaded cum shooting out of my tip and landing on your lower back and ass. I swear I could come again and again over that alone. Watching my mess drip down your body and paint your back like a masterpiece.

Fuck.

I take back what I said before.

I’d like to thank whoever is responsible for losing your suitcase, because without them, this wouldn't have just happened.

𖦹

taglist: @tpwkmr @alex-voiddome @butdaddyiloveh1m

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fanbasetwo · 7 months ago

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✦ WHEN YOU MATCH RIIZE’S FREAK — PT.01

001. PAIRING , riize ! maknae line × afab reader 002. GENRE , scenario, drabble work . . . NOTE FROM SENA , just a filler work since I don't want to stay inactive :( will post the hyung line version someday lol 🤎 MASTERLIST!!

HONG SEUNGHAN . . . ✦

The cashier’s question hung in the air, dripping with innocence. “Is this for your baby?”

You glanced at your boyfriend, Seunghan, whose lips were twitching as he fought back a laugh. The overflowing basket in front of you didn’t help—chocolate bars, plush toys, and Lego sets practically screamed wholesome parent vibes. Seunghan gave an exaggerated nod, his expression far too serious for the situation. “Of course,” he said, his voice betraying the slightest quiver of amusement. Your jaw dropped. “You’re not helping!” you hissed, but he only grinned, entirely unbothered.

The truth? There was no baby. The weekend haul wasn’t for any hypothetical child but for two grown adults—specifically, you and Seunghan—who spent lazy afternoons building Lego houses and hoarding plush toys like the overgrown kids you secretly were.

At home, the living room looked like a toddler’s dreamland. Lego pieces were scattered across the carpet in chaotic piles. Seunghan was sprawled on his stomach, his brows furrowed in intense concentration as he assembled a construction truck. You sat cross-legged nearby, your fingers carefully snapping together brightly colored bricks. “Look at this!” you exclaimed, holding up a newly completed Lego house. Its tiny windows and mismatched roof were pure perfection—or so you thought. Clapping in excitement, you beamed. “This one’s gold!”

Seunghan rolled his eyes, shooting you a half-hearted glance before returning to his truck. “Gold? More like beginner level,” he teased, smirking as he expertly clicked two more pieces into place. “Rude,” you pouted, nudging him with your foot. “If someone saw us like this, they’d probably think we’re insane. Adults playing with kids’ toys?” He didn’t even look up, his focus unshaken. “Let them think whatever they want,” he replied smoothly. Then he added, without missing a beat, “But we’re together, right? That’s what matters. Who cares if we’re a little weird?”

You paused, his words sinking in. A warm smile spread across your face as you set down the Lego house. He was right—being “freaky” or unconventional didn’t matter when it was with him.

LEE SOHEE . . . ✦

Living together had turned into a whirlwind of unpacking, decorating, and adjusting for you and Sohee. Between all the chaos, there was one thing you’d managed to avoid—shaving. It wasn’t intentional at first, but the moment razor bumps made their unwelcome appearance the last time you tried, you vowed to steer clear. The solution? Long pants and full-sleeved pajamas, even in the heat of summer.

It worked—until it didn’t.

One evening, as you lounged at home, Sohee’s sharp eyes finally caught on. His gaze lingered on your covered legs, his expression unreadable. “You’ve been avoiding something,” he stated matter-of-factly. Caught off guard, you hesitated. “What do you mean?” he didn’t answer right away, just leaned forward and tugged lightly at the hem of your pants. “Why are you hiding your legs?”

Flustered, you looked away, mumbling, “I messed up last time I shaved, okay? Razor bumps are no joke.”

His brows raised slightly, and then—to your surprise—he chuckled. Not the mocking kind of laugh, but one filled with warmth. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Before you could respond, he disappeared into the bathroom and returned with your razor, a small towel, and shaving cream. “Sit,” he instructed, pointing to the couch. “What? Why?” “I’m doing it for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Reluctantly, you pulled on a pair of shorts and sat down, watching him with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. He knelt in front of you, focused as he lathered the cream onto your leg.

“You have to shave in the direction of hair growth,” he explained, his tone almost professional as he carefully ran the razor along your skin. “That way, you avoid razor bumps.” You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You sound like a tutorial video.” He smirked without looking up. “And you’re a terrible student if you didn’t know this already.”

His touch was gentle but precise, his attention entirely on the task. The awkwardness you feared never came. Instead, there was comfort—a kind of intimacy you hadn’t expected. When he finished, he leaned back, inspecting his work. “There. Smooth as silk. Now you can stop hiding from me.” you blinked down at your leg, then back at him. “You’re not even a little grossed out?”

He scoffed, standing up. “Why would I be? You’re mine, freaky shaving habits and all.”

You grinned, your chest warm. If this wasn’t love, you didn’t know what was.

LEE ANTON . . . ✦

The room was quiet except for the faint sound of a movie playing on your phone screen. You pointed at the screen, where two actors were locked in a dramatic kiss, a cube of chocolate passed between their mouths. “Hmm, you think that’s dirty?” you asked, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you glanced at him. He didn’t answer right away, his eyes lingering on the screen before shifting to meet yours. “Don’t know unless I try,” he said. His voice wasn’t teasing, though—it held a certain seriousness that sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could retort, he grabbed a cube of chocolate from the table and slipped it into his mouth. You blinked, taken aback, but before you could fully process his intentions, he leaned in. His lips met yours, soft and warm, tasting faintly of the rich chocolate he was intent on sharing. The sweetness melted further between your mouths as his tongue pushed the piece into yours, teasing and deliberate. The sensation of the chocolate melting, mixing with the heat of the kiss, was intoxicating. Your hands instinctively flew to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as the moment deepened, every sense heightened.

The chocolate dissolved into a mix of flavors and warmth, making the kiss feel lighter yet more overwhelming. The world outside disappeared as you leaned further into him, his firm grip on your waist grounding you in the dizzying moment.

When the kiss finally broke, you both gasped for air, your foreheads resting against each other’s. Anton’s lips were smeared with chocolate, as were yours, but neither of you made a move to clean it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, a crooked, chocolatey grin spreading across his face. “It’s not dirty,” he declared with the utmost confidence, his voice low and steady, as if his conclusion were a scientific fact.

You stared at him, half-stunned and half-impressed, your lips tingling from the kiss. “You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, a laugh bubbling up from your chest. He grabbed the remote and paused the video, turning to you with a playful glint in his eye. “Unbelievably good, you mean.” That was the moment you realized something undeniable: your boyfriend didn’t just match your freak—he might actually surpass it.

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fightingthetoxicallegations · 4 months ago

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OPEN STARTER:

"I bet you don't feel lighter." No, I don't feel lighter.

TW: Derealization, minor(?) injury

Theo's been dealing with some things lately, but he just can't think of any solution to any of his problems. He feels bad for it, for not being able to help, no matter how much he tries. Now that he's seen the state Argo was in when he left him in that cell, he feels... horrible as ever.

He had to shadow travel away, he couldn't stay with his brother any further. It was clear Argo didn't want him there, and he would respect his brother's wishes... most of the time. Once he made sure Argo was back in control and relatively safe — or at least knew he'd claim to be safe — he left.

Though, something happened when he was in that cell. The Death Mist surrounded him at one point, and refused to leave him since. He did manage to briefly rid his hands from it, but it was only temporary and he's not sure he can bounce back from this as easily as he though he could back when it all started. It's cold. Really, really cold.

You find him in the forest again, standing in the shadow of a tree. Though, it's... not really him. It's more so a cloud of mist, or at least it looks to be that. A cloud of mist in a vaguely humanoid shape, with... some unnatural coloration to it. Almost like human skin. What could convince some that it really is Theo are the greenish-red blobs visible on the cloud's form. Around where a human chest would be, and the most of them are around where the heart would be.

Taglist (ask to be added or deleted!!!): @the-great-emperor-commodus @another-argo @literally-tinker-bell @roryandthethorns @dad-left-for-the-milk @reyno-solis-real @reluctant-son-of-time @judas-of-eris @notaeoluschild @tearslikeacid

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mxauthor · 1 year ago

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Magic Hands

Summary: Chilchuck is having trouble sleeping, Y/n's magic touch just might be the answer.

Word Count: 1,531

Warnings: fluff

Y/n was a touchy person.

The party was well aware of this statement. Especially since they have been on the receiving end of their affection. Y/n never took it too far, always being mindful of everyone’s boundaries and their comfortability at all times.

Marcille loved Y/n’s hugs and headpats, the (race) was always warm and gentle, squeezing just the right amount to where she felt safe. Laios found their playful fighting or their lighthearted shaking endearing. The tall-man was rambunctious at heart, so having someone to ‘play’ with allowed him to be serious at times of need. Senshi appreciated their pats on the back. It was their way of saying ‘thank you’, something he appreciated since he also wasn’t great with words or expressing himself.

So it was no surprise that when the moment came and Chilchuck had started to become open with the party little by little, Y/n took a small chance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was ‘late’ into the night. Laios had suggested that they camp for the night seeing as they had just reached the 6th floor of the dungeon. They set up camp and Senshi began dinner.

The party conversed lightly, talking of plans within the dungeon or things that needed to be gathered. Y/n and Marcille chatted with each other, Marcille talking about a book she read a while ago, while Y/n softly combed out her hair.

They listened intently, making sure to ask questions to show the elven woman that they were paying attention. Senshi called them over, having finished dinner. The party had gathered around the fire with their food and began eating. The group ate in relative silence, a small comment here and there but silence nonetheless.

Y/n and Chilchuck assisted Senshi with the dishes of the night, as Y/n was drying a bowl they lightly nudged the half-foot getting his attention.

“You doing alright? You seem a little more tired than usual.” Y/n asked. They’ve begun to notice a slight lag in his step, not enough to cause him to misstep while disarming traps, but enough that his normal walking pace was a lot slower.

“Yeah, just haven’t been getting enough sleep.” Chilchuck quietly shared. Sharing his feelings and struggles was still new, especially since it was something as simple as sleeping.

Y/n hummed in acknowledgement, trying to find a reason for his current dilemma, “Is it nightmares?”

“No, I’ve already checked.” His voice was filled with defeat. Every night he looked within his pillow for the small monsters. He even ‘borrowed’ Laios’ monster book to see if there was another type that caused sleepless nights. “I even tried to look for another monster to see if they caused the same thing, but nothing.”

The (hair color) could tell that he was exhausted. It wouldn’t take long until the rest of the party noticed and when they caught on, all they would do is try to pressure Chilchuck into telling them everything that was going on, or try and take over work which would frustrate the half-foot more than him not getting enough sleep.

Y/n knew that he liked his privacy and that he liked to be able to carry his own weight, not relying on anyone to do it for him. They hummed in understanding, before offering a small solution, “I could try and make a tea for you. I’m sure I have something that causes sleepiness.”

Chilchuck turned his head towards Y/n, “there’s no need for you to do that. I’ll manage.”

Y/n tried to counter his statement, but they’ve both finished the dishes and Laios called them over to draw straws for night watch. Chilchuck dismissed himself, walking right over towards Laios and the rest of the forming group.

Y/n watched in defeat before following behind. The group all grabbed their stick before pulling them. Each stick had a number, which decided the order.

Y/n had gotten first watch. Followed by Marcille, Senshi, Laios, and Chilchuck. They watched as the tired man’s shoulders slumped in relief. The rest of the group began to set up for the night, with Y/n getting comfortable for watch.

Marcille set up to their right, while Chilchuck claimed their left. Senshi and Laios closed the small gap, and a light fire was set in the middle for warmth. It didn’t take long for most of the party to fall asleep. The elven woman made sure that Y/n knew she was next.

With amusement, the (race) lightly patted her head and wished her a goodnight, disspelling her worries about making sure they followed the order of the lots.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour passed when Y/n began to hear the ruffling of covers next to them. They glanced over to see Chilchuck slightly tossing and turning within his bedroll. Trying to get comfortable again.

Y/n watched as he rolled over a few more times, before setting their journal down. They had a feeling they should’ve made the drink anyway. Slightly moving closer, Y/n would see the frowned brows of the locksmith. They lightly pressed onto his pillow to see if a nightmare had crawled in during the watch, but it was completely soft.

The (hair color) quietly huffed to themselves, but an idea struck.

This wasn’t the first time Y/n’s dealt with a sleepless night, especially when it was someone else. Before, when Marcille had become restless, Y/n would lightly run their fingers through her hair, lightly scratching her scalp in the process.

The elf would always fall asleep immediately, almost like Y/n had pushed the insomnia away with their touch.

Hesitantly, Y/n reached out to Chilchuck’s hair, they knew he wasn’t the most open to physical touch and the last thing Y/n wanted was to make him uncomfortable. Before their hand connected, the (race) whispered lightly, trying to not disturbed the others, “I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable by doing this.”

Even though Chilchuck tried to grasp onto the little remnants of sleep, his senses began to wake slowly. His hearing always being the first one. He had heard the ruffling next to him, knowing that Y/n was most likely still on watch, then it went quite their steady breathing being the only thing he could hear.

Then, their apology. He was confused about what they meant, but the feeling of fingers pushing back his hair and nails lightly scratching his scalp had answered him loud and clear.

Y/n’s touch was soft and delicate. They made sure not to press too hard or scratch too deep, making it soothing enough that it was like a massage. Chilchuck had half a mind to push them away, but his forced closed eyes became heavy. His body was relaxing, and his mind was calming down. He sagged deeper into his bedroll, having to actually fight the sleep to continue feeling the heavenly sensation.

With the last of his consciousness, Chilchuck murmured out his thanks before falling asleep deeply.

Y/n watched as his furrowed brows softened and his breathing evened out. They heard a light murmur of words, “feels nice.”

Y/n continued to scratch his scalp, wanting to make sure he’d be in a deeper sleep before they removed their hand. Their movement almost hypnotizing, making sleep pull at their own mind, coaxing them into its warm grasp. Blinking the sleep away, Y/n slowed their movements until they came to a full stop. They then pulled their hand away, seeing as Chilchuck’s breathing became deep and constant.

The (race) shifted back towards their own bedroll, they were going to continue with their journal, listing down all the findings within the dungeon. But an imaginary pull had coaxed them into moving their bedroll closer towards the half-foot. It took little back and forth between themselves, before lightly pulling it over.

It didn’t make a drastic change, it was just enough that if Chilchuck needed another round of coaxing, they were close enough to reach over. With a small satisfied smile, Y/n continued working, happy that they were able to assist with Chilchuck's dilemma after all.

Bonus:

After the switch over, it took Marcille a little over an hour before she noticed the two of them. She thought Y/n’s bedroll was a little farther than when she fell asleep, but now it made more sense.

Once her eyes had cleared enough and her mind was fully awake, she saw how Y/n’s hand was perched within Chilchuck’s hair, and how his own hand was laying within the crook of their elbow, almost like he was trying to keep them from pulling away. If she looked closer, Marcille could see the look of content within Chilchuck’s features, almost like a missing piece was put into place just perfectly.

It took everything within her to not squeal in delight. From the beginning, Marcille believed that Y/n and Chilchuck would be a perfect match. Maybe it was all her romance novels, but his grumpy nature and their soft personality had her swooning with the idea.

Marcille watched on, only thinking one thing, ‘I wish I could draw.’

#chilchuck x reader #chilchuck tims x reader #chilchuck x gn reader #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #chilchuck tims #gn reader #gn y/n #reader #x reader #dunmeshi x reader #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon x reader #chilchuck imagines #delicious in dungeon imagines #mx works

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rubycruzin4abruzin · 1 year ago

Text

we can’t be friends

Summary: Hazel, who has a giant crush on you, gets paired with you for a class project. She’s convinced you could never like her back because she thinks you’re straight, what happens when she’s proven wrong?

Pairing: Hazel Callahan x Fem!reader

Contains: mature language and content, hurt/comfort, smut, fingering (both receiving), oral, scissoring kinda, floor sex, loser!hazel, dom!hazel, fem!reader, sub!reader, 18+, MDNI

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: (loosely) based off the song We Can’t Be Friends by Ariana Grande, and requested by anonymous. Requests are still open for Hazel Callahan and Kit Tanthalos! Enjoy!

———

Hazel stared at you from across the classroom, a deep longing in her eyes. Mr. G was rambling something about 9/11 and how it somehow pertained to his divorce but she wasn’t absorbing a word of his lecture. All her attention was focused on you.

PJ noticed Hazel’s obvious sense of distraction and rolled her eyes. “It’s never gonna happen, Hazel.”

Hazel’s face fell slightly as she looked down at her lap. “You don’t know that…” she mumbled.

“I do, actually. My gaydar is perfect, and she…” PJ motioned her head towards you. “…is not.”

Hazel's head shot straight up to look at PJ. “Weren’t you the one who thought Brittany was gay?”

PJ scoffed. “Ok? So my gaydar had a malfunction. It’s fine now, and trust me. You do not occupy that pretty little head of hers.” She shot a pointed look at Hazel. “She doesn’t want you. She wants a boyfriend. With a penis.”

A sad puppy dog look covered Hazel’s face as she turned back to look at you. You certainly did have a pretty little head, with long silky hair falling over your shoulders, perfectly framing your face. Maybe it was because Hazel had little to no experience with makeup, but she always thought yours was flawless, with your eyeshadow consistently color coordinated with your outfits. Today it was hot pink to match your miniskirt and pink pumps, paired with fishnets and a black tank top with writing on it that Hazel couldn’t quite make out.

You took a break from taking notes to reach into your backpack and find your lipgloss, carefully reapplying a layer. A dopey smile formed on Hazel’s face as she watched the sparkly pink solution trace your lips, wondering how it would taste against her own. PJ rolled her eyes once again. “Get over it, Hazel.”

Before Hazel could even open her mouth to respond, the sound of Mr. G’s voice echoed across the room, turning everyone’s attention to the front. He was going on about some new partner project, Hazel could barely focus. She soon, however, perked up when he mentioned your name.

“You’re partnered with Hazel.” He finished.

Hazel’s heart leapt into her throat. She turned to look at you, and you met her gaze with a bright smile. She offered an awkward nod back, and quickly looked away.

Mr. G soon finished with the list of partners and the bell rang to signify the end of class. PJ walked out with Josie, who could be heard panicking over being partnered with Isabel. Hazel was packing up her stuff for her next class when she saw a figure out of the corner of her eye. She looked up to see you standing over her desk, a glossy grin spread across your face. “Hey Hazel.”

Hazel tried to swallow, but found her mouth was completely dry. She managed to squeak out a low “…hey.”

“Looks like we’re partners for this assignment. I wanted to ask if you maybe wanted to work on it after school? Today?” You brushed a lock of hair out of your face, making Hazel wish she could do it for you.

She licked her dry lips and nodded enthusiastically. “Sure.”

You pressed your phone into Hazel’s shaking hands and you both exchanged numbers before “bye’s” and “see you later’s.” Throughout the rest of the day, it was agreed over text that you would meet at your locker after school before heading to Hazel’s house to work on the project. You had originally suggested your place, but after Hazel mentioned her mom being out of town on business, you were all for meeting at her’s instead.

When the last bell rang, Hazel ran to the bathroom and spent fifteen minutes fussing over her hair, trying to get it to swoop just the right way. Unfortunately, PJ’s voice saying “she’s not gay, it’s never gonna happen” rang through her head. After deciding it just wasn’t worth it then, she gave up and dejectedly made her way over to your locker.

You were already there waiting for her, and seeing you lean against your locker in the empty hallway made Hazel’s heart flutter. You looked just as perfect as you had earlier today (except Hazel could’ve sworn you had pulled your black tank top just a little farther down). You noticed her approaching you, and flashed her a bright smile.

“Hey Hazel, ready to go?” You asked. Hazel nodded. “Sure.”

“Great! I’m excited to be paired with you. I’m sure after this project we’ll become great friends.” You lifted your hand to squeeze Hazel’s upper arm, but she couldn’t feel it over the pang in her chest. Your words swam around in her mind.

“Great friends…” she didn’t want to be your friend. She wanted to be more. She wanted to be the one to laugh with you, and hold you when you cried. She wanted to take you out on dates, and slow dance with you at prom. She wanted you to look up at her with your big doe eyes right before you kiss her, and wrap your arms around her shoulders to pull her closer while she savored the taste of your signature lip gloss. She wanted to touch you. God how she wanted to touch you…

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do any of that. Not if you were too busy making goo-goo eyes at some football player.

You wanted to be friends. Hazel wanted you… but more than anything she wanted you in her life. If being friends was the only way to do that, then so be it.

—————

The drive to Hazel’s house was pretty much silent, minus a few attempts at small talk from you. Hazel made a few attempts to respond, but mainly kept her focus on the grip of her steering wheel and the road ahead.

Hazel turned into her driveway, and walked you through her front door, up the stairs, and into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She motioned for you to sit next to her on the floor, and got out her pencils and the project rubric. After about five minutes of complete silence, Hazel’s head shot up. “Snacks!”

You looked up from the rubric in confusion. “What?”

“Snacks! I forgot to offer you snacks when we came in. Shit, I’m sorry! I’m a terrible host.” Hazel panicked. You had to stifle a giggle under your hand. Somehow, Hazel was being so adorable right now.

“It’s ok, Hazel. I’m not hungry. I promise.” Hazel rubbed the back of her neck as a faint shade of red crept up on her cheeks.

“Sorry. You just…” Hazel trailed off. You cocked your head in question. “I… what?”

“You just… sometimes you make me nervous…” Hazel mumbled, staring down at her lap.

Your lips parted slightly in shock at her confession. “I make you nervous?”

“Look… just forget I said anything.” Hazel picked the project rubric back up. “So, do you have any idea what this project is supposed to be on? I wasn’t really paying attention…”

You pulled the rubric out of Hazel’s hands and tossed it to the side, forcing her to look at you. “I’m not gonna forget what you said. Hazel, how do I make you nervous?”

A defeated sigh left Hazel’s lips as she realized you weren’t going to give this up. She squeezed her eyes shut, choking out your name before her next words. “I’m sorry but… we can’t be friends.”

It took a moment for you to process Hazel’s words, but as soon as you did, your face crumpled out of hurt. You were trying not to cry, but you couldn’t decide if it was from hurt or confusion. “What do you mean?”

“We can’t be friends.” Hazel repeated, refusing to make eye contact with you. “Whenever I’m around you, my hands get all sweaty and my mouth gets dry, and I can barely get any words out because… I don’t know. You do this thing to me. I can’t focus in class because all I can think about is how pretty you are and what flavor your lip gloss is and…”

Hazel’s incessant rambling was interrupted by the feeling of something wet and sticky against her cheek. She blinked, trying to process what just happened.

You kissed her. On the cheek.

A faint blush crept onto her face as she lifted her hand to feel where your kiss still lingered. She finally met your gaze to see you staring back at her, a giddy smile covering your face.

“You kissed me.”

You brushed another lock out of your face and smiled down at your lap. “Yeah. I did.”

“But I’m not a boy.”

You shot your head up and gaped at her, bewildered. Did you hear her correctly?

“Huh? I know…” you trailed off as realization set into you. “You think I’m straight?”

“Well, yeah. You’re all like… feminine and stuff…” Hazel mumbled, clearly embarrassed.

A thick silence filled the room as you stared at her, wide eyed. Hazel held her breath and refused to look at you. She thought for sure she fucked up before she heard… laughter?

Hazel looked up to see you in absolute stitches from laughing so hard. On one hand, she was glad you didn’t seem mad at her, but on the other… she really had no idea what you were laughing at.

After a moment, you calmed down, and stuck out one of your wrists to show Hazel a pink, white, and orange threaded bracelet. “Trust me, I’m not straight. And this…” you gestured to your outfit. “…is called hyperfem, and it’s actually meant to deter the male population.”

Several thoughts swirled around Hazel’s mind. Some “fuck PJ” or “how did I not notice the bracelet?” But mostly, all she could think about was how you were sitting in front of her, out and proud, in an empty house, and beaming from ear to ear.

You giggled at Hazel’s astonished expression and looked down at your lap. “I was kind of wondering why you had never talked to me before. Guess I know now.”

Hazel gulped. “I’m sorry, I…”

Suddenly, you decided to cut her off by tossing all the papers between you to the side, and crawling over to her lap. You put one hand on her knee and brought your face as close to hers as you could without touching. Hazel’s breath hitched at this new position, and you hummed as your eyes dropped to her lips. “Now that you know I’m gay… what do you plan to do about it?”

It took a moment for your words to settle into Hazel’s mind, but as soon as they did, she brought her face forward and kissed you, melting instantly at your touch. Her stomach filled with butterflies as she shivered from the pure adrenaline. She couldn’t believe how soft your lips were, and the taste of your lipgloss felt absolutely intoxicating.

You pulled away suddenly, smirking as Hazel whined at the loss of your touch. “So… what flavor is my lip gloss?”

Hazel hummed in thought, running the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip. “Watermelon?”

“Bingo.”

A devilish grin spread across Hazel’s face before she grabbed your jaw and pulled you back in, forcing you to tuck your knee into her lap to keep balance. Her tongue danced against your bottom lip, begging for entrance. A small giggle escaped from the back of your throat as you parted your lips and let her deepen the kiss.

Hazel’s hand left your jaw and slowly made its way down to gently caress the thigh you still had perched in her lap. You felt your body shiver at this new sensation, causing Hazel to pull away and survey your reaction.

“Is this ok?” She asked in a low voice. You nodded, your half-lidded eyes clouded with lust. “Please.”

Hazel caught your lips in hers again, and gripped at your fishnet-clad thigh. You moaned at the feeling of her fingertips caressing your nearly-bare skin. You had no idea your thighs could be so sensitive, but here you were, falling apart at her literal fingertips.

By now you were mentally begging Hazel to push her hand up just a little higher, so you grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled her close until you were on your back and she was hovering over you. Her big blue eyes looked like pools you were dying to swim in as she peered down at you with a look of nothing but content.

You dragged your top teeth against your bottom lip and giggled. “Tell me again how pretty I am?”

Hazel smirked as she continued to rub her thumb along the inside of your thigh. “So pretty. Like a princess.”

Your body involuntarily shivered at this new nickname, and Hazel found it impossible not to notice. “Oh, you like that? Princess?”

A muffled moan vibrated against your puffy pink lips in response. Fuck, when did Hazel get so… dominant?

She ran her hand just under the edge of your tank top, looking up at you for approval. You nodded, and she got to work pulling it up and over your head, leaving your stomach exposed and your chest covered with nothing but a black lace bralette. Hazel gulped at the sight of you, her spontaneous dominance momentarily leaving her. She swore she had never seen anything this beautiful. She leaned down again to kiss you once, softly and sweetly, before slowly leaving a trail of kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, and down to the top of your breasts.

Hazel’s big blue eyes stared up at you as she ran her tongue across the top of one of your tits, gently testing the waters. You let out a gentle moan, purely from the eroticism of it all. You swore you could cum just from looking into Hazel’s fuck me eyes.

“Hazel,” you breathed out, sitting up slightly to lean on your elbows. “You can take it off.”

A nervous look clouded Hazel’s features for a brief moment before being replaced by one dark with desire. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

God, you could feel yourself get wetter every time she used that stupid nickname.

Getting your bra off wasn’t necessarily a fast and flawless task for Hazel, as she was used to the simplicity of sports bras rather than the confusing clasps of a bralette. Luckily, you both had a good sense of humor about it, which made the situation far less awkward. Eventually, Hazel opted to just pull it over your head like a t-shirt, tossing it over her shoulder immediately after.

Hazel never thought she’d see the day where she’d have the Popular Princess of Rockbridge High’s tits practically served to her on a silver platter, but here they were, exposed in all their glory, and hers for the taking. She took one of your nipples in her mouth, running her tongue along the erect bud as she used her hand to gently massage the other. It felt incredible, but as much as you loved watching Hazel Callahan play with your tits, there was another part of you that was much more desperate to be played with.

Your hips involuntarily bucked against Hazel’s stomach, forcing her to pull away and click her tongue disapprovingly. “So impatient. Never took you for a sub.”

“Never took you for a dom.” You fired back, surprisingly quickly considering how mushy your brain felt.

Hazel simply shrugged and flashed a wicked grin. “Guess you do something to me.”

She slipped one hand down to the waistband of your skirt and started to undo your belt buckle until it was loose enough for her to slide it down your legs. Her fingers danced along your now completely exposed fishnets while she plucked at the delicate little strings.

“Funny,” she started, gently pulling at the thin threads. “If you weren’t wearing anything under these, I would totally keep them on while I fucked you.”

Her blunt choice of words sent palpitations straight to your clit, forcing a shiver down the length of your entire body. She either didn’t notice or pretended not to because she just shrugged. “Too bad you are. Gotta take them off.”

In a way, you were grateful for the black panties you had worn under your fishnets. Watching Hazel undress you to any capacity was a bigger turn on than anything any porn site had to offer. You made a mental note to wear more clothes next time.

By now you were down to nothing but the aforementioned silky black panties. Hazel moved her hand back to your thigh, rubbing her thumb along the inside teasingly. She reached up and allowed her finger to gently brush over the tiny crease where your leg ended and your panties began, looking up at you for affirmation before continuing.

You sighed, rolling your bottom lip between your front teeth. “Please Hazel. Please touch me.”

Hazel’s stomach couldn’t help but flutter every time one of your desperate pleas hit her ears, but she tried not to let it show. Still, it was difficult to ignore the dampness in her boxers, thankfully still hidden by her shorts. On the other hand, your panties were on full display, the black color managing to hide your wet spot from Hazel’s vision, but failing to keep your secret when she dragged her finger up your clothed cunt.

“Holy shit.” Hazel muttered under her breath. “So fucking wet already?”

You were far too turned on to even begin to respond to her taunts, opting instead to raise your hips and signify Hazel to take off your panties. Hazel, however, had other plans. She continued to stroke the length of your covered cunt, enjoying watching your hips stutter every time she so much as grazed your clit.

As much as you loved the cloth friction rubbing against your slit, the growing pool of wetness that resulted was beginning to make you feel suffocated. You lifted your hips to chase her touch, moaning with desperation. Hazel smirked, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“Patience, pretty girl. I can’t do anything until you tell me what you want.”

Hazel’s finger picked at the waistband of your panties, while her darkened eyes stared down at you. You struggled to speak, your brain far too mushy to form a complete sentence. How in the hell were you this fucked out, and Hazel had barely touched you?

“P-please Haze… I need you mph… take them off…”

Another wicked grin appeared on Hazel's face as she leaned down again to praise your obedience. “Such a good girl.”

Her mouth latched onto your jaw as her fingers curled over the top of your waistband. You raised your hips, and Hazel pulled off your panties in one quick motion.

Now that you were completely exposed, you felt completely exposed, which wasn’t necessarily the most comfortable feeling. Your legs began to shut involuntarily, catching the attention of the girl hovered above you.

Her eyes went wide as she crawled off of you and put her hands up. “Hey, woah, are you ok? Do you wanna stop? I’m sorry! I should have checked in more. We can stop if you want. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Hazel’s sudden transition out of her dominant alter ego caught you off guard. Still though, you couldn’t help but melt a little. She was being so sweet, making sure you were ok, you almost felt a little bad for her. You didn’t mean to freak her out.

You sheepishly smiled up at her, a little embarrassed. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just a little weird being the only one naked is all.”

Hazel blinked at you, processing your words. Almost like a lightbulb went off in her head, she jumped up and practically tore all the clothing off her body, throwing each piece over her shoulder as soon as it was off. You couldn’t help but notice a string of arousal momentarily connecting her slick to her boxers, breaking only after she slid them down her legs.

Hazel’s body read like a painting, with each brush stroke precisely positioned to perfect the masterpiece. Her wetness glistened from in between her legs, and you couldn’t help but admire the beauty standing before you. However, you didn’t get to admire for long, as Hazel was already repositioning herself over you.

“Better?” She asked.

You sighed. “Definitely.”

Hazel immediately got to work trailing kisses down your body while thumbing through the folds of your slit. Soft moans echoed from your lips every time she’d slightly dip into your entrance for some more lubricant, and then frustrated groans would roll out whenever she immediately pulled out. God, she had access to every part of you and still managed to be such a tease.

Eventually, Hazel kissed her way down to your pelvic bone, hovering her face just over where you wanted her the most. Her hot breath tickled your dripping wet folds, making you tremble with anticipation. She stuck out her tongue and gently kitten-licked your clit to gauge your reaction, staring up at you as she did. A soft whimper left your throat, causing a smug smirk to form on Hazel’s face. Starting to gain some confidence back, she locked eyes with you and slowly licked up the entire length of your cunt, from your entrance all the way to the hood of your clit. You whined, throwing your head back against the carpet.

“Feel good?” Hazel asked, not bothering to wait for your response as she already knew the answer.

Hazel dived into you like a starved woman, lapping up your slick like it contained the very thing she needed to survive. Broken moans fell from your parted lips as you desperately grasped at her hair, trying to keep her exactly where you wanted her. Your hips bucked against her face, a part of you dying to see her features covered in your juices.

Her name found its way out of your mouth, almost involuntarily. “Hazel I… mph… fuck…”

“Fuck yeah. I love it when you say my name, pretty girl.” Hazel exclaimed, eyes rolling in the back of her head. You groaned. Dominant Hazel could have very easily put you into cardiac arrest, you were pretty sure.

The feeling of Hazel’s tongue against your engorged clit was hypnotizing, but your entrance was also twitching for attention. You wanted, no, you needed her inside you.

You grabbed Hazel’s hair and pulled it to lift her off you. She started to whine at the loss of your taste, but quickly looked up at you to make sure you were alright. “Everything ok, princess?”

“Hazel, I… I wanna ride your fingers. Please.” You panted breathlessly.

Hazel’s body shifted at your bold choice of words before a dark desire clouded her face again. “Of course.”

She reached up and crashed her lips against yours again, the taste of your own pussy still lingering on her tongue and coating your mouth in the most arousing way. You both readjusted to where she was on her back and you were now hovering over top of her. She adjusted her right hand in the “come here” position with her middle and ring fingers standing, and rested it in the middle of her thigh.

“All yours, honey.” She looked up at you with a goofy smile and half lidded eyes.

You positioned your entrance over her fingertips, shifting slightly before sliding down onto her knuckles. Hazel's fingers curled to hit your g-spot, forcing your head to fall back with a throaty groan.

“Feel good, gorgeous?” Another one of Hazel’s praises fell from her lips.

“Fuck Hazel, those nicknames are gonna kill me…” you whined.

Hazel smirked. “Oh yeah, you like that? Gorgeous? Pretty girl? My princess?”

As you were drinking in Hazel’s sweet nothings and riding her long fingers, your eyes fell down to her lap. Her exposed cunt glistened with her own arousal, dripping down her thighs and onto your carpet. A wicked idea popped into your head, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

Your hand traveled down to the folds of Hazel's slick, forcing the brunette beauty underneath you to jump at the sudden touch. “Honey, what are you…”

“Is this ok?” You asked softly. Hazel nodded quickly, realizing what you were getting at. You hastily licked your fingers and slid them into her twitching cunt.

Hazel moaned at the feeling of your fingers inside her. “Fuck, baby. Feels so good. So good to me.”

The longer you bounced on Hazel’s hand, the more you felt that familiar tight feeling in your abdomen. “Hazel, I’m…”

“Yeah… mph… me too.” She managed to whisper under her breath.

Hazel positioned her thumb to rub against your clit, forcing your body to tremble in sputtered shocks. You curled your palm to stimulate her clit, and you could tell she was almost as close as you were.

“Hazel, can we… mph… cum together?” You asked, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth.

The brunette underneath you was already starting to fall apart. “Fuck baby… so close… let go… I’ll follow… yeah?”

You rolled your hips against her, using your free hand to position her wrist where you needed her to touch you. Your hips sputtered, your core tightened, your clit throbbed. “Hazel, I… mph fUCK!”

Your head rolled back as you let out a sound so primal, you weren’t even sure it was sexy. Hazel soon followed, her groans and whimpers reverberating around the room as her hips sputtered under you. You rode out your climaxes together, the erotic sounds of sex disappearing into the nearly empty house.

Hazel couldn’t believe it. Not only was her longtime crush gay, not only was she fucking you, but she had just given you a mind-blowing orgasm at the same time you gave her one. Fuck, the very thought almost made her cum a second time.

You rolled off of her, and snuggled into her chest while she wrapped her arm around you. “Wow…”

“That was… unexpected…” Hazel muttered breathlessly.

You giggled. “Yeah, no kidding.”

A comfortable silence filled the room, both of you just enjoying the presence of the other, the project from before long forgotten.

You looked up at her, planting a soft kiss on her jaw. “Still think we can’t be friends?”

“I think we’re a little more than friends now.” Hazel chuckled.

Your heart fluttered at her suggestion. “Yeah? You want to?”

“I mean, yeah, if you want to.”

You nodded, snuggling back into her chest, close to falling asleep after so much activity. Hazel continued to stare up at the ceiling, a goofy grin plastered across her features.

“PJ is gonna lose her mind after this.”

#hazel callahan #hazel callahan smut #hazel callahan x reader #hazel callahan x reader smut #kit tanthalos #ruby cruz #ruby cruz x reader #sapphic #fanfic #hurt/comfort

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