#High Solid Contents | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 8 months ago

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Girl, I'm Into It!

Synopsis. Jus’ take it, girl, doesn’t matter if someone sees.

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

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, EXHÍBITIONISM, cúmplay, the elders, Geto’s cúlt, creampíes, getting interrupted, cóckwarming, GOJO’S POWERS, face-sítting (fem), true form!Sukuna, dp, semi-public, spítting, VERY pússydrúnk Geto, overstím, spánking, bréeding (Gojo), marathons, showing off, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - A mouthful, woman!

“Mhm—” Toji’s babbling out a drawn-out groan, dragging the sharp bridge of his nose down your drooling slit. Veering slow and syrupy where your clit was just throbbing, “Yeah, that last job- actually. Gimme a sec, Shiu.”

And you can only gasp when he’s trapping that glaring phone screen between his ear and his shoulder, sliding the calloused expanse of his palm up, up, up your arched spine.

Curling gently around your throat, “Now, who said you can stop sittin’ on m’face, doll?”

It’s said low - dangerous - loud enough that it just reached your ears above those saturated squelches.

“B-but-” you shudder. “Shiu can-”

“B-b-but what?” He’s licking his slick-glossed lips, pooling your sweet sweet juices on his pinkish tongue. And oh just that one taste makes Toji moan, makes his eyes roll to the back of his head, thick fingers coming down in a swift smack! to hurry your honeyed answer. “S’not good to ah- leave someone hanging, y’know?”

His best friend on the other end of the line be damned, Toji was going to taste your pretty pussy one way or the other.

“Yo, Fushiguro- where the hell did ya go?”

That makes you just jump, earning a rough snicker from the man underneath you. Words puffing out against your hole in a feverish pant, “Relax, girl, m’muted already.”

And the rest of Shiu’s crackling voice can’t even register in his melty brain right now, can’t even be heard over that sudden gruff murmur ripping from his throat at the needy little drip! drip! drip! of your weepy cunt down his lolling tongue. Sliding all the way to the back of his throat. “For now.”

Toji’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs ravenously, before he’s just dragging your pliant body with a harsh tug - until your entire body weight is seated on his slutty mouth.

Exactly how he liked- no, loved it.

“See?” Sharp canines nip gently at your puffed-up pussy lips, you could feel Toji’s leering smirk widen, only plunging his pretty face deeper and deeper where you needed him the most. “Was that so hard?”

“N-no–” you’re mewling out, the truth babbling out of you when he slips past your swollen folds easily. Drinking in languid, calculated strokes up and down up and down up and-

“Helloooo? Ya better not have fucked off again, Fushiguro.”

Ah, yes. Toji’s rolling his eyes, taking his frustration out by giving you another stinging swat along your ass.

And it’s so messy - you’re so sloppy on top of him that it takes a few glissading taps down his phone before Toji can finally unmute himself. Eyes bleary, ears thundering, mouth so drunken that he could barely speak - your pussy coating him in a sticky sheen of your slick with each ounce of pleasure.

“Whaddaya say again, Shiu?” he’s slurring out - hoarse, strangled. The solid curve of his thumb gliding in a sopping wet dance across your sensitive clit, “Sorry was- eating.”

Toji laughs - he laughs - muffling the deep sounds by suckling on your leaky clit. Lapping at each and every pearlescent bead of your juices, high cheekbones hollowing out to scratch his obscene little taste buds roughly against the very peaked tip.

“You’re really eating mid-call?”

Shit, Toji can already feel the way you grow even more drenched at that, gushing out in a silken wave that dribbles down his chin.

Smack!

It’s as if he was taunting you to break - to whine loud enough that Shiu would hear. Toji’s free hand is tightening around your neck, hauling you all over his face to meet in the messiest French kiss. “Oh you have no hah- idea.”

It’s just about the last thing said before Toji’s bullying his long tongue past that taut entrance to your sloppy hole, only needing one, two tiny grinds before your gummy walls are sucking him up deliciously. Molding around each one of his hazy drags, every saturated swirl around your cozy channel.

“Well can ya be so fuckin’ loud-” You’re biting down on your lower lip hard enough to draw blood at Shiu’s little complaint. “Seriously- what are you even eating, you animal?”

“Jus’ a lil’ something sweet. The cutest of desserts.” Nosy prick, he’s musing half-deliriously. “Now are ya gonna t-talk business or do I needa hang up?”

But Toji knows he won’t be hanging up - not by the way every rattled-off detail about his next mission has you grinding your pussy down even more desperately onto his mouth. Snapping those delicate strings of spit and slick with each slobbering drag. Addicted. Hypnotic.

Enough so that he doesn’t even know the date of his next job - and right now, Toji didn’t care.

And you half-wonder how his tongue wasn’t cramping up right now, how his voice wasn’t just raw from those faint grunts of affirmation dragged out at Shiu’s conversation - non-stop, purposeful.

And so was he.

You didn’t know who wanted you to cum more - you, or him.

But when you do - you’re utterly sure that it’s your dear boyfriend.

“Sh-shit-” you whisper, breath hitching with each desperate moan threatening to break free. And your nails just claw down his sculpted abs, hips gyrating in drippingly wet swivels with his tongue. Sure Shiu could hear now- “M’gonna cum-” They grow longer - sloppier. “Toji, m’cumming m’cumming- f-fuck-”

All Toji can do is giggle, as if he was fucked-out already. Shakily dipping his head further to ride you through your high, his nose nudges past your spread folds, into the base of your pussy, pointed chin kissing up against your puffy clit. Placing wet thrust after thrust that have you convulsing on top of him, the tiniest ah! ah! ah! leaving your ragged mouth when you feel his big beefy biceps flexing in a vice-like grip around your neck to hold you still.

Addictive.

So much so that he’s barely even registering Shiu’s little, “You got all that?”

And you swear you hear Toji’s tough baritone crack at the very end, verging on a whine when he mumbles, “Y-yeah yeah- got all of it.”

“Alright, and- Fushiguro?”

“Mhm?”

“At least let a man join next time.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Over-overtime

“Ken-”

“Shh, my love.”

“But Ken!”

Immediately, you’re feeling the soft graze of all five of Nanami’s thick fingers curling over your jaw-dropped mouth. Your shared, golden wedding ring cool over your heated skin when he puffs out in a feverish heave, “Please ah- quieten down those pretty moans, unless you w-want to be caught, darling.”

Honestly, Nanami wouldn’t even mind right now - wouldn’t even care for anything other than swiveling his hips into yours in a slow, sultry cadence.

Angry, red tip pushing you further and further into those important documents he should really be working on right about now. Your tight silken skirt riding high, hands scrambling towards the ends of his cool office desk-

“B-but-” you’re whining, muffled through his digits. “-but it feels so hck! good-”

You little minx. Nanami can feel himself just gush out a trail of steamingly hot precum in response to your pretty moans, jaw clenching while he tries to hold back the deepest of guttural groans from breaking free.

It was the first time he’d ever ignored any form of overtime for something like this. But feeling the slight shiver in your thighs, the way your pretty tits heave with each gasping inhale - shiiit, did he wish he did this sooner.

Every night of overtime, every lunch break, every meeting.

“S-s’that so?” he’s rasping, and the desk rattles when he picks up the pace. Ricketing after every smack! of his thick, hefty balls against your ass, girthy cock stretching you out maddeningly. “My cute lil’ wife w-wants so badly to moan out? To scream my name?”

“Yes–” you sob, and your trembly fingers can do nothing but snatch the yellow velvet of his favorite tie. Hauling your husband even pressingly closer, “D-don’t care if they hah- hear, need you, Ken-”

Fuck, that’s enough to have him gasping, entire body wracking with an almost-violent shiver.

Moaning.

Frantically, his sweat-slicked head snaps towards the door - the shut door.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, he nuzzles down the tender column of your neck. Nosing into your sweetened spots, “Hah- wouldn’t- wouldn’t even mind being fired for this heavenly pussy, my love-” he confesses. But for all how sweet his words were toned, Nanami only pounds you deeper against the desk. Now clattering against the wall with how roughly he was spearing into your melty depths. “But I don’t want them seeing my wife.”

The hand around your mouth was nothing more than a little formality at this point, and Nanami himself was getting so dangerously loud-

Each grunt is punctuated by a meaningful slam into your drippingly wet cunt. Slurring out a little with each one, loosely whispering saccharine praises in your ear.

“So pretty-” he kisses the corner of your lips, your chin. Ravenous thumb reaching down to pull at your neglected clit, “So fucking sexy- ah you feel s-so good.” Leering smile too unlike him, growing at every one of your plush squeezes. “So- so loud-”

And, truly, the stuffy corporate room was so heady with the hypnotic smell and sound of sex - the sound of you two.

But Nanami still wasn’t done.

“M-move your hand, darling.” he hiccups out, and you already know what he’s talking about. Scrambling to shift away the now-sopping wet hand you’d cushioned to deter the wet thwack of his cum-filled balls against your ass, his toned pelvis on your ass. They ring thunderously in your ears, “Yeah- yeahhh, fuck- jus’ like that.”

Without the barrier of your hand in the way, he’s hiking up one powerful thigh onto the smooth plane of the desk. The change in angle nudging his fattened tip against your bulging g-spot, drawing swift, sopping glides. He was so out of control now.

And whatever’s left of his rational self knows that maybe he should slow down - be more mindful of the resounding squelches that your slutty cunt was drumming up.

But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not when your slicked walls are clamping down around him so tight. Your eyes fluttering shut, spine arching definitively, mouth dropping open with the most honeyed call of his name when you cum.

The noise so addictive - his favorite song - that Nanami isn’t too far behind. Overfilling your poor cunt over and over with thick globs of his cum.

And god it was so much of it that Nanami doesn’t even realize when his arm falls down limply to cup your cheek, messily kissing your puckered-up lips. You whine into the heated kiss of teeth and lips when he gushes out in velvety ropes of potent seed.

So fucking much. Enough to paint a glossy ring around his thick base, soaking those tufts of blond, dribbling down in a creamy pool at his polished work shoes, slippery.

“O-oh fuck yeah-” he’s spitting profanity after profanity. Twitchy cock still fucking you through the peaks of your own high, “Shhh- sh- c’mon now, milk me- milk fuck, take it all f’me–”

So caught up in his own bliss that Nanami finds his head lolling to the side when he’s finally cracking his eyes open - more to take a look upon that gorgeously fucked-out expression on your face than anything. When his gaze catches on something else-

The door.

Open.

A stunned Higuruma standing right by it, one hand holding a pile of documents that were sure to be the work he was actually supposed to be doing, the other adjusting his too-tight pants.

Which, while Nanami understood - hell, he could feel his still-cumming dick spurt out another gripping load of wispy white - didn’t mean he was going to let it slide. Not even for his closest coworker.

“O-on the other hand…” he muses, throat shot. Looking right into greedy, alarmed eyes when he rubs a lazy gyration on your throbbing clit, bring the glossy, sheened digits up, up, up to his mouth. Tongue lingering on his glistening wedding ring, “Why dontcha be as loud as possible f’me, my love?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - So? Let ‘em see.

“Fuck-” Geto’s panting out, dark brows knitting tighter together after each wrenched-out moan. “Fuck.”

God, it was just about the least he could word out right now - words a ragged pitch, head throwing backwards with each smooth squeeze of your sopping wet pussy around into his swollen cock. Slow, languid glides that only made him impossibly harder.

And part of him knows, he should keep up that cold, cult-leader facade in front of the group gathered around you two this very moment. To show off how calculating he really is when something is done wrong.

How no one’s safe - not even you, his sweet, special second-in-command.

But you’re looking over your shoulder at him with those glassy, tear-filled eyes and he’s already defeated. Nothing against you.

“S-Sugu–” you whimper, drool dripping down the side of your lips - which he cranes down to lick away with a lazy swipe. Pinning you down with the weight of his hulkingly sculpted body to prevent your mindless little gyrations.

But Geto already knows that won’t stop your trembly fingers from wrapping around the base of his pretty red cock, hot and heavy in your hand. Begging, “I need you to fuck me so bad- need you ngh-”

He was painfully rock-hard, cum-filled balls pulled so taut that he almost looked like he’d burst if he wasn’t pummeling inside your gummy walls this very second. And just squeeze of your soft palm has Geto’s thick, round tip coating down your wrist in a swelteringly hot coat of his precum. Glossy and translucent.

Needy.

“Heh, ya sick of cockwarming already, gorgeous?” he’s leering down at you with a sexily smug smirk, pearly white teeth biting his bottom lip raw to hold back his tiny grunts. “M’not sure you’ve m-made it up to us already-”

“Please!”

Smack!

His slender fingers soothe over the stinging imprint across your ass, Geto’s leaning back to take in that heavenly view with his half-lidded eyes. The way your greedy pussy drips! down onto the tatami mats, how you shiver so prettily on all fours for him.

Taking only a split-second to drench his slender digits on the mess you were trailing down his cock, bullying them unapologetically between your lips. Geto’s chest rumbles with the vibrations of his ragged whisper in your ear, “Watch it, pretty girl.”

You’re choking around his thick fingers - such a sweet, sweet sound that almost hurts Geto to talk over.

Turning to the rest of the eagerly-watching room- “So, d’you think my gorgeous girl deserves it? After she-” Swirling his digits around your tongue, pressing hard into the narrow back of your throat. “-failed our last mission?”

Your ears are ringing, eyes too bleary to look up at any of the expressions of your fellow members. “Sugu-”

“Shhh–” Geto’s deeply rich tone is soothing, though the way his leaky tip just twitches is anything but. “We’re holdin’ a vote- s’rude to interrupt a vote.”

And fuck, Geto didn’t care about a fucking vote, didn’t care what any one else has to say. Honestly, he doesn’t think he even got through counting half the hands raised - or what it was even for.

But you feel the way his achy cock swells up even thicker, expanding your clingy channel to your limits. His fat, bulbous tip only grows toastier inside of you, throbbing in a thrumming tempo. Faster. Desperate.

“Sh-shit- s-so deep-” you’re hiccuping, hands trembling with fatigue where you were holding yourself up. And had it not been for one of Geto’s big, strong arms circling firmly around your waist, it would’ve been absolutely impossible to stop yourself from collapsing into a needy mess right in front of him.

Ah, but right now Geto felt like a needy mess - having teased both of yourself to the ends of your insanity by now.

He has to blink back the overstimulated tears in his eyes, huff and puff that guttural whine in his voice, the sheer excitement in his eyes. “Well then…” Geto’s purring, planting a path of hot pecks down your neck. “Majority wins.”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart, like you’re being thrust all the way into the ends of your lungs with how hard Geto’s pounding into you. Not even giving you a split-second to accommodate before he rummages his heated cock around your tight pussy. The very outer rides of his prominent veins peeking into your sensitive spots.

You scramble to grab onto the carpet, the silken sheets, anything when his powerful hips reel back and forth back and forth back and-

“What?” he heaves out as a voice pipes up nearby. Taking a few sloppy seconds to actually register the words let alone the language, with how good you felt milking the fucking soul out of him. “Oh- you’re right-”

Suddenly, he’s sitting back on his knees, dragging you with him like some glorified ragdoll. Geto snickers into the tender crook of your neck, your body all limp and pliant on top of him, seated until you were spearheaded so thoroughly on his messy erection.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head, long strands of his inky hair sticking to his sweat-sheened forehead, picking up such a merciless cadence. Sharp hip bones dig into you, Geto’s hefty balls sure to leave a raised circular imprint on your thighs, his tip on your cervix - your lungs.

“Don’ be shy~ let ‘em see, they’re- they’re sayin’ you’re trying to ah- r-run away–” he’s whining in your ear, defined canines sinking down into your ear lobe. “Begged to be fucked n’ this is the th-thanks I get? M’heartbroken, gorgeous.”

But oh, he didn’t sound like it - not even close.

Dragging his wet, wet lips in a sodden kiss against your sagging mouth, Geto sounded like he was about to laugh. “Now- does everyone here think she deserves a lil’ punishment for that, too?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “Sh-shh, baby…”

Choso can’t do anything right now, can’t even say anything other hushed, broken praises and urgent warnings in your ear to quiet down.

But oh he should’ve known that your teasing self wouldn’t listen. He should’ve known that you’d be toying with his sanity the second you slipped under those blankets with him for Itadori family movie night. That you’d run your greedy fingers across the sensitive curve of his dick - taunting. For just a second - before escaping towards the bathroom with a wink, taking his rationality right along with you-

“Spacing out, Cho?” you’re giggling from the smoothened marble counter, batting those sultry lashes up at him in a way that makes his overworked cock twitch. “Or are ya just thinking about me again?”

And, well, the movie probably ended hours ago.

The sound of your pretty voice is enough to make him whine, to have his thick fingers bunching up at the hem of your translucently drenched panties - still pulled just enough aside to have him grind up deeper into you.

“N-no-” His lower lip wobbles with that panted-out answer, burning cheeks hidden away when your sweet boyfriend swipes over the curve of his thumb to your leaky cunt. Smearing that glossy trail of cum from your sodden slit, “Jus’- hngh, don’ squeeze me like that, baby- jus’ thinking that maybe we should h-head back.”

He says this, but you feel the way Choso’s reddened cock just weeps out another sloshing gush of milky precum, stretching out your already-overfilled walls with another coat of his. Just once.

And then again. And again.

“Sh-shit-” He’s suddenly rutting his hips unsteadily, ferally, pulling out the most drippingly wet squelches when he bullies the very rotund tip of his fat head into your cervix. Sweat-sheened forehead drooping against yours, rosy red lips slacking open, “Shit shit shit shit- have to- have to go- but I’m so hngh! so addicted, ahh my pretty girl-”

Just one, powerful jackhammer was enough to get him pussydrunk all over again.

“Y-yeah?” you ask, struggling through fucked-out gasps. Your hands find their way around his broad shoulders now, tracing over those deep red nail marks clawed across his creamy skin. “What about the m-”

“Don’t you d-dare mention the movie-”

Choso finds it impossible to hide the broken sob in his words, to not let a big fat tear splatter onto your own lips when his furious cock massages your plush walls back and forth.

“S’probably o-over and-” And shit, he can’t hold back anymore, muffling those honeyed moans with pressurized peck after peck. Leaving your lips ragged and half-bruised. “And I ngh- d-didn’t even get to pay attention and-” Abruptly, Choso’s head is thrown back, brows scrunching, voice whimpering. “-fuck we’re gonna get- caught-”

It was so loud - those saturated slurps emanating out from your needy pussy every time you were milking him dry.

That sodden slap! of skin-on-skin echo across this snug, heady bathroom and making Choso’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. And he’s sure his family outside can hear it through the door. Fuck-

Yet, he’s pounding meanly into your gummy pussy, dewy eyes locked onto that heavenly view of his glistening cock disappearing with each one. Your swollen folds rubbed raw with every kiss against his thick base, bulging outwardly, snapping delicate strings of cum and you you you-

“Then- then why don’t we oh- stop, baby?” you’re purring, tugging on his damp strands of hair. “If you’re so scared of g-getting caught we can-”

“No!”

If it was any other moment, you’d have toyed with poor Choso just a bit more for interrupting you - and he’d apologize and apologize until you crack.

But right now, the only thing you could focus on was how he was fucking you into the counter even harder, to indent that cool surface onto your skin, to mark the round divot of his tip into your g-spot. Over and over.

“Then what do you w-want, sweetheart?” you gasp, feeling blood pump rapidly into every solid inch of him. Growing him even bigger, even girthier - stretching out your very insides until you could feel Choso brush over every single nook and cranny inside you.

“Want you-” he’s moaning. Voice lilting higher in pitch and volume with each wrenched-out word. “Want you want you want- want you ngh- d-don’t even care anymore.”

Drunk on your pussy, he barely even realizes it when he’s smearing his fingers across that sopping wet gloss of around your inner thighs. Pooling each thick dredge, before just plugging them back into your overstuffed pussy.

“Hngh!”

“Shhh sh-shh…” His mouth hovers agonizingly closer to yours, and for a second, you think that Choso is going to place a sweet kiss upon your lips. But, insead, he’s tilting his head ever-so-slightly to suck on your tongue.

“Gotta be q-quiet-” he’s keening like a mantra, riotous digits now swiveling around and around your clit. Tired, sloppy but still never-ending - swollen twitching wildly inside your dripping cunt. “Quiet- ah fuck gotta-” Mouth running a mile a minute, you were so soft inside every time he was mashing into your sweet spots. He was out of control now. “Can’t be- caught- ah- please-”

And maybe at this very moment, Jin is turning up the volume to the tv even past its maximum, grandpa Itadori takes off his hearing aid - Sukuna just cackles.

Because in a split-second, Choso’s slamming his hand down on the counter beside you, groaning huskily into your ear, spitting out curse after curse when he cums and cums against your snug walls until he couldn’t anymore.

You feel his spazzing wet shaft heaten up inside you, pumping out blanks now. Heavy balls squeezing like he’d run out of his voluminous, thick cum. “W-wait did you just hah!”

“M-maybe….fuck-” Choso drags his lips down your jaw, sharply nipping tiny bites for everyone to see. “Y’know, baby- I think I hear another movie playin’.”

Shit.

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Queen of curses

Ryomen Sukuna would never admit it - would never even think to hint at it - but oh, how he loved having you like this.

With your bleary head lolling into his pecs, drool swiping a glossy glide across his smooth skin, hips squirming and just jittering atop where he had you sat all prettily on two matchingly aching cocks. Unmoving. Unrelenting.

All in front of them.

“Well- whaddaya think, brat?” Sukuna’s leering down into your dazed eyes with his devilish red ones. “You think they hah- deserve death?”

Everyone - everyone - in Sukuna’s decadent throne room flinches. All the way from the spattering of lower curses groveling at the much larger demon’s feet, to you. The staggering curvature of your spine bowing only deeper, batting your teary lashes up at him.

“I- I don’t-” Each gasped-out little answer catches in your chest at the rabid thump! thump! thumping of his furious heads against your gummy walls.

His true form was so incredibly massive. Pressing up thoroughly in an indenting little swivel - god, no matter how many times you took him, the intense stretch of his girthy shafts always left your clingy walls struggling to accommodate him, scrambling for your sanity.

“Don’t?”

And it comes out higher-pitched than Sukuna’s usual rumbling baritone. An almost-believable little look of shock splattered all across his handsome face as he tightens two beefy arms around your body.

“My queen is sayin’ she doesn’t know?” He’s bouncing his muscular knee in both annoyance, and to drag your slobbering pussy down each length. Tiny, punishing gyrations back and forth. “Can ya believe this?”

It takes you a few more sloppily spent seconds to realize with a jolt that he’s not addressing you in that last sentence - your glassy gaze fixated on how he tilts his head at the few curses behind you two. Snickering out a bout of dark laughter, “My lil’ human- the queen, s’too cockdrunk to even hand your sorry asses your fates.”

Huffing, you pound at his broad chest in a way that he thinks almost tickles. Mumbling with the sort of pout that makes him throb, “S’not m-my fault, Kuna!”

“Not your fault” is an understatement - because Sukuna’s hips were slowly but surely rocking upwards into your sopping cunt. Busying one of his hands with gripping your hips roughly, rummaging your insides with every thorough ram, one of his swollen cocks branding against your g-spot, the other making circular indents along your cervix.

“Awww, you’re absolutely right, woman.” he slurs out. “S’my fault you w-wan’ed to ride my cock while I hold court, hm?” Jostling you on top of him to manspread, holding on tight to the armrests of his throne to just fuck up into you. “My fault your p-pretty pussy’s too selfish?”

You can only keen when his hefty set of balls sting against your ass, and the tiniest of jolts to your body has Sukuna seizing the opportunity to dip his hand down to your throbbing clit.

Toying. Pulling. Rolling.

“P-please-” you’re whining out a syrupy string of profanities that make him titter, and the stupefied curses behind you gasp. Stupidly, “M’not selfish- hngh-”

Shit, your pretty moans were such music to his ears. And one glimpse at the scum behind you two revealed that they thought so too. Heh, which is probably what’s spurring him to slam into you even deeper, to thumb your pussy lips apart and show off how well you were milking inch after inch of him.

And those other curses could already spy the way Sukuna bulged even bigger inside of you, the way your dewy eyes rolled to the back of your head.

They almost had half the mind to be concerned if it wasn’t for that uncharacteristically sappy smile on their king’s face.

“Damn. Is that so?” his hips grind up into yours faster. Sloppier. The hard lines of his hip bones making themselves at home imprinting against yours. Sukuna cranes his head down to bite at your slack lips, dangerous. “Then why dontcha hah- give these little heathens their punishment for disrespecting your king?”

It’s just about all you can do to whirl your teary gaze backwards, meeting widened sets of cursed eyes. Watching. Waiting. Greedy gazes dipping down-

“J-jus’ finish them off-” you’re squealing, sputtering to get out your words in full when Sukuna’s thick fingers move inhumanly fast on your clit. Quick, taunting circles. “Jus- fuck-”

That earns you the tiniest of swats on your sensitive nub - and he was being nice. “Ah ah- what a naughty mouth. Honestly, m’thinkin’ you should be the one to be punished - wouldn’t you trash agree?”

You don’t get to hear their answer - but you don’t have to, either.

Because just then, two, thick fingers tap on the side of your cheek - and you already knew what that meant. You didn’t even have to think about it before letting your mouth fall open in haste, tongue lolling out perfectly.

His absolute favorite part when Sukuna spits - once. Twice. A thick wad of honeyed saliva right onto the middle of your taste-buds, splattering in a translucent puddle down the side of your mouth. All despite his famously perfect aim.

Sukuna grins, wiping another one of his thumb across your lower lip. On purpose, of course.

“There- one punishment down and…” In only a split-second, you feel yourself being flipped - easily, pliantly - to have your back pressed up against all the ridges and curves of Sukuna’s muscles. Two bulging cocks still spearheaded all the way into the very back of your poor pussy, rough palms weighted underneath your legs, spreading you open almost shamefully in front of your audience. “-one more to go.”

The audience that Sukuna was pussydrunken enough to half-forget by now.

“Ah, you pathetic scum are still here.” His chest vibrates with hissed-out words, breath hot against your ear. He’s whispering - to you, this time, “Whaddaya say- if ya squirt on m’cock I’ll finish ‘em off, my queen?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - POWA

Not one. Not two.

Not even the entire council of elders could stop Satoru Gojo from taking exactly what he wanted - you.

Not the way your joints were protesting at this rude mating press he had you folded into, how his poor, overworked cock was twitching a mile a minute trying to keep up with his vigorous cadence - not even the fact that the two of you were being heard.

“T-Toru–” you’re begging, but it comes out as more of a strangled little mess of moans than anything. Your nails claw rawly down his back - yards upon yards of red, red lines. “The elders are just- out- the- door-”

Oh, but it was so hard to spit out any coherent sentences with the way that your husband was ramming his swollen cock into your with reckless abandon. Each and every ragged thrust like his hips were moving before his very mind - like he was just chasing that toasty hug of your walls.

It takes a few more sloppy spearheads into the very back of your cunt before his pussydrunk brain can manage to find the words, “So what?”

You’re gasping when his palm comes down in a shuddering smack! right onto the smooth tatami of your living room floor. Too depraved. Too restless to have taken you anywhere else.

Those pressurized waves causing the tiniest of tremors in the ground underneath you - more to piss off the grumbling elders outside than anything, if those muffled whispers were anything to go by.

For them to hear, to imagine. But not to see - no, because Gojo Satoru was a possessive bastard over his dear wife.

“They sh-show up to my Estate-” he gasps out - voice dragged hoarse, each word spat with the utmost venom you haven’t heard Gojo talk with to even his deepest of enemies. “Interrupt my time with my wife to demand hah- shitty talks of clan politics and- heirs.” And you swear his cerulean eyes just glow in the dim lighting, biting down hard on your earlobe, “And expect not to get a firsthand experience on makin’ an heir, heh-”

You’re keening when it seems like he’s hitting all your sweetened spots at such an inhuman pace. Scrunched eyes tinging with slight blue lightning when he glides a splayed-out palm across your stomach-

“F-fuck, Toru-” your own greedy gaze widens when his long index draws an invisible line halfway across your stomach. Deftly feeling for that bulging nudge of his fattened tip denting into your g-spot, smirking at that feeble recoil. “Are- are you using six eyes?”

At this, Gojo’s babbling out a humorless bout of laughter - broken, higher-pitched, murmured into the corner of your mouth.

“And?” His aching cock was just sobbing swelteringly hot precum with every surging ram, and so was Gojo - the stimulation of your plushy walls and the use of his jujutsu too much that he can feel his eyes well up with big, bulbous tears. “Hafta- hngh! hafta give ‘em a lil’ lesson on how strong our heir’s gonna be, right, sweetheart?”

You finding yourself clinging desperately onto Gojo’s snowy locks, boring up into his half-lidded, red-rimmed eyes. “Y-yes- gonna hafta- hngh- just hafta have you fill me up, Toru–”

Clearly, that was not what he was expecting.

Because this little answer leaves the strongest heaving in deep inhales of air. Barely even realizing the slow, lazy nod he’s giving you - a fucked-out grin spreading across his pretty features when he tilts his head towards your firmly shut sliding door.

“Mhm- jus’- hngh-” he groans, head throwing back at the mess of gooey translucence that dribbles its way down from your snugly filled cunt. “Jus’ need ya to say it a ah- little louder f’me, my wife- p-please?”

“Wan’ you t-to give me an heir-”

“Louder, sweetheart.”

“Wan-”

“Louder-”

You scream - you moan. And you cum, crashing into your orgasm headfirst, faster than either of you expected-

“Fuck- fuck yeah, gonna fill ya up-” Gojo’s gaping in awe, unable to rip his eyes away from your beautiful face all twisted in ecstasy. Just the very furrow in your brows, the trickle of drool at the corner of your lips, the way your hot insides massage him so snug makes him fuck you into the tatami faster. “Gonna make ya a p-pretty momma- hngh- all round n’ glowing- Give you all my cum until all they can see is me- fuck- me me me.”

Forehead pressed up damply against yours, his abs burn at the fervent drive of his weeping dick. Sensitive shaft feeling his thick precum slosh around your insides with each aggressive grind.

And he’s fucking wondering already how you two haven’t broken bones yet.

Much, much later, he’ll figure out that it was his reverse cursed technique. That his cock runs red and raw after tonight, that the power bursts out in all prefectures in Tokyo when Gojo Satoru finally cums.

Halfway on purpose - letting loose of his jujutsu a bit more than necessary.

He snickers at the chorus of gasps from outside when shards of lightbulbs flow across the room, whimpers spilling from his ravaged mouth. “Heheh- serves ‘em right-” Drilling into you sloppily, so deep. “Gonna f-find out- gonna fuck a baby into ya- hngh- an heir- fuck serves ‘em right–”

Oh, he’s running his mouth a mile a minute with little nonsense - and you can’t speak at all. Feeling those darting spurts of his potent seed at your very lungs, the sheer volume knocking against your womb. Over and over in a silky white gloss. It drools out of your sopping wet slit, soiling a puddle underneath your sweat-slicked bodies.

“Oh, sweetheart-” Gojo simpers, and shit, you already knew his tone didn’t bode well for your poor, overspilling pussy. His eyes lock on the door, “I don’t think our guests have left yet-”

“Because you froze them with your jujutsu-”

“How about another round?”

A/N. These poor side characters do NOT get paid enough lemme tell ya that.

Plagiarism not authorized.

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graysongraysoff · 7 months ago

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i wish i was someone with a more like solid and established aesthetic but no as it happens i get the desperate urge to refresh my entire closet every 2-3 years or so

#my boss and my counterpart content manager were talking fashion the other day #and my boss is so admirably intentional about her approach to clothes lol #bc she's one of those people who doesn't buy a *lot* of clothes but she invests in what she has #so she has like a solid rotation of your more like timeless/classic silhouettes #stuff that isn't going to go out of style #and she was even like 'i try to buy tops that i can dress up or down so i can wear them to work or to do errands on the weekend'#in other words she does not have a t-shirt addiction like i do lol she's got that very well curated capsule wardrobe #of high quality pieces #and while my casual aesthetic has stayed more or less the same (t-shirts and jeans of varying bagginess)#when it comes to work clothes i feel i am just never satisfied #i'm always like 'ok i'm going to buy 3 nice pairs of pants that i can wear with any top and that's IT'#but then some time will pass and i'm like 'what if i wore more skirts actually'#'what if i got into chunky loafers instead of flats'#horrible stuff

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buckyseternaldoll · 13 days ago

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eighteen hours.

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, multiple rounds, overstimulation, edging, mutual desperation, shower sex, window sex, kitchen counter sex, use of restraints (soft), masturbation mention, lingerie tease, squirting (f), super soldier stamina, mild teasing from tb* members

It started like any other assignment.

A sharp morning. Polished boots. Steel chairs arranged around the Watchtower’s mission table. The kind of day where even the light felt clinical—too white, too bright, too final.

Valentina entered with a clipboard in hand and that usual glint in her eye, the one that said she already knew something you didn’t want to hear.

“Barnes, Yelena, Alexei, Bob—Bucharest first. Bogotá by week three. Rotating safehouses. No crossovers.”

You stiffened.

“Walker, Ava, and…”

She looked straight at you.

“You—Algeria. Then east through Istanbul. Targets on the move. You’re expected to stay mobile and out of range.”

The silence afterward said everything.

That pause before your name wasn’t a slip.

It was surgical.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at you, but his shoulders rolled tight. His metal hand flexed once, resting flat on the table like he was physically grounding himself.

This wasn’t routine.

This was designed.

The room shifted. Teams gathered their gear. Orders confirmed.

But neither of you moved.

Bucky brushed your fingers beneath the table—the kind of small, hidden touch that wasn’t meant to say goodbye. It was a promise.

We’ll find each other.

However we can.

—

Packing was mechanical.

Weapons, suits, coordinates, clearances.

Everyone was buzzing around the hangar level, focused on countdowns and jet fuel. But Bucky caught your wrist with a glance that made your breath hitch—then gently steered you down a side corridor.

He didn’t stop until you ducked into a quiet auxiliary room—once used for archive storage, now mostly forgotten. The lights were dim. A narrow bench ran along the wall. A few old mission files sat boxed in the corner.

He shut the door behind you.

“Just for a minute,” he said, voice low. “Just wanna be where you are.”

You barely nodded before he pulled you into his chest. He held you like he needed it—not tight or desperate, but complete. His warmth poured into you as you buried your face into the space between his neck and shoulder.

You ended up straddling his lap on the bench, both of you half-armored, half-undressed—hands roaming like you were trying to memorize every line, every scar, every breath.

“I hate this,” you muttered into his neck.

“I know.” His voice was steady. Anchoring. “But we’ll be okay.”

His mouth found the slope of your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower—teeth grazing before lips closed around your skin and sucked.

You gasped—part surprise, part pure heat.

“Bucky—”

“Gonna leave a few. Let ‘em wonder how many more are where they can’t see.”

He left another. And another. The bruises bloomed warm beneath your skin—high enough that your tactical suit wouldn’t cover all of them.

When he pulled back to look at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if they split us across the damn planet.”

You ran your hands up under his shirt, nails scratching lightly across his ribs—grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

“You’ll text me when you can?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if it’s just one word?”

“Even if it’s just a photo.”

You smirked. “Of what?”

He grinned, leaning back like he had all the time in the world—even though you both knew better.

“I’m waiting for boob pics, love. Minimum one per timezone.”

You laughed into his neck and kissed his jaw, soft and smiling.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

When the comm finally buzzed for final departure prep, you lingered another moment, forehead pressed to his.

“We’re good?”

“Always.”

And then you slipped out—his warmth still clinging to your skin, and his hickeys hidden beneath your collar like the loudest secret in the world.

—

The first few days weren’t unbearable.

Busy hours blurred the worst of it—briefings, drone recon, field scans. The kind of missions that demanded your hands stay full and your focus sharp. You told yourself it helped. That staying in motion kept the ache at bay.

But the nights were something else entirely.

By the third night, sleep wouldn’t come. The cot beneath you was too narrow, too cold. You rolled over instinctively and reached for the other side—empty. Your palm flattened against the mattress like it could summon him there.

It didn’t.

You’d already stripped out of your tactical suit, skin flushed from a lukewarm shower and a restlessness that refused to settle. The mirror over the sink caught your reflection just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the window—warm dusk light casting gold across your damp collarbone, your bare shoulder.

You grabbed your comm. Lifted your phone.

Pulled down your undershirt just enough to let the neckline dip low—sweat clinging to the curve of your breasts, a faint bruise from his mouth peeking out beneath the edge of the fabric.

The angle was deliberate.

Head tilted back. Lips parted. Not a full reveal. But it said everything.

Still thinking about the way your hands fit around my waist.

Bet you’d wreck me if you were here.

You hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

—

His reply came six hours later. No text. Just an image.

The lighting was shit—whatever rooftop he was on barely lit by the glow of city spill—but it didn’t matter.

He was shirtless.

Dog tags heavy and low over his chest.

Hair a little messier than usual, as if he’d just run a hand through it before taking the shot.

But the part that made your thighs press together?

His sweatpants.

Slung low. Way too low. Obscene, really—the waistband clinging just above the vee of his hips, and beneath it? A thick, unmistakable bulge pressing upward. Not subtle. Not suggestive.

Hard. Veined. Heavy. Angry.

Like he’d taken the photo mid-thought, right before palming himself. Like maybe he had.

Your name was probably still on his tongue when he snapped it.

You sucked in a breath, cheeks hot, and held the screen to your chest like it could warm the parts of you he was supposed to be touching.

This was manageable, you told yourself.

Just teasing. Just playing.

It would pass.

—

It got worse.

What started as playful—just a little edge, a little fun—turned into something raw. Unbearable. Every picture, every breathy message only twisted the knife deeper.

Bucky cracked first.

The signal finally held long enough for him to send a voice note.

You were mid-gear check when it came through, tucked into a corner of the safehouse with your earbuds in.

“Woke up with my hand around my cock,” he rasped, voice low, wrecked. “Thought it was you at first. Swear to God, I could feel you there. Your breath on my neck, your legs wrapped around me. Then I realized I was alone again.”

A pause. A harsh exhale.

“And fuck, baby… I nearly lost it.”

You played it three times.

Nearly dropped your comm on the third.

—

You didn’t just tease back. You retaliated.

The next photo was a mirror shot—deliberately filthy. You stood in the dim light of your bunk, chest bare, your breasts fully visible this time, no shame. One hand was sunk into your panties, fingers clearly pressing against the soaked fabric. The other held your phone steady, angled to catch the full view: your messy hair, parted lips, heavy-lidded eyes, and the slick glint of sweat on your chest. No caption. Just raw hunger in pixels.

This help you sleep tonight? Or should I take more?

He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, it was short.

You’re not playing fair.

My cock’s been hard since sunrise. Haven’t touched it. Saving every second of this for you.

You sent a quick clip later—just a few seconds long. You didn’t even speak in it.

Just six seconds. The camera angled low—your hand slipping beneath the blanket between your thighs. No real view, just the movement. The blanket shifted slightly with every circle you traced over your clit. Soft moans escaped—broken, breathy, like you were trying to stay quiet. Then a whimper—his name, trembling from your lips. No skin shown. No climax caught. Just the sound and the hint and the promise of you falling apart.

Bucky watched it on repeat like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

—

Then came Ava.

You’d crashed hard that night—exhausted, sweaty, and stripped down to just your lingerie. The maroon lace set he liked. The same one he’d picked out. It had become a habit—wearing it when you missed him. A reminder. A tether.

Ava had been reviewing footage by the window for perimeter movement when she caught it.

The camera was focused outward. But the mic had picked up your sleep sounds in the background.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel when she played it back.

She just raised an eyebrow and pressed play—a grin tugging at her lips as the soft moans filled the air. You were murmuring his name. Restless. Breathless. Like you were dreaming of him—no, feeling him.

“Mmh… Bucky—please… inside me… deeper—oh god… please—”

Your voice cracked on the last word, a sharp gasp like you were right on the edge.

You could’ve died.

“Jesus,” Ava had laughed, not unkind. “Want me to send it to him? Y’know, for motivation?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She already hit send.

—

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even text back. Just disappeared for a few hours.

Locked himself in the bathroom of the Bogotá safehouse, palms braced on the sink, sweat dripping from his temple to his jaw. The floor was cold. His cock throbbed painfully in the tight grip of his tactical jeans, already slick with precum from the sound of your voice in his ear—played over and over again like a goddamn drug.

He groaned low, forehead resting against the mirror as he finally undid his fly—reached in and freed himself with a hissed curse.

Hard. Angry. Red at the tip and twitching. His hand flexed uselessly beside him, trembling from restraint.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “Fuck, baby… what are you doing to me…”

But he didn’t stroke.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Not without your hands.

Not without your thighs tight around his hips.

Not without your voice whispering that he could let go.

So he tucked himself away again—biting down hard on the side of his fist until it bruised, his pulse roaring like a storm.

Later, when the signal held again, he finally texted:

This was supposed to help.

All these videos. These fucking pictures.

It’s making everything worse, doll.

I need you so bad, I swear I’m gonna lose my mind.

—

He stopped sleeping properly.

The circles under his eyes were darker now, sharp enough to draw questions if anyone had the nerve. His mouth was constantly pressed into a tight, agitated line. The usual post-mission calm he carried—that calculated, steady presence of command—was cracking.

Every time he sat down to write up route plans, his hands twitched. His left hand—the metal one—wouldn’t stop flexing. Clenching. Releasing. Like he was trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t your voice moaning his name.

The last time he tried to issue orders midbriefing, he nearly snapped a comm tablet in half.

“Safehouse Delta’s too close to the highway,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll reroute south. Four klicks. We’ll—”

He trailed off.

Everyone stared at the map table, then at Bucky—who was clearly no longer looking at anything but the wall. Or rather, through it.

His jaw clenched again. He tried to redirect.

“We’ll send Bob first to—”

But Bob was already looking sideways at him.

“You gonna pass out?”

“No.”

“You look like your brain’s buffering.”

“I said I’m fine.”

But his voice had cracked. Just slightly.

Yelena leaned back in her seat with a dramatic sigh, chewing on the end of a protein bar like this was better than Netflix.

“Alright,” she announced loudly, “I’m just gonna say what everyone else is thinking.”

Bucky didn’t even turn his head.

She kept going.

“You’re clearly about three days from spontaneously combusting from blue balls. You’ve been staring at walls, misreading maps, and grinding your teeth like it’s a fetish. Which—respectfully—gross.”

Alexei smothered a laugh. Bob coughed loudly into his fist.

“You need to jerk off or jump off a building,” Yelena finished, deadpan. “Pick one.”

Bucky finally looked up.

His eyes were bloodshot. His voice was tight when he replied.

“I’m not jerking off.”

That shut them up.

Yelena blinked. “…Okay. That’s not where I thought that was going.”

“I’m saving it. All of it.” His hand twitched again. “She deserves every goddamn second of it.”

A pause. The silence stretched—not awkward, just charged.

Even Alexei nodded solemnly, as if that was the only acceptable answer.

Yelena rolled her eyes but muttered, “Romantic. Disgusting. Continue suffering, I guess.”

—

Later that night, Bucky paced the rooftop alone. Fingers twitching. Breath uneven.

He pulled up your last photo again.

Your hand between your thighs. Lips parted. That little text below it:

I’d spread for you right here on this cot if you were with me.

He groaned into his palm.

Pressed the heel of his hand against the painful bulge in his pants.

Didn’t move. Didn’t stroke. Just gritted his teeth and endured.

“You better be ready for what I’m gonna do to you,” he muttered into the dark.

—

It was just after 7:00PM when the jet touched down.

The sky above the Watchtower was bruised in golds and fading gray, clouds curling low like dusk had rolled in too early. Your shoulders ached. Muscles stiff from too many hours strapped in gear, too many days sleeping with one eye open.

Your boots hit the floor with more weight than usual—the kind that didn’t come from exhaustion alone. It was something else. Something thick in your chest, pressing behind your ribs.

Inside the compound, it was unusually quiet.

Operatives passed by in pairs. Brief nods. No chatter.

Ava veered off toward medical, threw a wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Go get your man.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet.

Not until your fingers brushed the key panel of your shared room, and the door clicked open beneath your touch.

Something shifted the moment you stepped inside.

The air smelled like candle wax, clean linens, and something warmer underneath—musk and sandalwood, with a trace of vanilla. The room glowed gold in low light. Flickering candles burned on the desk, by the bed, and one small one beside the bathroom mirror.

It was quiet. But not empty.

He was there.

And the second he saw you, his face lit up.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, already halfway to his feet. His voice was low but clear, as if speaking pulled breath right back into his lungs. “You’re home.”

That ache—the one locked in your chest—snapped clean open.

You dropped your duffel just as he reached you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, your cheek pressed against his collarbone. He smelled like soap and steel and something distinctly him—warm skin, freshly showered, a hint of cologne that clung to his shirt.

He didn’t devour you. Didn’t grope, didn’t rush.

He just held you.

One arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head. His lips brushed the top of your hair.

You clung back like it might hold you together.

His hand ran slowly down your spine. You could feel the control in it—the way his chest rose hard against yours, like he was barely keeping the rest of him contained.

“I changed the sheets,” he murmured softly. “Lit a few candles. Put your shampoo out. Thought maybe you’d want a hot shower first.”

Your heart cracked, melted, rebuilt itself.

You nodded against him, cheek brushing the curve of his neck.

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” His smile touched his voice, even as his hand lingered low on your back. “You always say you wanna feel clean before we get dirty.”

That earned a small laugh from you—quiet, but real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cupping your cheek in one hand. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, like he was checking you for damage.

“I missed you,” he said. “Like breathing stopped.”

You kissed him, soft and slow—lips barely parting, just enough to feel the warmth of him beneath the quiet.

“Missed you more.”

He didn’t rush you when you stepped out of your gear. Just watched with quiet reverence, helping peel the layers off your shoulders and arms. He kissed your shoulder once—right over the old bruise he left weeks ago—and whispered:

“I’ve been thinking about this moment for 36 days. But I’m not rushing it. Not until you’re ready.”

Then he took your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and nodded toward the bathroom.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

—

You hadn’t even closed the door behind you.

The steam was already thick, curling from the shower where hot water slammed against tile. You peeled your clothes off slowly, shaking the last of the travel dust from your skin, limbs heavy from the mission—but your chest felt lighter. He was here. You were home.

You stepped into the spray and let it hit you.

Heat flooded your shoulders. Rolled down your spine.

The ache you’d ignored for weeks cracked wide open across your bones.

You arched slightly under the pressure of the water, fingers dragging slowly down your stomach. Your thighs pressed together at the memory of his voice—his lips on your neck, his hands gripping your hips like they belonged there.

You knelt briefly to grab a bottle you knocked over. Bent forward. Stretched.

And then—

“Mmh…”

Just a sound. A breath.

But it came from somewhere deep—unconscious, raw, and aching. It slipped from your throat like his name was caught beneath it.

The floor creaked.

You turned, startled—and everything inside you tightened.

He was there.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom like something ancient and carved from firelight. His chest rose fast, hard, like he’d sprinted across the room. Hair damp with sweat, not water. Shoulders tight. Fists clenched at his sides.

And he was naked.

Completely.

You hadn’t even heard him undress. But there he stood—broad, solid, his cock achingly hard and already slick with precum, flushed dark and twitching with every strained breath he took.

His eyes drank you in.

Steam wrapped around his body, clinging to every line of him. You watched his jaw twitch, chest heave. His cock twitched again—another thick drop of precum beading at the tip.

“Baby…”

His voice cracked. A breath. A prayer. Hoarse and wrecked.

“Please…”

“Please stop torturing me.”

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Like he was waiting for your permission—even now, even while unraveling at the seams.

You reached for him.

One hand. Simple. Open. You pressed your palm to the center of his chest—felt the hammering heartbeat beneath it, the way his breath hitched.

He whimpered.

The sound broke from his lips like it had been fighting its way out for days. He stepped forward, cupped your waist, then your jaw, thumb trembling against your cheek.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “Fuck—you’re here.”

You smiled softly. Nodded.

He stepped into the shower with you—no hesitation this time.

The water soaked him instantly, but he didn’t care. He was already soaked in you. The scent. The need.

His hands were everywhere. One warm, the other metal, both reverent. They dragged up your spine, gripped your hips, held your face like it was holy.

“Missed you,” he rasped between frantic kisses.

“Missed your mouth. Your voice. Your thighs. The way you sound when I’m inside you—fuck, baby, I’ve been dying.”

Your back hit the tile with a dull thud. His body pressed into yours, all solid heat and desperation.

His cock bumped against your stomach—hot, heavy, leaking.

He gasped. “Touch me… please, just—let me feel you.”

You did more than touch.

Your hand curled around the base of him, felt him throb in your palm. He swore low against your neck, forehead pressing to yours as his hands skimmed lower, between your thighs.

“Jesus, sweetheart—”

His fingers slid through the slick between your legs.

“You’re soaked…”

He groaned. Slid two fingers inside you.

You gasped, walls clenching hard around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Tight… tighter than I remember. You really waited for me?”

You bit his jaw. “I didn’t even let myself finish, Bucky. You ruined me.”

That was all it took.

He gripped your thighs, lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing, and pinned you to the shower wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist, arms around his neck.

“Hold on to me,” he breathed. “That’s it… Good girl.”

He lined himself up. Slick head pressed against your entrance. And then—

He sank in.

One thrust. Deep. Full.

You both cried out—voices echoing in the tile and steam.

The stretch. The heat. The sudden, perfect fullness.

He fucked into you with short, desperate thrusts—buried all the way, hips snapping with precision. You met him every time, nails clawing his back, gasping against his mouth.

Your orgasm ripped through you without warning—sharp, wet, loud.

“James, I—I’m coming!”

“I’ve got you. Let go. Soak me, baby.”

You did. You clenched so hard around him he almost collapsed.

He followed seconds after—buried deep, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His body trembled with the force of it. He held you there, still wrapped around him, his cock twitching inside your pulsing heat.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not letting you out of this room for days.”

You kissed him through the fog, smiling against his lips.

“Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Your legs were still shaking when he carried you out of the bathroom.

No towel. No words. Just the heat of his arms around you, the steady thump of his heart against your ribs, and the way the air between you still crackled like static. You smelled like him. He smelled like you. It wasn’t over. It had only begun.

He laid you on the bed like something sacred.

Candles glowed around the room, casting golden halos over damp sheets and flushed skin. The maroon lace slip sat untouched where he’d left it—delicate, sheer, wicked.

You reached for it with trembling fingers.

But Bucky caught your wrist gently. “Let me,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Hoarse. Reverent.

He lifted the slip over your head slowly, letting the lace fall like a whisper down your body. It hugged your hips, clung to your breasts just enough to tease—translucent and sinful. His lips brushed your spine as he adjusted the straps, hands shaking.

“I thought about this every night,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder.

“Fantasized about it. About you, straddling me in this. Had to lie there with my fists clenched, cock aching, just—breathing through it. Didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

His voice cracked. “Didn’t want to waste a single drop that wasn’t for you.”

You whimpered.

He hovered above you now—fully naked, flushed, his cock already hard again. Veined and glistening, twitching with the pulse of how badly he needed to be inside you.

But he didn’t rush.

Didn’t even move until you cupped his jaw and pulled him down into a kiss.

Mouths met softly, then harder.

Tongues sliding slow.

His body sinking into yours, heat to heat, heartbeat to heartbeat.

You grabbed the back of his neck and whispered against his lips, “Come here. Let me ruin you.”

He groaned, deep in his throat, and you flipped him onto his back, straddling his hips with shaking thighs. The lace slip rode up your thighs, leaving nothing in the way when his cock pressed hot and heavy against your dripping heat.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “You’re soaked through.”

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, and ground your hips against his length. “You did this,” you whispered. “With every text. Every picture. Every breath.”

He was gone. Let you take full control.

You gathered the hem of the lace slip, just enough to bare yourself to him, and guided him in—sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both of you moaned, raw and open, mouths slack with need.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, head thrown back, fists clenched in the sheets.

“Still so tight, baby. Still fucking perfect.”

You started to move—slow at first, grinding your hips in deep, lazy circles that dragged the tip of his cock right against your most sensitive spot. His hands clamped hard on your thighs, trying to keep his control, but you didn’t make it easy.

“You gonna come again just from riding me?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded. “Already close.”

He groaned, slipping one hand between your bodies to rub firm, precise circles over your clit.

“There you go… let me feel you. Let go for me.”

And you did.

Your second orgasm hit like a goddamn wave—crashing through your spine, stealing your breath, squeezing around his cock so tight he choked on a moan.

He didn’t last much longer.

You kept grinding, whispering filth into his ear—how full he made you feel, how wrecked you were for him, how you still weren’t done.

That tipped him.

He came hard with a strangled moan, cock pulsing deep inside you, hips jerking as he flooded you for the second time. His arms locked around your waist as he gasped into the crook of your neck, trembling from the force of it.

You stayed like that, slumped against his chest, bodies stuck together with sweat and slick and heat.

“You alright?” he asked, voice scratchy.

“I’m feral,” you whispered back. “And I’m not finished.”

He chuckled, still panting. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not tapping out anytime soon.”

—

Later.

The wine sat untouched on the desk.

The lace slip lay discarded in a crumpled pile on the floor.

The candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling thick at the base.

And you?

You were flushed. Sweaty. Trembling.

Knees sinking into the mattress as you straddled his thighs once more, this time with your back to him—hips hovering, your whole body tingling.

He leaned against the headboard, sweat shining on his chest, watching you like a man possessed.

“You sure?” he rasped, voice ragged and frayed.

You didn’t answer.

You just reached back, gripped his cock at the base, and lowered yourself onto him slowly—inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

Both of you moaned. Loud.

Deep.

Almost pained.

Your hands braced against his shins behind you for leverage, thighs spread wide as you rode him hard—your ass slapping against his hips, slick and flushed with every bounce.

“Oh, fuck—”

His hands gripped your waist like he was anchoring himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart—you’re still so fuckin’ tight…”

You started to move—slow, heavy grinds, rolling your hips like you needed every inch of him rooted inside you. Bucky gasped behind you, his hands traveling from your hips to your thighs to your breasts, groping, squeezing, completely feral.

“You ride me like it’s the only thing keeping you alive,” he growled.

“Look at that ass—fuck, I can see it bounce every time you fucking slam down.”

You moaned—head tilted back, chest rising and falling—sweat glistening between your breasts.

And then—his fingers slid between your thighs from behind. Two of them, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“I wanna feel you come again, baby. Let me feel you fucking gush on my cock.”

Your thighs trembled. Muscles locked. Your core started to spasm.

“Bucky, I—I think I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it. Come on, baby. You’re dripping, you’re so fucking close—let it happen.”

You broke with a cry.

Legs shaking. Hands digging into his thighs.

Your pussy clamped down hard, and then it hit—

You squirted.

Hard.

Hot wetness sprayed between your thighs, down over his cock, soaking the sheets. Bucky let out a strangled moan, clutching your waist like he was going to lose his mind.

“Goddamn—fuck, look at you. You’re gonna make a fucking mess, aren’t you, baby?”

He didn’t stop.

He snapped his hips up into you, relentless now—grinding deep as your soaked cunt fluttered around him, so overstimulated your vision blurred.

“Still want more?” he panted, thrusting up again, angling perfectly.

“I can feel how much you need it. So greedy for me—so fucking full of my cum, and still not satisfied.”

You couldn’t answer. You just moaned, nodding wildly, nails dragging down his thighs, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot on your shoulder as he leaned forward, one hand now wrapped tight around your throat.

“You gonna come for me again? Gonna make a mess on my cock one more time?”

“Yes—James, please—”

And you did.

A second wave slammed into you.

You screamed, back arching, body locking as you squirted again—wetter this time, gushing down over his balls, onto the sheets, soaking everything beneath you.

Bucky lost it.

“Shitshitshit— I’m coming—fuck, baby—I’m—”

He grunted, jerking up into you with three final brutal thrusts as his cock pulsed deep inside you, filling you again, so hot you felt it flood your walls.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, his arms catching you just before you slumped completely. He held you tight from behind, your body still twitching, both of you covered in sweat, slick, and release.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice dazed, completely gone.

“You just… soaked me, baby.”

You half-laughed, half-whimpered. “I couldn’t help it. You broke me.”

“Good,” he growled, kissing your neck. “You can break me next.”

—

You should’ve been done.

You should’ve been shaking, satisfied, breathless from three rounds and nothing left to give.

But you weren’t.

The ache still lived in your bones.

The emptiness still throbbed between your legs.

And when Bucky’s lips brushed your temple—slow, tender, trembling—you felt it in him too.

He needed more.

You both did.

The sheets beneath you were damp. Your thighs were slick. Your chest rose with every sharp breath, nipples flushed and sensitive, body still twitching from your last orgasm. And still… the hunger hadn’t dulled.

“You okay?” he whispered against your throat.

“No,” you rasped, voice cracking.

“I need you again. Right fucking now.”

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath. His cock twitched against your thigh—already stiffening again.

“Jesus, doll… you’re insatiable.”

He kissed your jaw. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Then he shifted—slow but deliberate—and suddenly, your wrists were gathered above your head. You gasped at the motion, but his grip was careful, tender. He reached for the discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and looped it around your wrists—soft, warm, not tight.

“Just wanna keep you here,” he murmured, kissing your palms one at a time.

“Let me take care of you.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched.

And when he dropped between your legs, your breath hitched so hard your back arched off the bed.

“James—”

“Shhh,” he purred, brushing his stubble along the inside of your thigh.

“Gonna keep you right here, sweetheart. Gonna make you come until your body forgets what rest feels like.”

His tongue dragged through your folds—slow, warm, filthy.

The first flick over your clit sent your hips off the bed—but he was already holding you down, fingers firm, spreading you open like he was fucking home.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growled into your cunt, voice rough with disbelief.

“Jesus, baby, you taste like both of us… fuck. You’re perfect.”

He devoured you.

Long, slow licks that lapped up his own cum still leaking from you. Wet, obscene noises filled the room—every slurp, every moan against your pussy like it was the only thing that ever mattered.

You whined. Cried out. Legs trembling.

His mouth worked faster, tongue flicking your clit with maddening precision—soft then hard, gentle then firm, always changing, always knowing exactly how to ruin you.

“Bucky—fuck—baby I—”

Your voice broke.

Your hips bucked.

You were so close again, already, already—

He pulled back.

“Not yet,” he rasped, lips wet and eyes dark.

“Not until you beg for it.”

You sobbed—from the overstimulation, from the ache, from how badly you needed to fall apart.

“Please—please, baby, I can’t—just let me—let me come, please—!”

That broke him.

He groaned, deep and guttural, and latched onto your clit with his mouth wide and relentless—tongue flat, dragging fast and rough, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs.

You exploded.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm hit like a strike of lightning—your whole body shook, fists clenched, toes curled, thighs trembling. You gasped so hard your ribs ached. The headboard thudded behind you.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice soaked in reverence.

“One more, baby. Just one more for me.”

You didn’t even get to respond.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because his tongue never stopped.

He kept sucking—soft at first, then harder—until another wave curled sharp behind your ribs. You sobbed his name, pulled at the binds, tried to run but couldn’t move.

You came again.

Harder.

Legs seizing, slick gushing between your thighs, soaking his face, your body curling from the sheer force of it.

He kissed your trembling thighs through the aftershocks.

Pressed his forehead to your belly.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“I don’t even know where I am,” you panted.

“And I think I like it.”

—

Later—

Maybe thirty minutes.

Maybe five.

Time had stopped meaning anything.

It warped, curled, bled together beneath the hum of overstimulation and breathless ache.

You lay curled on your side, one leg bent, sheets tangled around your calves. Sweat cooled on your skin in sticky rivulets. Your breathing had started to even out, but your body still pulsed from the inside—too full, too stretched, too tender to be still.

And then—

The mattress dipped behind you.

You felt his warmth before you felt his hands.

He slid in close—chest to your back, thighs pressed to yours, breath curling against your neck.

His lips brushed your shoulder.

“Still want me?” he asked, voice soft as fog.

You answered with a sigh. Reached back without looking, your palm wrapping around the hard length of him, thick and hot and already twitching against your fingers.

“Always.”

You rocked your hips back, slotting yourself perfectly into him.

He kissed your spine.

Tucked his face into the crook of your neck, and whispered like a man undone.

“I’ll never stop wanting you.”

One hand lifted your top leg, just slightly—fingers gliding over your thigh. His other arm wrapped low around your waist. You felt the weight of him, the warm press of his tip teasing at your entrance—slow, so fucking slow—until he finally pushed inside.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, as if the heat of you had burned him.

“You’re still tight. Still fluttering around me.”

You whimpered.

He thrust deep.

Steady. Gentle.

Every movement an unspoken prayer.

No rhythm. No pace. Just a rolling, molten motion—his cock dragging deep and slow, slick with everything you’d already shared, stroking right against the spot that still trembled.

“I could live here,” he breathed. “I want to live here.”

Your hand gripped his forearm where it wrapped across your middle. He pulled you back against him with every gentle thrust, grounding you in the heat of his body, his breath stuttering where it ghosted along your neck.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured. “So fucking good.”

“Still feels like a dream,” you whispered.

“Then don’t wake up. Just… stay right here. Let me have you like this.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears stung, soft and sudden. It wasn’t pain—it was too much pleasure. Too much love. The way he moved inside you like your body was a temple. Like every inch of you was his.

“Tell me you’re mine again,” he whispered, voice breaking.

You choked on a moan.

“I’m yours, James. Always.”

You came first—slow and quiet. A gentle quake that rippled from your core outward, your body trembling against him as your inner walls clamped down tight. You gasped softly, a sob in your throat, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

“Let go, doll. Let me feel you.”

He wasn’t far behind.

He buried himself deep, groaning low into your hair, his whole body taut as his release surged inside you again—slow and warm, his cock pulsing deep as he held still, hips locked to yours.

You lay there, body slack and soft, his cock still inside you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

His fingers traced lazy shapes on your belly, his lips pressing soft, almost absent kisses to your damp shoulder, your neck, your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

You nodded.

“I think I’m in love with you again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Good. I never stopped.”

—

Your body was trembling again.

Not with the sharp, writhing spasms of climax—but the deeper, low-grade tremor of exhaustion.

The kind that came after too many orgasms and too little rest.

Muscles fluttering, breath short, limbs weak. You felt boneless and heavy, like your body had melted halfway into the mattress.

And yet—

Your core still throbbed.

Your nipples still ached.

Your cunt still ached for him.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Bucky sat back on his heels beside you, eyes trailing over your form with something like worship—something like worry.

His hand reached out slowly. Brushed your sweat-slicked hair off your forehead. Pressed a soft kiss there.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentling. “You with me, sweetheart?”

You nodded once, eyes glassy. Your throat was too dry to speak right away.

“Breathe for me. C’mon.”

His thumb stroked your cheek.

“You look wrecked.”

“I am…”

Your voice came out hoarse.

“I’m so tired.”

That broke his heart a little—you could see it in the way his brows creased. His jaw clenched like he was trying to talk himself down from his own feral hunger.

“Then let’s stop, okay?” he offered softly. “Let me clean you up, hold you for a bit. You need rest.”

But your hand was already moving.

Shaky, slow—but determined.

You reached between his legs and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

Still hard.

Still thick and flushed and leaking at the tip like he’d never finished.

His breath caught.

“Baby—”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, tears suddenly springing to your lashes.

“Please, don’t stop. I need you.”

He looked stricken.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna take too much.”

“Then be gentle,” you gasped, stroking him slowly.

“But don’t pull away. I need more. I want you again. I want you.”

His restraint cracked like glass.

With a low, ragged sound, Bucky leaned down to kiss you—soft, shaky, like a prayer being answered. He whispered against your lips.

“Tell me when to stop, baby. Or I won’t.”

You nodded.

Wrapped your arms around his neck.

Pulled him into you.

He guided your legs open with reverent hands—watching your face the entire time, watching for any flinch or hesitation. You were sensitive. Sore. Spent.

But not done.

“I love you,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“So much it hurts.”

You barely had breath left to answer.

“Then have me,” you whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”

His cock slid into you slow—so slow—inch by inch, the stretch deep and aching, but your body welcomed him like he’d never left.

He moaned into your throat.

“Fuck, baby… still so tight. I can feel your pulse around me.”

He moved gently. Just the slow grind of his hips, the full drag of his cock over soaked, sensitive walls. His hand slid under your back, pulling you flush to his chest.

“You tell me when to stop. You hear me?”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered. “Just keep giving me all of you.”

And so he did.

With every thrust, he kissed you. With every shift of his hips, he whispered your name. His fingers stroked your side, your hip, your waist—every inch of skin he could reach. You shook beneath him, moaning soft and high each time he bottomed out.

“You’re incredible,” he rasped. “You’re still taking me like it’s the first time. My perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crept in like fog, soft and wet and overwhelming.

You came with a shuddered cry, barely able to hold him, but your body squeezed around him tight—fluttering, spasming, claiming him all over again.

“That's my girl,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So fucking good for me.”

And then he followed—hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a benediction. His cock throbbed deep inside, spilling more warmth into the mess already flooding between your legs.

He collapsed next to you, immediately pulling you into his arms. Your body was trembling. His thumb stroked your cheek.

“No more unless you ask,” he murmured against your hair.

“I’ll only give you what you want.”

—

The sky was beginning to lighten.

A dusky indigo bled into grey, softening the skyline behind the Watchtower’s windows. But inside the room, time was a blur of candlelight, heat, and the thick, dizzying scent of sweat and sex.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d fully caught your breath.

Your whole body felt glass-thin. Shivering. Sensitive. The sheets clung to your skin with sweat, and your legs barely worked. But the ache was still there. Nestled low. Pulsing. It didn’t fade.

Bucky’s palm slid over your thigh—soft, slow, as if testing your response.

His voice came a moment later, raspy and hesitant. “Sweetheart… we can stop. You need rest. I can wait.”

But you turned to him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Your fingers found his, laced through them.

“I want more,” you whispered. “Please… take me there.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life.

Guiding you gently toward the windows—your legs shaky, but moving—he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “I’ll be gentle. Just let me see you.”

The whole room swam around you, golden in candlelight and glimmering sweat.

The skyline stretched before you. Towering buildings, distant lights. No eyes. Just your reflection—flushed, ruined, hair damp and tangled across your shoulders.

“Fuck,” Bucky exhaled when he saw you.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look what I’ve done to you.”

You braced your palms against the cool glass, breasts pressing to it as your body arched. The contrast of heat and chill made you gasp. Bucky moved in behind you, spreading your thighs with his knee. One hand on your hip. The other wrapped around his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds.

“Still dripping,” he muttered. “Even now. Jesus, you never stop, do you?”

“I need it,” you whispered. “Still need you.”

He didn’t make you wait.

Not this time.

He slid into you with one deep, brutal thrust—your bodies colliding with a smack so loud it echoed off the glass. Your moan fogged the window instantly, your hands flattening harder against it.

“Bucky—fuck—”

He set a hard rhythm, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, the wet sound of your bodies filling the room. You could barely stand, legs shaking, forehead pressed to the glass.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this. My girl. My pussy.”

His hand slid around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, grounding. His mouth hovered by your ear.

“You were made for me,” he said. “Fucking built for this.”

“Harder,” you begged. “Please—please don’t stop.”

“Look at your reflection,” he rasped. “Look how good you look. Look how you’re taking me.”

You opened your eyes—and the sight of yourself, cock-stuffed, sweat-slick, wild-eyed, flushed and wrecked against the window, nearly sent you over the edge.

He thrust harder. Faster. Your thighs trembled violently.

“Gonna come,” you sobbed. “Can’t—Bucky—I can’t hold it—”

“Then don’t,” he growled. “Come for me, baby. Come with the whole fucking city watching.”

You shattered.

Legs giving out.

A scream ripped from your throat as your orgasm slammed through you like lightning. Your vision blurred. Your body buckled. Bucky caught you before you hit the ground—arm locking around your waist as he kept moving, groaning into your neck.

“Fuck—fuck—gonna fill you again—”

His hips snapped hard, once, twice—and then he came with a guttural sound, spilling inside you with a heat that pushed out around the edges. His head dropped to your shoulder, body shuddering as he emptied himself again.

You stood there for a long time—pressed to the glass, panting, twitching. Your hands limp against the windowpane. Bucky held you like you were breakable.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded faintly.

“Good. ‘Cause we’re not done.”

—

The sun was climbing now.

Pale gold spilled across the Watchtower skyline, casting long streaks of light onto the floor like it was forgiving the sins you were still committing.

Your whole body ached—but not in the way that begged for rest.

It was a deep, needy pulse. Faint, but still there. A hunger that wouldn’t let go.

You stumbled barefoot into the kitchenette, still bare, still slick between your thighs, wearing nothing but Bucky’s hickeys. Your hair was tangled. Your lips were swollen. Your legs trembled with every step.

Your hand landed on a protein bar. You peeled it open with shaking fingers and leaned on the counter for support.

“You better be looking for food,” you said over your shoulder, breathless and hoarse.

You heard the footsteps.

But they didn’t head for the fridge.

Bucky’s body pressed into you from behind—solid, burning hot, and still hard. He slid one arm around your waist, the other reaching up to gently move your hair aside so he could press a kiss to your neck.

“I am hungry,” he rasped, his voice low and feral.

“Just not for that.”

“Bucky,” you groaned, half-laughing, half-destroyed. “I can’t even feel my legs—”

“Good,” he whispered. “You don’t need ‘em.”

Before you could blink, he bent you over the kitchen island.

Your palms slapped down on the cold countertop, and you gasped as your bare nipples brushed the smooth marble.

You didn’t even get the chance to speak.

He lined himself up and pushed in fast—no prep, no warning, just the slick glide of his cock stretching you open again, sliding back into your wrecked body like it was home.

“Fuck, Bucky—!”

“Still so wet,” he growled behind you.

“Still squeezing me like you want more.”

His hands slid to your hips, gripping tight, pulling you back against him with every hard thrust.

This wasn’t slow.

This wasn’t tender.

It was filthy, frantic, barely-in-control fucking. Not because he didn’t care—but because he still needed you that badly.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in the tiny space. The sticky squelch of your soaked cunt taking him again and again filled the air. Your moans bounced off stainless steel and tiled walls.

You dropped your head onto your forearm.

“We… already did this—eight times,” you whimpered.

“I know,” he growled, fucking into you deeper.

“And you’re still fuckin’ perfect. Still taking it all.”

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“Then what a fucking way to go, sweetheart.”

He slid a hand around your front, fingers seeking out your clit, stroking with maddening precision. The way he touched you was still worshipful—even in this chaos.

Your whole body clenched.

“You want one more?” he asked, voice thick, rough, hungry.

“You got one more in you for me, doll?”

“Yes—yes—please—just one more—!”

You came hard. Your scream was ragged, echoing through the kitchen, and your knees nearly gave out from the force of it. The overstimulation blurred your vision with white-hot static, but your body still took every inch of him.

Bucky groaned deep and low, hips jerking as he spilled inside you one last time—his cock pulsing, his chest pressed to your back as he moaned your name like a blessing.

He didn’t sag against you. Didn’t drop.

He stayed upright, body still buzzing, cock still twitching inside you. You could feel him—full, ready again. You were the one shaking. Not him.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered. “You’re still hard.”

“Told you,” he murmured, breath warm against your ear.

“I could do this for days.”

“James…”

He slid his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you upright, holding you there with his cock still buried deep.

“I’ll stop if you need me to,” he whispered.

“Just say the word.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, heart thudding weakly.

“…I think my soul already came twice.”

Bucky laughed softly. Kissed the crown of your head.

“Rest, baby. I’ll still be here when you wake up. Hard as a fucking rock.”

—

You didn’t know what time it was when you finally woke.

Only that the light outside was warmer. Honey-gold, slipping through the windows in slow streaks. The world felt distant. Blurry. But the weight behind you wasn’t.

Bucky’s arm was still around your waist, his chest pressed along your back. Warm. Steady. His breath ghosted over the back of your neck in a soft, familiar rhythm.

Your body ached in the best ways—sore thighs, puffy lips, bruised hips—but it was the ache in your chest that hummed the loudest.

You blinked. Shifted slowly.

He stirred.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough.

“You okay?”

You turned to face him—carefully, slowly—and found his eyes already open, watching you.

“Mhm. Everything hurts,” you whispered. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled. Just a little. One of those soft, private smiles he saved for no one but you.

“Told you I’d wreck you.”

“You did. Multiple times.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward to kiss you.

No tongue. No hunger. Just warmth. Lips brushing yours with slow reverence, like he was re-learning your taste now that the storm had passed.

You melted into it.

Pressed your forehead to his.

His fingers traced lazy lines across your spine, slow and aimless.

“Missed this,” he whispered. “Missed you.”

You whispered it back. Quiet. Honest.

Then let the silence settle over you both for a while—safe, sacred, slow.

Eventually, after a second nap and a shower where no one tried to fuck anyone against the tiles (God bless you), you both managed to drag yourselves into clothes and make your way toward the common area.

Bucky wore a black tee and gray sweatpants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You were in a loose hoodie and biker shorts—though judging by the soreness between your thighs, sitting might be a challenge.

His arm was around your waist the whole walk.

Your legs still wobbled slightly, and he adjusted his pace to match yours. Not a word about it. Just his warm palm pressing steady against your hipbone like a grounding wire.

—

The squad was already gathered around the Watchtower’s long dining table.

It was pasta night.

Yelena sat at the end, spooning pesto onto her plate with war-like intensity. Ava nursed a glass of wine. Bob looked half-asleep. Alexei was double-fisting garlic bread.

John Walker looked up the moment you stepped into view.

“Oh look,” he said dryly. “It lives.”

You flipped him off without stopping.

“Someone got their back blown out,” Ava added sweetly, raising her glass.

“We heard everything,” Alexei boomed. “Whole floor shook.”

“I had to wear my noise-canceling headphones,” Bob mumbled, half amused, half scarred.

Yelena didn’t even look up from her plate.

“I placed eight rounds in the pool. I win. Pay up, losers.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Bucky didn’t blink.

Just leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and smug.

“We could’ve made it nine.”

You choked on your wine, burst out laughing, and slapped his chest as he grinned like the devil himself.

And when his hand slipped onto your thigh under the table—warm, firm, possessive—you didn’t move it.

You just smiled.

And yeah…

You weren’t done.

💜 @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #જ⁀➴ by elle #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky

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intakeofbreath · 1 month ago

Text

⎯ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ.

wc: {494} tw: explicit sexual content, breeding kink, overstimulation, mating press, size kink, unprotected sex, multiple rounds, praise + light degradation.

you should’ve known the second he came home growling your name that it wasn’t going to be soft tonight.

your legs are pinned wide to the bed, pressed up so high your knees nearly touch your shoulders. his body’s over yours, heavy and solid, every thick thrust grinding the breath from your lungs.

“fuckin’ tight,” he mutters through grit teeth. “always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

he doesn’t pull out. not even a little. just drags in deep, deeper, til your body’s trembling from how full he’s got you. your hips twitch, trying to move, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you open, keeping you in place.

“not runnin’ from it,” simon growls. “you wanted this.”

you nod frantically, blinking through the tears that pool at your lashes. your body’s so overstimulated already—clit puffy and swollen from the last two orgasms he forced out of you with nothing but slow, deep strokes and soft praise in your ear.

now he’s chasing his own. his thrusts get faster. harder. more desperate.

“need it,” he huffs, sweat dripping off his brow as he pounds into you. “gonna fuck a baby into you, yeah?”

your whole body jerks. the sound you make isn’t even a moan—just a broken, breathless whimper.

“yeah,” he pants, eyes locked on the spot where he’s stretched you wide. “fill this little cunt up—keep you so fuckin’ full, no one’ll even think you’re single.”

you sob his name.

“mine,” he grits. “say it.”

“yours,” you gasp. “yours—yours—yours—”

he slams in to the hilt and stays there. buried deep. cock throbbing inside you as he spills, hot and heavy, til it leaks out around the base.

but he doesn’t stop.

your thighs twitch when he starts moving again, slower this time—grinding, not thrusting. like he’s making sure every drop stays inside you.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers. “you can give me one more.”

“can’t—simon—too much—”

“shhh.” he kisses your temple. “yes you can.”

his fingers drift to your clit. soft little circles, coaxing, teasing, pushing you back up that edge.

“gonna take it like a good girl. let me fuck another one into you.”

you cry out, body shaking, brain blank with pleasure.

he’s groaning again—thick voice in your ear, full of filth and worship and love and need.

“not stoppin’ til you’re bred. over and over. gonna keep goin’—you feel that? feel how easy you take me now?”

you can’t speak. you’re gone. mindless. just whimpering into the sheets as another orgasm crashes through you, stars popping behind your eyes.

simon kisses you through it. lips on your cheek, your throat, your lips.

“atta girl,” he murmurs. “that’s it.”

you’re not sure how long he stays inside you. not sure how many times he comes again. just know that by the time he pulls out, you’re full. dripping. aching in the best way.

and when he finally gathers you up in his arms, you’re already half-asleep—body spent, heart full.

#{𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 𝐄𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 }#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley smut #ghost #ghost smut #cod #call of duty

4K notes · View notes

gloomwitchwrites · 3 months ago

Note

i saw a tiktok of a heavily pregnant woman saying “maybe i dont give him butterflies anymore but i do give him high blood pressure” then they walk by their S/O with a latter and power tools. and i have been thinking about how the guys would react ever since

Oh, anon. This is so cute! I love this. I know the trend you're talking about, but I feel like I haven't seen it with pregnant women specifically, but I find it even more hilarious if it is. I had a lot of fun with this one. Thank you for sending it in!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, dad!141, pregnancy, married life, parenthood, domestic fluff

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

“Get off the ladder, cabbage.” John exhales, trying his best to keep his voice calm.

You’re standing just high enough on the ladder to rest your pregnant belly on the top rung. John stands directly behind you, both hands firmly planted on either side of you against the rail. It’s not to support the ladder but to catch you if you fall. A potentially likely possibility since you’re carrying extra weight in front of you. You could easily tip back enough to lose your balance.

“I’m fine, John,” you reply, continuing on as if he’s not worrying.

It’s maddening how relaxed you are, like the potential factor of danger is a completely foreign concept.

“Please,” he emphasizes. “Get off the ladder.”

“Why?” you ask. “I’m more than capable.”

“You are,” he agrees. “But you’re also pregnant.”

“So?”

“Cabbage,” warns John.

“Fine,” you exhale.

John keeps his hands on your hips the entire time. When you’re back on solid ground, some of that tension melts away, but his heart still thumps quickly.

You lightly cup his cheek, batting your eyelashes at him. “Were you worried about me, John?”

John places his hand on your belly. “Worried about all three of you.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle sits at the kitchen table, sorting through the mail. With a heavy sigh, he opens the energy bill, removing the paperwork, reading over the breakdown of energy usage for the month.

From his peripheral, Kyle notices movement. Glancing away from the itemized bill, Kyle’s gaze softens when you walk into the kitchen. You’re pregnant, close to your due date. Even waddling around, Kyle can’t seem to keep his hands off you.

He leans back in his chair, appreciating you for a few languid seconds, then his heart drops into his stomach.

“Damn it all. Put that down, love.”

Kyle shoots out of his chair, trying to calmly but quickly make it over to you.

“I’m fine,” you insist, attempting to walk by. “I can assemble it.”

“No.” Kyle’s tone is firm but gentle. “Give it here.”

His heart is pounding, anxiety spiking from not just the power drill you carry, but the cardboard box full of wood you’re attempting to guide down the hall.

“You sit here.” He points to the chair. “Sort the mail. I’ve got this.”

You slowly ease down into the chair, and Kyle breathes deep, trying to calm his nerves. “Bloody hell, woman,” he mutters.

John "Soap" MacTavish

He hears your footsteps first, and then your voice as you curse under your breath.

Johnny lounges on the sofa, reclining against a fluffy pillow. At his feet are his two-year old twin daughters. On the television, a Bluey episode plays. The girls aren’t watching. They’re smashing their dolls together and running them over with the yellow toy excavator.

Sitting up, Johnny glances over the top of the couch

At first, he smiles. Then frowns. Then launches himself off the couch.

“Put it down,” commands Johnny. “Drop it.” He steps on a doll and winces, wobbling slightly.

You turn toward him, pregnant belly coming into view. You’re carrying a ladder, the large one, and you’re not supposed to be lifting anything over a certain weight.

“Down,” he repeats. “Put it down.”

You roll your eyes and turn away. Johnny makes it to you quickly, grabbing the ladder and placing it on the floor.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “You’re bloody pregnant.”

“Don’t yell at me.”

“I’m—I’m not yelling,” soothes Johnny, cupping your face in his hands. “But you gave me a right scare, yeah?” He kisses your forehead. “I’ll take care of it. Go sit with the girls.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon is curled up on the sofa, a precious bundle in his lap. His two-year old daughter rests her head against his chest, gaze focused on the colorful pages.

“He started to look for some food,” reads Simon from The Very Hungry Caterpillar. “On Monday he ate through one apple.” His daughter traces the outline of the apple, and then runs her finger over the caterpillar. “But he was still hungry.”

As Simon turns the page, he hears your soft but determined footsteps. He briefly looks away from the book, his gaze falling on your belly, round and full of his child. Inwardly, he smiles, knowing that the family you’ve created together is about to grow by one.

“On Tuesday he ate through two pears,” continues Simon. “But he was still—”

His voice disappears, and his stomach flips, blood pressure spiking as he watches you turn the corner. You have a step stool tucked under your arm and a drill in your hand.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters, lifting his daughter out of his lap and placing her on the sofa. “Daddy will be back shortly, doll.”

He kisses the top of her head, and then takes off after you. With the added weight, your steps are slow, and it only takes Simon a few strides to walk past you and cut you off before you make it to the nursery.

“What are you doing?” he asks, reaching for the drill.

“Hanging a painting,” you reply like it’s no big deal.

Simon sighs. “Give it here.”

“I can do it,” you insist, turning away from his reaching hands.

Simon plucks the drill out of your hand and holds it out of reach. “Give me the step stool.” With a pout, you surrender it. “Gonna give me a bloody heart attack.”

4K notes · View notes

illyrianbitch · 5 months ago

Text

Are We Still Friends?

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: Worried about how his new relationship seems to be changing him, you talk to Azriel about your concerns. Things take a turn when he refuses to listen.

Warnings: some wine sipping, gossiping, angst, miscommunication, friend fighting, jealousy (but no one realizes), az being defensive and blind

Word Count: 5k

(Completed) Series Masterlist | Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

“It’s not that I don’t like her.”

The words tasted as false as they were, and you grimaced the moment they slipped out, already bracing for the look Mor would throw your way. True to form, she didn’t disappoint, her expression halfway between amusement and exasperation.

A defeated sigh escaped as you accepted the glass of wine she offered, watching as she filled her own nearly to the brim.

“You’re better than me, then,” she hummed, settling back onto the couch across from you. “Because I don’t like her.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t like many people nowadays.”

She shrugged, casual as ever, though a smirk tugged at her lips. “True. I’m not exactly lining up for any peace medals, am I?”

You chuckled softly, leaning back in your chair. “I just… have this odd feeling about her, you know?”

Mor tilted her head, letting out a noncommittal hum. “Oh, I know. She drags Az around on a leash.”

You were tempted to say something about the irony in her words—remind her, in a loving manner, that she might've been guilty of that once upon a time, too. But you decided against it. She wasn't wrong.

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid move in slow, mesmerizing circles. The feeling wasn’t new; it had been there since the first time you’d met her. Azriel’s new girlfriend Selene was perfectly fine—charming, even. But there was something else, something you couldn’t quite name. Like a faint hum in the background of a quiet room, just irritating enough to notice but not enough to prove anything was wrong.

“Why don’t you talk to him?”

You glanced up, finding Mor’s bright brown eyes sharp and focused on you, the lazy humor of a moment ago gone.

“I doubt he’ll listen,” you admitted, resting the bottom of your glass on your thigh. “He didn’t listen to you.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

Mor raised a brow like she wanted to argue, but she only sighed in response. “He’s been so weird about his love life. Gwyn didn’t work out. Elain’s probably the happiest out of all of us. Maybe he’s treading lightly.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, though you weren’t convinced.

Azriel had changed in small, almost imperceptible ways since everything had settled—since everyone had paired off and fallen in love. Everyone except you. And him.

You were fine with your situation, content in the quiet steadiness of your life. Azriel wasn’t. You knew it. He knew it, though he’d never admit it. So much of his self-worth was tangled up in whether he believed himself worthy of love. And the absence of it—of a solid, undeniable love in his life, of a partner, of a potential bond—seemed to weigh on him. To him, it wasn’t just an empty space; it was a failure.

You’d almost go as far as to say he’d become desperate, living in the shadows and watching his brothers experience loves so profound they might as well have been plucked from stories meant to inspire poets and dreamers.

Mating bonds were rare. You reminded yourself of that often. Your family was just an anomaly, their luck skewed impossibly high. But logic wasn’t enough to soothe Azriel, and it certainly wouldn’t stop him from chasing it. He was obsessive. Stubborn.

Nothing you said or did could change his perspective.

Mor’s voice pulled you out of your head again. “Speak of the devil,” she sang out. “Hi, Elain.”

Your gaze snapped up to the doorway, finding Elain standing just beyond the archway. She looked like a spooked deer, frozen in place with that polite smile you’d come to recognize as her default around company she hadn’t fully warmed up to yet.

“We were just talking about Azriel’s unfortunate romantic history,” Mor said smoothly. You glanced at Elain for her reaction.

It had taken time for that particular history to fade. Maybe it was appropriate to joke about now, but you personally would’ve waited a few more years before bringing it up so flippantly. Mor, however, had little patience for such niceties.

Elain’s expression didn’t shift beyond a faint flicker in her eyes, and you realized how much her composure had improved over the years. Then again, it had been a while since she and Lucien had found each other for good—long enough for their bond to solidify and for them to leave for the Day Court after their mating ceremony.

A twinge of jealousy sparked in you before you brushed it aside.

“We’re just gossiping in general. Want to join us?” you asked, gesturing to the chair beside you. Plush and inviting, it mirrored the one you sat on. “Unless Lucien is waiting for you upstairs?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed crimson.

“Lucien’s still with Feyre, catching up,” she said, stepping further into the room. “What are you drinking?”

Mor reached for the bottle on the table, plucking it up and turning it in her hand to read the label.

“Something good and expensive,” she replied, with a half-hearted air of indulgence, before tilting her head at Elain with a faint grin.

“It’s from Rhys’s rather gluttonous collection,” you said, sensing Elain’s hesitation. “It won’t be missed at all.”

She smiled at that. “I’d love some.”

“There are a lot of glasses in that cabinet,” you said, pointing to the wood door with ornate carvings. “Grab whichever one you’d like.”

Mor sat up straighter, scooting herself back into the pillows behind her. You hummed, impressed, at her ability to hold both her full wine glass and the bottle without so much as a wobble.

You hadn’t spent much time with Elain one-on-one. Emissary duties had kept you busy during the years the Archeron sisters had adjusted to their new lives. But you liked Elain, from what you’d seen. She had a kind heart. She also had a sharp humor that surfaced at the oddest moments, usually when she and Lucien were whispering in corners, conspiratorial before seamlessly rejoining whatever social event they were at like they’d never left.

Elain returned and sat down with her chosen glass—a delicate crystal piece that gleamed in the soft light. Mor went to fill it instantly.

“Can I ask why you were discussing Azriel’s romantic life?” Elain asked. Her voice was smooth, certain. No hesitation.

It didn’t faze her anymore, you realized—being such a strange, pivotal turning point in Azriel’s past experiences. She’d made peace with it, the way immortality seemed to demand. Time softened the edges of even the messiest situations, turning them into stories you could recount with startling detachment. Almost humorous, really.

Because how else could you explain being casual about the fact that your best friend had almost allowed his pride—and arrogance—and, somehow simultaneously, his insecurity—to lead him into a blood duel over Elain’s affections? A blood duel.

But now, it was just… something to write off. A distant memory, softened by the years and Lucien’s easy confidence. Lucien was better than you. You would’ve held that grudge against Azriel for many more years—long enough to make it a point of pride. But then again, Lucien had won everything he wanted in the end. He had the girl, the bond, the certainty that whatever lingering rivalry Azriel might feel was entirely one-sided.

It wasn’t important enough for Lucien to waste any more energy on.

You exchanged a glance with Mor, who arched a brow, clearly just as amused by Elain’s openness.

“Y/n doesn’t like his new girlfriend,” Mor said.

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t either.”

“True,” Mor agreed easily. She looked to Elain. “We don’t like her.”

“For clarification,” you said firmly, “I never said I didn’t like her.”

Mor laughed, sipping her wine with an amused grin.

Your face fell flat. “What?”

“Nothing,” she replied breezily. “But if you get a bad feeling about someone, that’s usually dislike.”

You resisted the urge to scowl, already turning over the guilt in your mind. You didn’t want to be that person—the kind who dismissed another female off the bat. Maybe your gut was wrong this time. Maybe her smile had reached her eyes, and you’d been too preoccupied to notice. Maybe her tone hadn’t been as assessing as you remembered, and you were projecting. You wanted to like her. You wanted to be happy for Azriel.

But he didn’t seem happy. He seemed distracted. Busy. Not himself.

And not the kind of busy you’d seen before—the methodical, obsessive focus he funneled into work or training. This was different, scattered in a way you couldn’t quite pin down. It had made sense in the beginning, when things were new and exciting, but now it was starting to feel uncomfortable. He’d started missing things—small things at first, like sparring sessions or those late-night conversations you, Mor, and him would have when you couldn’t sleep. Then came the bigger things. He’d stopped being able to review external court updates with you, even when those meetings were critical for your diplomatic roles.

Azriel had always been the one you could count on. Out of everyone, you considered him your closest friend—even more than Mor, though you’d never admit it out loud. But now it seemed like every time you made plans, Selene needed him more.

And then there was how fast it was all moving. Too fast. At a recent family dinner, she’d casually mentioned that she and Azriel could move in together—offhand, like it was the most obvious next step. Something about leaving the townhouse behind, creating a space with décor that matched her aesthetic. Azriel had just stayed quiet, looked at her like she’d just proposed the most brilliant idea in existence.

You noticed he did that. The way he looked at her. The way he’d looked at Elain and Gwyn back when they were seeing each other. It weirded you out—that tendency to put the people he saw as romantic interests on a pedestal, as though they were flawless. As though they were something he didn’t deserve.

You knew where it came from. That deep-rooted insecurity that even centuries hadn’t managed to erase. He didn’t see it, the way he wore himself down trying to prove his worth to people who, for the most part, had already accepted him. But you saw it. You always had.

And it made it harder to like Selene. To trust her intentions. Maybe that was unfair, but you couldn’t help but feel like she was just taking—taking all the parts of Azriel that used to be all of yours to share, and twisting them into something else. Something that didn’t include his family.

Still, you wanted to try. To let go of the gnawing irritation in your chest and convince yourself it didn’t matter. If she made him happy—truly happy—then none of it should matter. You were adamant on ensuring that you didn’t turn into the stereotypical overbearing female best friend.

Elain tapped her glass lightly. “Lucien doesn’t like her.”

You blinked back into reality. “Really?”

She nodded, a beat passing before she added, “To be honest, I’m not sure I do either.”

Mor leaned forward, grinning like she’d been handed a stack of gold. You almost wished Amren was here to bask in the moment. Amren didn’t like Azriel’s girlfriend, either. Maybe your family really was as unwelcoming as people claimed. Or maybe Selene simply brought out another level of scrutiny. The thought of either option made you feel bad— gross.

“Why?” Mor asked.

“She was dismissive toward Lucien. And,” Elain hesitated, her brow furrowing slightly, “She seemed… entitled, I suppose. Especially with Azriel. Like she expected him to accommodate her every whim.”

You frowned, turning over her words. “I’m sure she was just nervous. We can be an intimidating group. Maybe she just needs time to settle in. We just want Az to be happy, right? So, if she makes him happy, then I’m absolutely fine with her.”

The silence that followed was thick. For a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong. Something weird.

“Are you?” Elain asked, her tone sincere.

“Are you?” Mor echoed at the same time, voice dripping with sarcasm.

You shot Mor a glare, but she only raised her brows and sipped her wine again, infuriatingly unbothered. Exhaling, you willed yourself to meet Elain’s gaze.

“I am,” you said, trying for conviction. “Really.”

Elain pursed her lips. Her gaze shifted to Mor, lingering longer than you liked, and then back to you.

“Alright,” she hummed. “I guess I was wrong.”

You stilled. Elain reclined deeper into her seat, accepting a refill from Mor. Her wine glass remained only half-full compared to yours and Mor’s.

Curiosity burned. You leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Elain furrowed her brows. “What do I mean about what?”

“You said you guess you were wrong. What does that mean?”

Mor’s gaze bored into the side of your face. Any second now, you were sure she’d make some quip about how bothered you were. But you weren’t bothered. Just curious.

Elain swirled her wine, watching the light catch the liquid. “I’m not sure. Things feel off. Like something’s coming. Az needs help with it, I think.”

You froze. “Off? Like—how?”

She hesitated, thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “But I feel it. In my chest. My visions sometimes do that. That’s why I asked.”

Well, that unsettled you. You glanced at Mor, whose amused grin had fallen into something more contemplative.

It seemed you might need to have a conversation with Azriel after all.

“I don’t like that,” you admitted, your nose crinkling.

“I think I heard him get back earlier. Go talk to him,” Mor said, her tone gentler now, though a hint of mischief lingered in her eyes. You didn’t read too much into that. Mor’s eyes tended to be expressive. She also tended to be mischievous when her blood was primarily red wine.

“Okay,” you said. “Maybe just to check in.”

Elain nodded. “Just to check in,” she echoed, almost reassuring.

“Have fun,” Mor added, her grin returning just enough to be annoying, but not enough to distract you from the unease curling in your chest.

You didn’t respond, instead taking another slow sip of your drink. The glass clinked softly as you set it down on the table before you made your way upstairs.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Mor turned to Elain. “Did you really feel something that unsettling?”

Elain let out a laugh. “No,” she said lightly. “I completely made that up. But she doesn’t need to know that.”

Mor’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. Seconds later, her head tilted back in a laugh just as vibrant as it was unapologetic.

“Genius,” she declared, raising her glass in mock salute.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The walk upstairs was quiet.

The townhome, in general, was quieter nowadays. Aside from the times others came to visit—like Lucien and Elain—only you and Azriel lived here full time.

When you reached Azriel’s bedroom door, your steps faltered for a moment. There was a hesitation in you that hadn't existed before. You raised your hand to knock, but the action felt more awkward than usual. It made you sad, momentarily, that you hesitated. You never second-guessed yourself with Azriel. You wanted to tread carefully in this new era of his life, though. You didn’t want to overstep, to become a nuisance. But whatever this was—whatever had unsettled Elain enough to mention it—you needed to know. Azriel had always been a constant for you, and if something felt “off,” you wanted to understand why.

Your knuckles rapped lightly on the door. “Az?”

Inside, you heard the shuffle of movement, followed by his low, familiar voice. “Come in.”

You didn’t see Azriel immediately, but the smell of soap and the damp air told you that he recently showered. Shadows slithered across the floor, comfortable and excited, exploring the familiar confines of his room.

You greeted the tendrils as you usually did, letting them brush against your legs as you flopped onto his bed. The bed, like everything else in his room, was simple: plain black sheets, no extravagant pillows, just the bare necessities. It used to drive you mad, the emptiness of it all. But what was in his room spoke volumes—— bare walls except for a dagger mount on one side, a small uncluttered desk with a well-worn sharpening stone.

Azriel exiting the bathroom pulled your attention, your eyes settling on him as he rubbed his wet hair thoroughly with a towel. He shook his head slightly, wet curls bouncing onto his forehead, and met your gaze. His eyes flicked to where you lay, scanning your body. He nodded toward your feet.

“C’mon,” he almost whined. “No shoes on the bed.”

You looked down at yourself, grimacing as you realized that your shoes were, indeed, on his clean comforter. A simple set of house slippers, so nothing entirely too dirty, but it had completely slipped your mind. Very comfortable shoes, you noted, maybe you’d get Feyre a pair as a solstice gift.

“Oh whoops,” you said with an apologetic smile. “My bad, clean freak.”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the quirk of his lips anyways.

For a moment, the old sense of comfort settled over you. But then, a thought crept in—the thought that maybe you shouldn’t lie on his bed like this anymore. It had been fine before, but now… now it felt different. He had someone else in his life. It wasn’t weird, exactly, but it was a little inappropriate.

You sat up straighter.

“Did you and Mor grow tired of rehashing the same centuries old gossip?” He teased.

You snorted, watching as his shadows flitted above his shoulders. They were amused, laughing in their own way. “Never,” you responded, pushing yourself off his bed. You were drawn to the otherside of his room, to the simple dresser against the wall. “Elain joined us this time.”

Your back was to him, but you had a feeling that the momentary silence, the stillness that you felt, was a knee-jerk reaction from Azriel—something reminiscent of embarrassment, shame, or guilt at her name. But all he responded was, “Oh?”

“I like her,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I kinda wish I spent more time with her…”

You paused, your words trailing off quietly as you took in the small details before you.

Azriel’s dresser had always been the one surface he decorated, not because he cared for decoration, but because it was the only surface large enough to hold anything. Over the years, it had become a quiet testament to the things that mattered to him: a mix of Solstice and birthday gifts, trinkets you’d both collected on missions and trips. You liked seeing what had changed, what had been added. It gave you a glimpse into where Azriel had been, who had been with him.

Lately, there had been more—more trinkets, more oddities that stood in stark contrast to the weapons displayed elsewhere, the ones mostly hidden away in his closet. A macaroni necklace from Nyx. A horribly made clay version of him you’d created during a drunken pottery night with Feyre, Mor, and Amren.

But now, the dresser was foreign. The once familiar surface had been wiped clean, replaced by delicate perfume bottles, jewelry that looked too fine to be his, and a candle that smelled—oddly—like the puke of a flower faerie. Some of it was new. Most of it was hers.

Azriel’s presence had vanished from his own furniture entirely.

“Huh.”

“What?” Azriel asked.

You glanced over your shoulder. “I see you’ve decorated more.”

Azriel tilted his head, and a few of his shadows slithered down his body, crossing the room to pool around your ankles. “I guess,” he said. “Selene said my room needed more life.”

You leaned forward, brushing your fingers along the ceramic jewelry dish, the cool surface sending a strange chill through your skin. The shadows flickered over your hand, almost as if they were inspecting it too. They moved with purpose, then slowly obscured it, hiding it from view.

You frowned, confused.

Azriel, still silent, was rifling through his closet. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you as he moved, but he said nothing. The shadows returned to his side as you turned to look at him.

"Are you going somewhere?" you asked, trying to break the silence.

Now, Azriel barely spared you a glance.

“Yeah. Meeting Selene,” he replied simply.

After a few seconds of silence, Azriel turned his head and properly held your gaze. “Why? Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you responded with a casual wave of your hand, but Elain’s words echoed in your mind. You cleared your throat. “Well, actually, no. I was hoping I could talk to you.”

He frowned, standing up straighter, his wings flexing with the motion. “Is it something serious?”

You paused, carefully filtering through your words. “No, just something that’s been on my mind.”

Azriel studied you, doubt flickering in his hazel eyes. It was the kind of look that always made you feel like he was reading you too easily. He probably didn’t believe you, not entirely—but he nodded anyway. His lips curved into a small, apologetic smile. “Raincheck then?”

You mirrored his smile, though it felt thin. “Yeah, sure. We can talk tomorrow, once we’re back from the Hewn City.”

Azriel stilled. The way his gaze dropped to the floor and lingered felt like a guilty dog, an animal caught in an act forbidden. “Shit,” he said, his tone cautious. “I can’t go.”

You blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. “Seriously? Az, Rhys is expecting an update.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere enough. It didn’t matter. “But you can handle it on your own, you know this.”

“Are you serious?” you said, the hurt slipping out before you could stop it. “I don’t want to deal with Keir alone.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to Rhys, but Selene’s been wanting to—”

“Never mind,” you cut him off, shaking your head. You forced a smile. “Have fun tonight. And tomorrow.”

Azriel scanned your face. After another moment of silence, he sighed.

“Okay, what is it?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You clearly have something on your mind. Tell me.”

You hesitated, holding his gaze. “I actually wanted to talk to you about Selene.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened instantly. He looked away, his tongue running across his teeth as he shook his head. “Not you too. Don’t be like this.”

Your frown deepened, offended by the immediate shift in tone. “Be like what? I haven’t even said anything yet.”

He met your eyes again, his stare almost challenging. “We both know what you’re going to say.”

“Do we?”

“First Mor, then Nesta, and now you.” His voice was sharp, but not loud. “Should I be concerned that the females in my life are so quick to rally against my girlfriend?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms to mirror his pose. “Well, yeah, Az. Maybe you should be.”

He rolled his eyes, the shadows at his feet flickering with the motion. “Fine. What do you want to tell me, then?”

For a moment, you hesitated, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue. Azriel had always been good at looking through you, unraveling thoughts you hadn’t fully formed yet. And now, under the weight of his sharp gaze, you felt exposed.

“I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Something flickered in his expression, quick and fleeting—too fast for you to decipher. For the first time in a long while, Azriel felt unreadable, like he’d drawn a curtain between himself and you. “Really?” he asked, his tone tight, almost incredulous.

You faltered, a small thread of doubt weaving its way through your resolve. Was he happy? Would he even tell you if he wasn’t?

“Yes, really,” you replied, a defensive edge creeping into your voice. “You’ve been distant lately. Running around at her beck and call. None of us know her. I want to understand what’s going on with you. I want to understand her.”

Azriel’s wings shifted again, his gaze hardening.

“I want to make sure this is the kind of relationship you want,” you finished, quieter now.

The room fell into silence, heavy and still. Azriel watched you as if he was turning your words over and over in his mind. You waited, unsure of what to expect—if anything at all.

“I wouldn’t be in a relationship I didn’t want. Can we drop it, please.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. What a strange, dismissive answer. It bothered you— bothered you more than anything he’d ever told you before.

“Az, I just don’t want you to change who you are for someone. You don’t need to cater to her every whim.”

His expression darkened, shadows curling tighter around his boots. “I’m her boyfriend. I do what she asks.”

You raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the scoff that slipped out. Azriel had never been so clipped with you. “That’s not the definition of a boyfriend. That’s the definition of a bitch.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his wings flaring in irritation. “Excuse me?” His voice cut through the room. “Do you really think I’m some incompetent love-sick loser?”

“I think you stop seeing flaws in the people you love.”

The words hung between you, heavier than you’d anticipated. A small part of you wondered if “love” was the word Azriel would use to describe his feelings for her. Another part worried that he didn’t correct you.

“That’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he snapped. “I can clearly see that you’re being unfair. Quick to judge, much like Mor. That’s a flaw.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, “You know what I meant. The people you’re infatuated with—”

“Where is this sudden concern coming from?” he interrupted, his shadows now beginning to curl between you like restless mediators, unsure where to settle. “Are you trying to cause issues?”

Something ran hot through your body.

“Seriously? I’m talking to you about this because I care. Because Elain had some cryptic feeling about you—”

“Elain is involved in this conversation, too?” His voice dripped with frustration now. “Gods, Y/n, should I send word for Gwyn while we’re at it? Get her opinion?”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” You took an authoritative step forward. “I’ve never judged you. I’ve always tried to support you and your messy love life, no matter how complicated. Don’t you trust me, Azriel? As a friend?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his shadows flickering uncertainly, still deciding whether to retreat or rise.

You gestured around the room. “Look at this place. You’ve erased all traces of your family—of you, of us. Where did you even put—”

“Oh, gods.” Azriel’s voice broke through, and for a moment, you thought he might crumble. His wings folded, and his hand dragged across his face, the weight of his exhaustion sinking in. “She was right.”

You froze. “What?”

Azriel met your gaze, his eyes hesitant for a heartbeat before turning sharp. “About you. Selene said you were jealous. That you had feelings for me.”

The words hit like a slap, and your world tilted on its axis. “What?” you asked again, your voice breaking on the word. Maybe you had misheard him. Maybe he had misspoken.

“I told her she was wrong. But now…” He let the sentence hang in the air, searching your face for something that maybe wasn’t even there.

“Now, what?” Your voice rose, tinged with anger. “You think I’m here because I’m jealous? Because I have some… crush on you?”

His wings flared slightly at your tone, but he didn’t back down. “I don’t know. It’s just—why else would you care so much about this?”

Your stomach twisted, a deep, cold ache settling there. “Why else?” you repeated, the words bitter on your tongue. “Because I care about you, Azriel. Because you’ve been my friend for centuries. Are you seriously confused about this?”

For a moment, Azriel’s expression faltered, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he said, “I didn’t ask you to care about my love life.”

“You didn’t have to,” you snapped, stepping closer. “That’s what friends do. But you’re standing there, letting her perception of me—someone who doesn’t even know me—warp your judgment. You’ve known me longer than that. Or at least, I thought you did. And the fact that you’d entertain this—” You stopped, shaking your head. “It’s insulting.”

Azriel said nothing. He just stood there, shadows now curling tighter around him.

You had no idea how this conversation had gotten away from you, no idea how it turned into this—where this defensiveness, this anger, had come from. This wasn’t Azriel. Loyal, overly so. Impulsive. Protective.

Or maybe it was. Maybe that loyalty was directed at someone else now—someone who clearly saw you as something threatening. You’d never been on the other side of Azriel before. Never thought you’d see the day. The realization hit like a slap to the face, leaving you shocked, stunned, a pit opening in your stomach that felt too deep to climb out of.

“You know what? Forget it.” You stepped back, the fight draining out of you all at once.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “Really? That’s it?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so bitter. “Yeah,” you said, your voice flat. “That’s it.”

You turned for the door, hand on the handle, but paused. The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and pointed, a petty jab that felt equal parts satisfying and hollow. “Make sure to lock this door when you leave—I’d hate to accidentally stumble back in and throw myself at you.”

Azriel stiffened, his wings snapping taut behind him. For a brief second, you thought he might say something, anything. But he didn’t.

You closed the door behind you with a heavy thud.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: no one tell them they probs have feelings for each other bc they’ll probably fight you (also elains moment is so self indulgent bc i would totally be making shit up based off my powers. like yeah actually you can’t be mean to be :/ powers are saying you’ll die if you are)

Part Two

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound

@melissat1254

@secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows

azriel tag list 🫶🏻:@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder @mortqlprojections @ushijima-stits @honethatty12

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bucketbueckers · 1 month ago

Text

TERRITORIAL

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: filth 👅 (w decent plot - cmon, we know how this goes by now) jealous!p, slight public sex & exhibitionism(?), fingering (r!receiving), packing (🌚), strap (r!receiving), oral (p!receiving), lap dances, spitting, actual warning for men

wc: 8.0k

synopsis: Paige knew what she was signing up for when she asked you, a revered dancer for Dallas’s most prolific strip club, to be her girlfriend, but sometimes she just can’t help getting jealous. Especially when someone thinks they can touch what’s not theirs.

notes: yes the title is from the kali uchis song. if there's any of my fics i recommend listening to the titular song for, this is def one!!! based on this req from 🫦 anon, hoping i did this justice for you and thank you sm for sending this in 🙏 i fear this might be the last fic for a minute - im not dying but i do have to lock in on classes 👎 not proofread but as always though i hope y'all enjoy 🫶

You and Paige weren’t a very…conventional couple by any means. You shouldn’t work well together, but you do.

You’re a stripper – although you prefer the term exotic dancer now, mostly since you’d put an end to some of the services you used to offer – for one of Dallas’s most high profile clubs, Divinity. A corny name that served an even hornier clientele of Dallas’s richest playboys, sleazes, and their countless athletes. You weren’t complaining, though. It’s putting you through college, you’re well on your way to paying off your mom’s house, and you were fortunate enough to have understanding employers who were aware of the ramifications of their business. When you told them that you’d prefer not to perform lap dances or other private shows out of respect for your relationship, they’d readily agreed, a fact you were more than appreciative of.

Paige is one of Dallas’s up-and-coming stars, a bright-eyed, attractive, alluring athlete with the world at her disposal. She was shockingly grounded despite that, humble where you would have expected an arrogant jerk. For all intents and purposes, she wasn’t anything you were preparing yourself for, but you don’t think you’d ever be so thankful to be so surprised.

The two of you have been together for nearly a year, having met during a preseason match during her rookie season. While she was diving for a loose ball near the courtside seats, she ended up at your feet and spilled your drink onto the court. Paige was incredibly apologetic, hardly registering the fact she’d been awarded free throws for the foul, more focused on wiping the water off of your Dunks. After standing and staring at your face for a solid few seconds, as if wondering how you were real and in front of her, she offered to buy you a drink, but the refs were growing impatient and she was out of time.

That didn’t stop her from tracking you down after the game, though. Nor did it stop her from shaking your hand with an enraptured, charismatic little smile, asking for your name and when you’d be free like you’d already accepted her date offer. When you teased her for that, her smile just grew before she pointed out, “Well, you waited for me to come find you. Figured you were at least a little interested.”

In fairness, she was correct. You were interested, not because she was Paige Bueckers or some beginning of a superstar athlete, but because of her humility and how she sank to her knees in front of a sold out arena to dab the water off of your shoes with the hem of her jersey. That meant something to you. So you go out, enjoy the drinks and the company, and you see her again. Then again after that.

Before you could let your relationship grow out of hand, you knew you had to sit her down and explain your profession. You were really into her, but you could see how it could be a dealbreaker for a lot of people, especially since Paige was a public figure. She took it a lot better than you’d been expecting, which led to a lengthy conversation about everything under the sun. She asked if you enjoyed doing it – you did, you were just a dancer at heart and you would be the first to admit that dancing has helped you come out of your shell.

In turn, you asked her if being with you would make things difficult for her. She was reasonably confused, then almost offended at the idea, before ensuring you that her private life was just that – private. Obviously, being the celebrity athlete she is, it would be near impossible to promise that the two of you could keep things that lowkey, but she was honest and told you upfront that she was falling for you and promised that if push came to shove, the two of you would work through it.

That was the heart of the conversation. Paige asked you to be her girlfriend a week later. It was after a private, rooftop dinner and movie in the fading sunlight of the Dallas summer. You’d said yes, of course, because you were falling hard for her, too. The officiality of your relationship sparked a new conversation regarding boundaries. You agreed on keeping your relationship private, mostly for your benefit – Paige had explained that she could handle the heat on her end, but recognized she had some…hardcore fans, and didn’t want them showing up to your workplace and harassing you.

You told her you’d talk to your employers about dancing only and discontinuing the private shows that people would pay for. It was for both yours and Paige’s peace of mind – you didn’t feel comfortable being so close to other people and performing intimate acts, even if it was your job. It wasn’t necessary and that was a boundary you were willing to enforce because you liked Paige, saw a future with her, and wanted to ensure there was no miscommunication about anything in your relationship. Paige, to her credit, had seemed guilty, making sure to repeatedly emphasize that you didn’t need to change your life or endanger your job for her. You just rolled your eyes, kissed her, and reminded her that you care a whole lot more about her than whether or not old, sleazy men get their rocks off. She’d probably never admit it, but she was relieved that you took that boundary so seriously.

Paige wasn’t known to be an incredibly jealous person. Communication, despite how uncomfortable it could be, was the very foundation of your relationship. The two of you were so secure with one another and any of her jealousy could be derived from a deep-rooted possessiveness.

It’s not the uncomfortable kind where she controls your every move or makes decisions for you – you’d had an ex or two who were like that and you were not keen on repeating that. It was more of a mutual agreement – you were hers, she was yours, and honestly, she was probably developing a bit of a complex about it; you’d perform for a crowd full of people who’d give anything to be with you, but it was her you’d go home to every night. In essence, she just didn’t like it when people got a little too close to what wasn’t theirs.

You and Paige weren’t a conventional couple. But you were a healthy one. You communicated, you had a whole lot of love for each other, and you worked. Despite that, you can’t always control how you feel, and sometimes, Paige just can’t help being jealous.

It was a Friday night at the club and it was already packed wall to wall with patrons, mostly your regulars, but there were also some new faces – investors, foreign athletes, various rookies for the hometown teams. It was a typical show-out, so you weren’t expecting much of it, not until one of your coworkers walks into the dressing room while you’re applying a thin layer of gloss to your lips.

“Never in a million years will you guess who just walked in,” Asha, better known by her stage name Vixen, states in lieu of a greeting. You glance at her through the mirror, your brows raising slightly. She’s dressed to the nines, her make-up gorgeous, and she smoothes out her hair while she waits for your answer.

“Hello, Asha,” you deadpan. “Yes, I’ve had a good day, thanks for asking.”

“Girl!” Asha kisses her teeth while she rolls her eyes at you. “You’re so high maintenance.”

You allow yourself a ghost of a grin, capping your gloss and spinning in your chair to face her. “Okay, who? Was it another rapper? Athletes? Married man?”

“Depends on your definition of rapper; yes, they’re all athletes; and I’m pretty sure there’s at least one or two people in there who are married, but they’re not men,” Asha responds.

You hum. “Well, who are we to yuck their yum?”

Asha huffs, annoyed at the fact that you’re not really reacting, before finally saying, “It’s the Wings, girl. As in the WNBA team. As in First Team All-Studs. I’m either walking out of here tonight with hundreds in my purse or a wife. Shit, maybe Arike’s looking for a third.”

At that, you can’t help but laugh. That morning, before you and Paige went your separate ways – you to the gym and Paige to practice, she’d told you that they’d be out on the town tonight to celebrate some of their rookies, although you thought that would include the bar and some drinks, not a strip club. Knowing Paige, bringing her team to your club wouldn’t have been her first choice, so you figure someone else on her team had the bright idea. You weren’t upset, mostly amused since Paige tends to react to the club in the same way she does while walking through the lingerie section in Victoria’s Secret store – with a lot of dramatic horror like she’s not allowed to look at anyone that’s not you.

You like to joke you have her pretty house-trained, but you find it more endearing than anything else, and you trust your girlfriend.

“I’m sure Arike is very happy in her current relationship,” you say apologetically, knowing first hand that she is. You’d been to their place for dinner many times and Arike practically worships the ground Lala walks on.

“Let me dream,” Asha bemoans. Then, a sly grin appears on her face, and she slides a little closer to you, almost conspiratorially. “You plottin’ on any of them? I think I saw Paige Bueckers out there.”

You smile knowingly, trying not to laugh at Asha’s ignorance – a testament to how quiet you’d kept your relationship. “She’s fine,” you agree, trying to not look too helplessly in love. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll want a private show.”

Her grin widens, but you’re both out of time – one of the stage managers knocks on the door to announce your call time. Asha wishes you luck while you strap on your heels, making your way backstage. The manager guides you to your spot and you take a deep breath in preparation, adjusting the thin, teasing bikini cover over your body. It hides the matching set you’re wearing – an alluring, dark red with glittering rhinestones. You have half a mind to steal it and take it back home with you, but knowing Paige, she’d probably object and buy you a different set entirely for your eyes only.

On cue, you walk out in time with the music, a slow, sultry R&B song, and you make eye contact with the people crowding the stage. The lights, while usually dimmer, have been brightened slightly in preparation for your set. You make your way to the front of the stage, where you’re amused to see your girlfriend and her team waiting. Paige’s eyes brighten at the sight of you, drinking you in, drawing her lip between her teeth almost absentmindedly.

Deciding to tease her a little, you spin on your heel, your back to her as you pull your cover down inch by devastating inch. Your motions are deliberate, revealing miles upon miles of smooth skin, the lingerie covering your body, the lights catching the rhinestones perfectly. You’re practically glowing. With the cover in your hand, you crouch, making eye contact with Paige, and you smile cunningly at her while you wrap the cover around the back of her neck, pulling her in.

The crowd’s cheering, but you hardly register them as Paige’s hands find your skin. You brush your lips across her ear, knowing you don’t have much time, and you murmur, “What’s the girlfriend gonna think when she finds out you’re at the club?”

Paige slips a crisp hundred dollar bill into your bralette, her hands lingering longer than necessary, but you don’t mind. Her eyes are glued to your chest for a beat, but when they meet your gaze, her pupils are blown wide with desire and a thinly veiled mischief. “Sin now, beg for forgiveness later, right?” she murmurs over the bass of the music. “I’ll make it up to her.”

Your smirk widens and you release her, intending to actually start your set now. You don’t miss how Paige’s teammates jostle her in excitement. Arike was the only one who knew the truth and she just grins knowingly, shaking her head.

You always lock in when you dance, so your set goes by smoothly and ends before you know it. With a smile, you make one last lap around the stage, interacting with the club-goers and winking at the Wings team. If you blew a kiss to them, then that’s no one’s business but your own, but you make your way off the stage and towards your dressing room to change.

Asha’s up next after you, so she congratulates you on a good set before she’s off to do hers. You’re just barely slipping out of your heels when there’s a knock at the door. Thinking it’s a stage manager, you call for them to come in, but you’re surprised when Neil, one of the club managers, walks in. He’s a new face, hired mostly just to fill the vacancy. You don’t know him well – you usually answer to Nicole, but she’s out for the week on a trip.

“Hey, Neil,” you greet, sliding your cover back on to ward off the room’s chill.

“Hello,” he says stiffly. “I’ve got a gentleman in Private Room C. He’s requesting you.”

“I don’t do private dances anymore,” you say, your tone not apologetic. “I think Jess is available.”

Neil sighs. “You know…” he says, trailing off, and you already know he’s about to say something out of pocket. “This is a business. You’re employed here. At a strip club. This is your job. If you were working at McDonald’s, your boss wouldn’t really like it if you refused to make the burger, right?”

You barely resist an eye roll, retorting, “I don’t actually think that’s the same.”

He clears his throat. “Either way, I wasn’t asking. An investor in the private room wants a show from you, so you will do it. You’re the only one here who thinks they’re above the business and refuses to do private shows. Pull your weight or you can find a different club to dance at.”

You raise your brows, meeting his gaze, and smiling in disbelief. “You’re serious?” you ask, laughing uncomfortably. “You can’t fire me. I’ve been here for years.”

“This is Dallas,” he says noncommittally. “We can find someone to replace you. Someone who actually wants to work. Take your pick.”

You stare at him, shaking your head in contemplation. You didn’t want to do the show – it went against the clear boundary you’d set in your relationship early on, one that has been strictly adhered to for the year and some change you and Paige have been dating. But you didn’t want to jeopardize your job, either. Given that Divinity caters to Dallas’s most wealthy, there’s strict rules the patrons have to adhere to to even step foot in the club. It pays extremely well, but this is also the safest you’ll ever be.

Maybe you’ll get the chance to see Paige before you have to go to the room – just to quickly explain. She’d understand. You knew she would, and that you would make it up to her tenfold. But this feels strangely like betraying her and it leaves a sick feeling in your gut.

“One minute,” you say finally. Neil’s eyes narrow. “One minute is all he gets. You know I don’t do private dances.”

“Five minutes,” Neil bargains. “He’s paying a lot.”

“One minute,” you reiterate.

“Fine,” he huffs.

You strap your heels back on, trying to control your features. You walk out with Neil following directly behind you. Knowing you won’t be able to detour to find Paige, you slow your steps, scanning the crowd for her. Finally, you spot her at a table in the back, nursing a drink and talking to Arike, clearly not interested in the show anymore. You’re praying for her to look up and meet your gaze before it’s too late – and she does, her expression lighting up at the sight of you before her eyes narrow, knowing where you’re headed. Hoping that she gets the message, you gesture meaningfully to Neil, and she nods, but she looks no less pissed.

Feeling a little more relieved, you try for a smile, pulling back the curtain in the private room and entering. Thankfully, the man sitting on the couch at least looks polite, so you hope that this minute will go by quickly. He attempts to make small talk, commenting on how good your set was as you slide your cover off again, but your heart isn’t in it. Your training goes out of the window and so does every pre-rehearsed line you’ve ever had to use in the past.

You spin, listening for the beat in from the music overhead, but you’re too lost in your thoughts, unable to commit to it fully. Thankfully, you don’t have to for too long because the curtain rips open again.

“Sorry,” Paige says, but she doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic as she steps in between you and the investor, who looks shocked. “She’s spoken for. Scheduling conflict.”

Without waiting for a response from you or the man, she reaches for your cover, wrapping it around your shoulders and ushering you out of the room with her hand on the small of your back. All you feel is a deep relief, letting her lead you to the glass elevators that lead to the private lounges and the managerial offices. The private lounges were usually set aside for reservations, something more elite than the VIP sections, but they’re empty tonight, as are the managerial offices.

The club has a few floors with the managerial offices at the very top. They stick out over the rest of the club almost like a balcony, with floor to ceiling glass walls, allowing for people to stare out at the stage and the seating area, but it’s usually too dim for the patrons to see up. It’s particularly effective for keeping an eye on everything and searching for unruly guests. Up here, it’s like a one way glass – fully private. You can see out but no one can see in.

“I didn’t want to do it,” you rush out as the doors close behind you. You watch the stage disappear as the elevator takes you both up.

Paige’s arm curls fully around your waist, pulling you into her. “I know, baby,” she says, but her voice is still tight. Pissed. Not at you, but at something.

You hardly hear her words. “Neil made me,” you explain, making sure she understands how seriously you see that boundary. You know she knows, but right now, you’re a little anxious, and you want it to be obvious. “He threatened to fire me.”

“I’ll deal with him,” she promises, her voice still dark as she presses her lips to your temple, your forehead. You have no doubt in your mind that she would, but the reassurance makes your heartbeat calm. The elevators open with a sharp ding! Paige leads you out and towards the managerial offices, her hand heavily over your waist, burning. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, leaning into her, the cool silk of her fitted, white dress shirt cold against your heated skin. “I was just a little pissed. But I’m good now.” She hums, trailing her fingers down your sides in a way that almost makes you forget. Your body burns for a different reason now. Swallowing thickly, you admit, “Just wanna be close to you.”

You can almost feel Paige’s smile as she dips her head down, her breath hitting your ear. “Do you?” she murmurs, her voice low, sharp, like she’s daring for someone to try to take you away from her. She leads you towards the glass wall, pressing you against it gently, her chest to your back. Your breath hitches, your eyes scanning the floor below you – dozens of people lost in their own world, in the dancer controlling the stage, too unaware of the fact that if they looked up, they’d see Paige Bueckers holding her girlfriend against the glass.

It’s almost thrilling. The fact you can see all of these people, but they can’t see you. You know they can’t see you, even if it looks like they can.

Paige’s hands trail to your shoulders, reaching for your thin, lacy cover, pulling it off with an agonizing slowness. Her lips follow the path, dancing across your shoulders with a gentle laziness, like she has all the time in the world to pick you apart. Her kisses burn, stoking a flame in your belly that’s been ready to ignite since she slipped the bill into your bralette earlier. She calms the heat with her tongue, licking your skin and groaning at the flavor like she can’t get enough of it.

Finally, your cover is off, and she throws it somewhere to the side without a care in the world. Her hands find your hips, squeezing possessively, and a moan slips from your lips when she presses lingering, wet kisses to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You shudder when her fingers trail down, slipping under the waistband of your lingerie, but she doesn’t touch you – she just hovers. Something about the reminder that despite it all, despite the many different facets of your life that she doesn’t control, that she refuses to control, your pleasure is the one thing she takes the most pride in. She has all the time in the world to figure out how she wants to touch you, how she wants to work you up.

“Just want me to take care of you, don’t you?” she hums against your skin. You nod immediately, feeling the flush settle on your skin, something in your brain floating away because you know you’re safe here. You can relax and let Paige handle it all. She kisses your skin once more before finally, she presses her hips into you, and your breath stutters. You can feel the outline of the strap in her pants, every maddening inch of the silicone. It makes you shudder with want, your arousal already leaking out and soaking your lingerie – you can feel it.

Something smart returns to you and you laugh a little, tilting your head back to rest on her shoulder, letting her wrap you up fully. Slowly, she grinds the strap against you, her breath coming a little heavier due to the dual stimulation. “Optimist, are you?”

Paige bites the lobe of your ear, her smile turning a little dark as she pulls you tighter against her. “JJ wanted to go out,” she murmurs in your ear, slipping her hand fully under the waistband of your lingerie. “Some club called Divinity, she said. Figured my girl would want a little break. Just me and her, a private room. She works so hard, you know?” Her fingers find your wetness like it’s second nature and she groans in delight when she discovers just how slick, how ready you are. “Oh, baby,” she coos, her voice dripping in sin and concern. “All this for me?”

“Nobody else,” you affirm, and she rewards you with a deep kiss to your jaw, a firmer swipe against your clit. It makes your hips buck before she steadies you. “P, please, need it so bad.”

“I know,” she says. Her fingers are everything and nothing, reaching down to your entrance, gathering the arousal pooled there, and using it to rub maddening circles against you. The stimulation is simultaneously overwhelming and not enough, especially coupled with the realization that anyone could look up and see Paige Bueckers ruining you against a window.

Her hips are insistent against yours, controlled in how they give you the slightest bit of friction before pulling away. You’re aware she’s holding you up fully by this point, so you give into it, reaching up with your right hand to thread your fingers through her hair, dragging her back down to your neck.

She doesn’t hesitate, her tongue licking from the base of your throat to your pulse point, smiling when she feels the relentless pounding of your heart against her lips. You can’t find it within yourself to be ashamed, not when her fingers are circling your sensitive clit like her pleasure depends on whether or not you’re feeling good.

“All those people down there…” Paige whispers, her teeth scraping against your skin, the heat of her grin branding her name into your skin. “They don’t know what I have up here. That the woman they throw their salary at comes home to me. That I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. Touch you like this.”

“Fuck, Paige,” you whimper, feeling boneless when her fingers speed up ever so slightly, your body trembling and buzzing under her ministrations. She presses her lips against your shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle there, not letting up until a dark spot blooms under her touch. She kisses it gently, tongue swiping over the mark, almost as though she’s rewarding you for being good, for taking it. Her pride unravels you and your breathing comes in quick bursts, feeling ready to fall apart.

“You want my fingers, mama?” she coos, shaking her head in displeasure when you nod.

She doesn’t have to say anything – you correct yourself immediately when the fingers on your clit slow. Your fingers tighten in her hair for stability as you babble, “Want them, P, please. Want you to make me feel good. Please–” You cut yourself off with a moan when her fingers resume their speed and press a little firmer into you.

“That’s it,” Paige soothes, her lips kissing your heated skin gently, her soft words a gentle contrast from the intensity of her fingers. It’s nearly shocking, the dual sensations muddling your brain. “Lean against the window for me.”

You do as she says, letting her guide you to her liking, your palms pressed flat against the glass. Your forehead presses against the window, the sweat beading at your hairline smudging the surface, and Paige enters your personal space immediately. She tangles her fingers into the waistband of your lingerie and pulls them down your thighs with a devastating slowness, groaning to herself when a strand of your slick sticks to the fabric and breaks when the stretch is too much. The lingerie pools at your knees and Paige presses her hips flush against your ass, grinding against you until you’re pushing back in search of friction.

You don’t have the time to beg. She reads the sheer need in your expression immediately, her arms wrapping around your waist, knees pushing your legs apart. Your breath fogs against the glass, and if you look close enough, you can just barely see your reflection staring back at you – hair messy, lips red from your teeth, the shine of your neck from Paige’s efforts. You can see the sharp outline of her smile, too, like the idea of claiming you in front of everyone in this club is exciting.

She wasn’t usually jealous. You were hers, she was yours, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. But possessive? She wanted to show everyone who you were with, who gets to take the skimpy lingerie off of you after long nights. She wants everyone to be well aware of the fact that while they’re the ones fantasizing, she’s the one who gets to hold, to touch, to ruin you for anyone else.

Her mouth finds your neck while the opening notes of Kali Uchis’s Territorial reverberates through the club below. You can feel the bass coursing through your veins, the tinkling strings raising goosebumps on your flesh. Every sensation nearly fades to background noise when Paige’s fingers settle on your clit again, dragging through your folds to coat them in your slick, and her middle finger probes your entrance before sliding in with ease.

The motion punches dual moans from the both of you, yours in pleasure, hers in a near disbelief. No matter how many times she gets you off, the feeling of your cunt sucking up her fingers is one that gets her right every time. You clench, already feeling her brush against the spot that makes electricity course down your spine, moaning wantonly when she curls just right.

With her free hand, she cups your chest, thumb brushing against a nipple covered by the thin lace of your top. You gasp at the feeling, your forehead dropping onto the glass, fingers twisting around nothing, and the hand kneading your breast redirects to lift your chin. “Watch them,” Paige orders, her voice rough, wrecked. “Let them see who’s fucking you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, heat coiling in your belly at her words. You try to focus, you really do, but your vision blurs when Paige slides in her ring finger, her pace increasing in speed and intensity. If keeping your eyes on the club below you wasn’t hard enough, then it becomes near impossible when Paige’s slow grind against your ass starts up again, her soft sighs and choked moans like music to your ears as she chases a high you have to strain to see.

Her reflection in the glass is the perfect image of someone who’s ruined. Her hair is a mess from how you tangled your fingers in the strands, her brows pinched together in pleasure when the base of the strap brushes against her clit just right. It’s hot – really, really fucking hot, watching and listening to Paige lose her mind rutting against you while her fingers work you up to a quickly approaching high.

The flames lick at your skin, sweat slicking every inch of your body, your breath fogging the glass in front of you. The knowledge that you’re wholly hers combined with the feeling of her fingers scissoring in and out of you, knowing which buttons to push as if you were an extension of her, makes you keen, your hips unsure of whether or not they should buck into her or grind down in time with her fingers. You settle on both, gyrating and chasing your high, but you all but whine when her hand abandons your chin to press against your sensitive clit.

It’s overwhelming – Paige’s fingers curling inside you, pushing in and out relentlessly, her opposite hand rubbing delicious circles against your needy clit, the strap against your ass, your nipples brushing against the cool glass, and the breathless sound of your girlfriend’s moans as she gets off behind you is enough to push you closer and closer to the peak. With a broken gasp, you cry out, “Fuck, P, close,” and she nods against the sweat-slick skin of your neck.

Her hips slam into yours with a little more intensity, pushing you into the glass, both of her hands increasing their pace and pressure in tandem. “I know, mama,” she rasps, leaving marks on your skin, the indents of her teeth left in their wake. Paige sounds destroyed, like she’s moments away from unraveling completely. All that does is push you to the edge. “Give it to me, baby. Gonna make me so proud, aren’t you? My perfect girl.”

You come with a breathless shudder, unable to force the words through your windpipe, and Paige sags against you, her lips jerking messily while her fingers slowly work you through the lingering shockwaves of your orgasm. The cool glass is like a balm against your skin, the sensation so needed while your skin burns and sizzles from the electricity. Paige is panting heavily into your ear – it reminds you that she’d gotten off, too, just from grinding against you. That makes the heat coiling in your belly return tenfold.

You push yourself off of the glass window, hardly thinking about the smudges on the surface, and Paige steadies your hips when your legs tremble. You turn in her embrace, smiling when she wraps you up, pressing your back against the glass now. She kisses your lips – deep, lingering, tongue probing for an entrance that you grant immediately. With her left hand, she pulls your lingerie off completely, tossing the bottoms to the side haphazardly, and she lifts you into her arms with ease. Your legs wrap around her waist, arms around her neck, as she begins mouthing down your chest.

“Nicole’s gonna be so pissed when she gets back from her trip and realizes someone got defiled against her glass window,” you mutter in between heaving breaths.

Paige smirks against your skin, dragging your bra down with her teeth, encircling a nipple with her lips, causing you to gasp. “Defiled is crazy work,” she mumbles. “I prefer worship.”

“You’re annoying,” you say, your body betraying your words when you arch into her mouth.

She squeezes your ass, walking the two of you backwards until her knees hit an armchair and she sinks down, pulling you onto her lap. The front of her pants are wet – you can’t tell if it’s yours, or hers, or a mixture of both, but it just makes you hungry when you pull her up to kiss you again. “You’re spoiled,” she retorts, fingers reaching up for the clasps of your bra. You let her pull it off you completely, smiling to yourself when she stares at you like you’re one of the ancient wonders of the world. “And so, so fucking fine. Jesus.”

You laugh against her lips, your fingers working on unbuckling her belt. She lifts her hips to help you pull her pants and boxers down in one quick motion and you quirk a brow at the sight of the slick between her thighs. You swipe a finger through the wetness accumulated on her legs, sucking it into your mouth with an indulgent moan. That makes the smug smile on her face disappear, and she grips your thighs tightly like she’d lose her mind if you weren’t on her strap immediately. “Can’t believe you came untouched,” you tease, your fingers dancing across the silicone gently. Paige tenses like she could feel it.

“You could touch me right now and fix that,” she offers, voice a little choked, her hips bucking up in invitation. You can’t help the way your mouth waters, knowing that Paige would have you right in minutes.

Instead of giving her what she wants, you stand up, your heels still giving you a slight height advantage over her as she manspreads in the armchair. She pouts, looking disappointed at your departure, but you lean over her and begin unbuttoning her shirt. With your breasts so close to her face, she looks determinedly less upset, although you have to swat her hand away when she tries to touch you.

“Rule one of lap dances,” you murmur, voice silky smooth, “is that you can’t touch the performers.”

“Shit,” she breathes, eyes widening in realization. “You’re killin’ me, mama.”

With her shirt fully unbuttoned, you slide it off her shoulders, leaving her in a dark sports bra. You grin at her wickedly, pulling her shirt over your arms as you coo, “I know.” Her jaw falls open in lust and disbelief at the sight of you – messy, fucked out, and wearing nothing but your heels and her shirt, which is multiple sizes too big on you. You don’t button it, but the message is the same. Paige always liked seeing you in her clothes, and now? You can tell she’s actually going to lose her mind.

She leans back in the armchair, one hand gripping the armrest, the other resting on her thigh, fingers twitching. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen so much unadulterated want on her face. With the Kali Uchis song still playing distantly in the club, you stalk over to her in slow, calculated movements, hips swaying. Paige doesn’t know where to look – your face, your chest, the glistening spot in between your legs. She breathes heavily the closer you get.

You settle both hands on the armrests, leaning over her, not reprimanding her when her lips brush against your chest, seeking out your nipples. You inch closer to her ear, breath fanning against the shell of it as you murmur the lyrics of the song to her. “See, I’m a lover, but I’ll go to war about mine, toe to toe.” Her breath hitches, but you’re gone as quickly as you’d come, turning your back to her.

Your hips move sensually, hypnotically, and you can feel that you have Paige’s undivided attention. Reaching for her left hand, you bring it to your waist, allowing her to lift the back of your shirt so she can get a clear view of your ass. She groans emphatically, her hand falling to squeeze your flesh. It makes your breath catch, too, the feel of her hand swallowing your skin.

You spin around again, the song fading away with the lyrics, “Once I claim my territory, I get territorial,” but you stop in your tracks. Paige’s free hand is wrapped around the strap, stroking absentmindedly as if it were an extension of herself, veins popping and expression gone. You’re throbbing immediately, wanting nothing more than to crawl onto her lap and let her have her way with you, but she takes matters into her own hands.

Paige reaches out for you, spinning you until your back is to her, and she lowers you gently. You sink down slowly. The stretch is delicious, nearly overwhelming as it splits you open, and the both of you moan at the feeling. Both of her hands reach up to cup your breasts as your ass settles flush against her lap, the strap hitting deep inside, and you’re feeling so wound up you could probably fall apart right now with her breathing unevenly in your ear, fingers tweaking your nipples, and her hands kneading your breasts.

Her manspread widens, her hips bucking up to drag the strap in and out of you. You grip the armrest with both hands, using it to lift yourself up and down, head throwing back in a drawn out moan when Paige emphasizes a thrust with a pinch. The slight sting of pain mixes with the pleasure, creating a heady, devastating feeling in your core, and you melt when Paige licks a stripe up your neck again, sucking bruises into the skin of your shoulder.

Her right hand drops, leaving her left to brush against your nipples, traveling down your front to brush through your folds. You gasp at the feeling, whimpering when she coats her fingers in your slick and starts circling your clit again. She curses under her breath. You can’t tell for sure if it’s because of the sheer amount of wetness waiting for her or if it’s because she glanced down, watching your cunt suck the strap right in. Regardless of the reasons, her hips are canting up against yours, timing your thrusts together.

It doesn’t take long before moans are tumbling from your lips quicker now. Her fingers speed up, rubbing against your oversensitive clit with precision and pressure, the hand that was fondling your breasts dropping down to your hip to help you ride her, your legs giving out from the pleasure and the exertion. She’s rambling nonsense in your ear, more sound than words, but you’re able to make out, “You feel so good, mama, taking me so well. So fucking perfect for me. Want you to come for me, please, baby – give it to me–”

The sound of her breathless moans in your ear, the pressure of her fingers on your clit, her hand bruising your hips – it’s enough to send you over the edge. With hardly a warning, you spill all over her lap, your slick soaking the strap, the armchair beneath you, and she brings you down from your high with incoherent words and slowing her thrusts and fingers.

Energy gone, you’re more than ready to curl up with her in this armchair, but her hips shift – discreetly, like she’s still searching for her release and trying to play it off like she’s just trying to get comfortable. It makes you feel guilty immediately. She makes a soft noise of protest as you hoist yourself off her lap, your legs wobbling, and she shoots forward to steady you, a look of confusion on her face. The confusion melts into desire when you sink to your knees before her, fingers reaching to unbuckle the harness, but she pauses you with a hand to your wrists.

“You don’t gotta–” she tries, but you cut her off with a firm, “Paige Madison,” and she shuts up immediately, leaning back in the armchair. You haphazardly discard the strap to the side, curling your arms around her thighs. Before you press your lips to her dripping cunt, she grabs your loose hair, holding it in a ponytail with her hand. You kiss her clit in thanks, smiling when her hips jolt and she sighs softly.

You brush the flat of your tongue across her slit in one smooth motion, moaning at the taste and at the feeling of her grip tightening in your hair, dragging you closer to her. Listening to her wordless command and knowing that she probably doesn’t need much to come, you drink her up like you’re parched, sucking her clit in your mouth and suctioning with your lips. Paige grunts, her hips bucking up, and you don’t stop her, letting her chase her high against your mouth.

You alternate between kitten licks against her clit and long, flat strokes of your tongue against her cunt. It’s not often that you get to see her like this – fucked out and ruined, pliant and soft beneath you, dripping messily onto the surface below, but it never fails to activate a part of your brain that wants to watch her come over and over again.

Wanting to see her fall apart beneath you, you double down on your efforts, your tongue sliding messily through her folds and sucking at her clit until she cries out. You tighten your grip just as she tightens her grip on your hair, pulling you even closer into her – and if this is the last thing you see before you drown, her soaked cunt and the watery, pleading expression on her face, then you think you’d die a happy woman.

“Fuck, mama, ‘m so close,” she rambles, her hips moving against you with a fervor, chest heaving. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

You hum against her, and she whines, moans falling from her lips until she chokes on the last one. Her thighs tense around you, caging you in as she comes, a long, drawn out groan reverberating through the room while you work her through the aftershocks. You lick once more, twice, until she releases your hair and pushes you away, too sensitive after two orgasms.

Paige doesn’t let you get too far. She pulls you back onto her lap, arms wrapping around your waist while you wipe her slick off of your cheeks, sucking the taste off of your fingers. She catches your wrist on the last one, sucking your thumb into her mouth and humming emphatically at your combined tastes. You smile coyly at her, thinking about nothing more than getting her home tonight and making her writhe. You sit motionlessly in her lap while she cleans off all of your fingers.

“You want more?” you ask teasingly, not really meaning it, but raising your brows when she nods quickly, her eyes blown wide. The heat is already licking at you as you grip her jaw with one hand, leaning over her face, and her mouth opens obediently. You let a string of saliva fall from your mouth directly onto her tongue and she swallows immediately with a low groan of pleasure.

You don’t get to say much else before she’s pulling you back in, your lips crashing together messily, her tongue swiping across your lips in search of more. It draws a ragged moan from you, one that she monopolizes on instantly. It’s like she’s trying to swallow you alive, to memorize the way you taste when her slick is on your tongue. It makes your brain spin pleasantly before she pulls away, a dangerous sort of glint in her eyes, but it softens when she sees the blissed out smile on your face.

“You okay?” she murmurs, squeezing your hips, and just like that, the heat of the moment fades – for now.

“I should be asking you that,” you joke. “Could have sworn you blacked out for a moment.”

“Shit, I might have,” she agrees, drawing a breathless giggle from you. You lean your head on your chest, listening to the vibration of her voice against you as she asks. “For real. You’re okay?”

You don’t have to ask for clarity to know she’s referring to before, to Neil. “I’m okay,” you promise, more glad than anything that Paige came in when she did. “Nicole’s gonna be pissed, though. Not even about the window.”

Paige hums, the sound almost noncommittal, but you’ve been with her long enough to know she’s being dead serious about a situation. If the moment were any lighter, she’d probably make a joke about you snitching – but you might be the one thing in the world she doesn’t play about. “I’ll handle him,” she swears, her tone hard enough that it makes you shift on her lap. She doesn’t even notice, which amuses you, but she continues speaking, her voice thoughtful. “I know you like working here. Dancing. It’s safe for you. But don’t let that make you feel like…you don’t have other options, you know? As long as I’m around, you don’t have to worry. Don’t let Neil – or anyone else – threaten to take this place away from you. Your safety and happiness are important to me.”

You soften, her words hitting home. Paige doesn’t pressure you to say anything – she never does, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on your bare skin. “Thank you,” you say eventually, and she makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, like that’s something she needs to be thanked for. Paige would move mountains for you – you knew that. “I appreciate that. And for you looking out for me.”

Paige presses a soft kiss to your lips, smiling against your skin, and she murmurs, “You’re my girl. I’ll always look out for you. Especially when you dance like that.”

You roll your eyes as she laughs, but you’re inexplicably happy. You kiss her again, softly requesting, “Take me home?” and Paige doesn’t hesitate. Not even a little bit, even though her clothes are a mess, her mascara is flaking, and she looks like she’s been put through a woodchipper. Your girlfriend might be a little territorial, but the one thing you know about her is that she’s always going to make sure you’re taken care of.

(When you wake up in the morning to Paige’s smug grin, you check the work group chat at her insistence, where Nicole is informing everyone about Neil’s termination.

“Neil got fired,” you say flatly.

“Oh, wow,” Paige says innocently, but her beaming grin breaks through her feigned nonchalance. “That’s really unfortunate.”

You huff in amusement, turning off your phone and setting it on the nightstand. You swing a leg over her waist to straddle her and she wastes no time before resting her hands on your hips, sinking into the pillows beneath her, a chain glimmering in the morning sunlight, her smile far too satisfied. “You’re insane,” you murmur, like it bothers you. It doesn’t.

“Mmm,” she hums, pulling you down to her level to kiss you. “Think you like it.”

All you can do is grin, because you do. You really, really do like it.)

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #dallas wings #wnba

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thecherrypittttttt · 2 months ago

Text

II HANDS II HEAVEN; dr jack abbot x dr!reader

words: 5,800+

content warnings: lowkey SO filthy, but also SO cute, banter, caretaker jack, yearning jack, tad bit angsty, patient does die at some point, may be my favorite one i have written

notes: because dr jack abbot has two hands and boy does he know how to use them

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“Have you two kissed and made up yet?” Bridget asks, eyeing them.

“In his dreams.”

“In his dreams.” Jack imitates mockingly, high pitched.

“You know, for an old man, you have a lot of growing up to do.”

She can tell by the amused look dancing on Jack’s face that he is about to imitate her words again.

She raises a finger just as his mouth opens, “Don’t-“ she presses her finger to his chest, “you dare.”

His head tilts down. His gaze follows her finger, falling right into her trap. She quickly trails her nail back up over his chin then his lips and finally, flicking him in the nose.

She is cracking up laughing. Bridget is too. And Jack is pretending to be annoyed. “Oh and I’m the one who needs to grow up?!”

“You guys need to get a room. Preferably Trauma 1 because we have a patient incoming.” Bridget shoos them away from her nurses station, a grin still playing on her lips as she shoves two gowns into Jack’s outstretched hands.

Once inside Trauma 1, Jack grabs her arm. He signals for her to lift them as he reaches around her - her back to his front, he ties the gauze gown around her waist and then goes for the tie around her neck. The one they normally never have time to tie anyways.

“You know I love it when you dress up for me.”

His minty breath tickles the back of her neck as he speaks. He can’t see her roll her eyes but he knows that she is. He knows her like the back of his hand.

“And you know I’m still mad at you.”

“Well if you would listen to me for once in your life-“

“You are not my boss anymore. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Oh, because you listened so well when I was your boss, hm?”

“I can finish tying my gown. Your hands are full.”

“I’ve got two hands.”

And just like that it's decided and he's finishing up tying her gown. They have no reason to be this close to each other anymore but neither of them moves a muscle. He reaches around her to grab a pair of gloves and he takes his sweet time while doing so.

She sneaks a glance at the prominent veins in his forearms and wishes she didn’t. Why does he always have to look so damn good?

The doors are slammed open by a gurney. “Showtime.” is all that tumbles out from her mouth before her and Jack are back in their usual rhythm.

Or their somewhat usual rhythm. In the trauma bay, residents typically stood at the head of the bed. Their main responsibility was keeping the patient’s vitals steady. Protecting the precious breath that told everyone else in the room that the patient still had a fighting chance.

Ever since she became the night shift's second attending six months ago, Jack and her were still getting used to sharing opposite sides of the bed. Jack was used to looking up from the patient and her eyes already being on him, silently asking him for direction. Now, it’s like she forgot he was even in the room.

Unless, of course, they were debating their differing opinions on the standard of care for the patient.

So yeah, maybe Jack had been picking a few unnecessary fights here and there just to get something from her. He never said it was healthy but he didn’t know what else to do.

He missed her. He missed guiding her hand through a procedure and the way she would look back at him with an expectant smile, waiting for his praise. Practically needing it.

He always gave it to her. Usually sticking with “Well done” or “Solid work” because the one time he went to say “Good job”, a “Good girl” slipped halfway out instead. Thank god no one had noticed.

It makes him sound like an ego maniac, and he promises he isn’t, but he relishes in that feeling of her needing him. Or at least thinking she did. Of the fact that the smartest most competent doctor the halls of this ED had potentially ever seen, looked to him for guidance.

He wanted to take care of her - beyond work. He'd come to terms with his crush years ago but also came to terms with the fact he could never have her. At the time he was her attending and even now that he isn't - he is still at least 12 years her senior and carries more than enough baggage for the both of them.

So he settled for taking care of her at work. Sometimes he pushed the boundaries with the praise and the extra teas but he took care of her within the appropriate context of their working relationship. Until now, apparently. Now that she wouldn’t let him.

Jack had been spoiled all these years. Pouring his knowledge into residents, and a lot of them were great, but none of them had ever quite surpassed what he could do in the ED. But now here she was, mopping the floor with him. He’s proud of her. And he would love it even more than he already does if she would just pay an ounce of attention to him. God, he was starting to sound pathetic.

After her first six months of residency, Robby transferred her to the night shift. He told Jack he was getting a good one. One who saw every single patient as a person rather than a box to be checked, even on the bad days. One who probably single handedly kept the patient satisfaction scores of the ED afloat. But that came at a price - it slowed her down. Impeded on her education. She needed to move quicker and Jack was the kind of teacher to teach her how to do just that while still maintaining her inquisitively kind nature.

She was a damn good doctor but Robby knew that under Jack’s watchful eye and baptism by fire teaching style - she could be great. And she was great.

She is great. So far beyond great, Jack catches himself watching her in awe most nights. But right now he was watching her with concern.

The young girl on the table beneath them was not going to make it.

She was normally better than him at this, less emotional, about knowing when to call it.

But he knew why she wasn't going to be right now. The patient on their table looked eerily like her little sister that she had lost to the same kind of drunk driving accident when she was a kid.

The older sister was even out in the family waiting room - holding her sister’s favorite stuffed animal. She had said she was holding on to it while her sister got better. To keep it warm for her.

It was a bright pink stuffed rabbit. The same kind she had clutched the night her sister died. That she never was able to return to her sister. Jack knew he was the only one in the ED that knew that. She’d told him so one night on the roof after a particularly bad shift. What Jack didn’t know was that he was the only person she’d ever told.

They had a way of bringing that out in each other. Neither of them pushed and that’s probably why they could so effortlessly pull stuff out. Neither of them were an open book to anyone but each other. He makes her feel understood. She makes him feel safe. They make eachother feel the most themselves they’ve ever felt.

But right now all he was making her feel was anger.

“Call it.”

“There was just a pulse a second ago.” They both knew there hadn’t been. Jack doesn't say it though.

She had taken compressions over from Whitaker. Wanting to do this one herself. Making it worse on herself.

“Call it.”

“She can still make it. Let me try one more time.”

Jack silently signaled for everyone else to leave the room and move onto their next call. The girl was gone. At least they could all try and replace this horrible memory by hopefully being able to save the next one.

“I said - call it.” Jack’s voice was low but still steady. Still calm. He wasn’t trying to pick a fight this time. He just wanted her to free herself of this burden that was not hers to carry.

“And I said, let me try one-“ compression “more” another compression, “time” compression.

So he let her. Not because he thought it would work. Precisely, the opposite actually. He knew she would never forgive herself if she didn’t feel that she gave every last ounce she had. Selfishly, he also knew she’d never forgive him for calling it earlier than she thought they should have.

One more compression and then a flat line on the monitor.

Beyond the occasional puff of air coming from her mouth as she caught her breath, you could hear a pin drop in the trauma bay.

Jack’s behind her again, gently untying her now bloody gauze gown. She turns to him. As much as they’ve been going at it lately, he is who she wants in these moments. In all the moments, really.

He slides off his gloves and then her own, not breaking eye contact the entire time.

His hands move to her shoulders and then slowly drag down to her triceps - steadying her and studying her. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. Just delicately searches her eyes with his own. Asks her if she’s okay and then assures her it’s going to be okay - all without even opening his mouth.

She tries to keep the tears in with deep breaths. Her palm pressing against her forehead.

“Time of death-“ She inhales shakily, “04:44.” She slaps her palm over her mouth like she just summoned death itself with her words. Then the dam breaks.

“Jack, I can’t-“ She barely gets out between hiccups.

“Shhhhh - I know. I will.” Tell the family is what she means. He’ll do that for her. He’d do anything for her.

And then he’s reaching his hands to cup her face and pulling her against him. Letting her cry it out against his chest.

Her arms wrap around his middle, squeezing so hard it was almost like she thought he’d disappear if she loosened her grip. He rubs up and down her back with one hand, cradling her head in his other and pressing the occasional kiss to her temple.

He whispers into her hair, “You are the best emergency physician I have ever seen. If you couldn't save her, no one could. If the person I cared about most in the world had to be in a trauma bay - you are who I would want to be in charge of it.”

That catches her off guard. They spend a lot of time together. More time together than with any of their family or friends or any potential partner. They talked a lot. About basically everything but that private part of their lives. She always assumed it was because neither of them really had much to report back on but his words are the first time she lets her mind think otherwise. That he may have someone that isn’t her. The thought terrifies her beyond belief.

Technically, they were single. They weren’t each other's. But - yes they were.

“Who is that?”

“What?”

“That you care about most in the entire world?”

Jack wasn’t even sure when it happened. Probably in between the dates on the rooftop that were probably only dates to him and the early morning carpools when he purposely took the long way home just to spend more time with her.

He takes a sharp inhale and blinks. Hard - like he’s just realizing now what his answer is. Like it always felt so natural that he never had to think too hard about it, “You.”

They’re both frozen and then she’s huffing a nervous laugh and pulling out of his grip. Avoiding his eye contact. Back to ignoring him. Back to pushing him away.

“Very funny.” She quips as she walks to the door, pretending to be engrossed in attempting to fix the hand sanitizer dispenser that’s been jammed for the last four months.

Jack stays in place like the soldier he is, “I’m serious.”

That brings her gaze back to his. Her jaw drops slightly, her pupils dilated. He thinks he sees hope in her eyes. The observation gives him some too.

He thinks he’s caught her off guard but what she says next practically knocks the wind out of him, “Me too.”

“What?”

“The person I care most about in the entire world. It’s you, Jack.” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before she’s pushing out of the room.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

They don’t talk again for the rest of their shift. Not really, anyways. The ED is absolutely slammed. They’re basically running from trauma bay to trauma bay, room to room - even once to the ambulance bay. That’s how you know it’s busy.

But wow do they make a fucking phenomenal team. When they are on, they are on. They were close, but they didn't lose anyone else that night.

They catch their breath at the lockers, after the hand off with the day shift.

Jack wraps an arm around her head, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Go home. I’ll order Thai food to your place. Watch that trash TV you like. Shower. Cry. Cry in the shower. Sleep. Just know you gave everything you had tonight. Do not beat yourself up over this.”

“I don’t think the other people at the gym would appreciate me crying in the showers.”

“Why are you showering at the gym?”

“My apartment building has the water turned off for the day. I don’t know - they are fixing something. And there is no shot in hell I am showering here.”

“Come on. You’re coming home with me. Shower at my place. I’ll cook us breakfast while you do so you can cry in peace.”

The silence hangs between them. An expectant silence but one that says that if they are alone in a place that isn't the hospital - it is going to be damn near impossible to remain professional.

“Jack-“

“Let me take care of you, please. You deserve it, especially after tonight.”

And for once, she listens.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack busies himself with the omelettes and tea he’s making because if he thinks too hard, or at all, about her naked in his shower - he is going to combust.

The thought of her fully clothed in his space is enough to do his head in. He cannot even begin to let his brain broach the thought of her naked one floor away.

He is setting her favorite hot sauce, the one he hates but always kept in his fridge in case this moment ever happened, on the counter when he hears the water being turned off upstairs.

A couple light footsteps, the sound of a drawer opening and closing, and then his name. "Jack, where is your lotion?!"

"It's in the cabinet up top - furthest to your right." He yells back. Normally he would go up there and just grab it for her but he only has so much self control. It will all probably go down the gutter if he goes up there and sees her in only a towel.

"I can't reach it."

He curses under his breath and heads up the stairs - two at a time. He is not religious but he is praying to whoever will listen that she is wearing some semblance of the clothes he laid out for her. Now that he thinks about it, that might be worse.

Either way, he is in trouble. He stops outside his bathroom door and knocks lightly, " Can I come in?"

"No, I'd like you to get the lotion down from outside the bathroom." She sasses.

He smirks as he turns the knob, muttering something about her being a smart ass and a pain in his ass. He swallows hard at the sight of her.

She looks stunning because when does she not. He traces her collarbones with his eyes, down her arms, and over her legs - finally up to her face. Her eyebrow is lifted and a coy smirk on her face. Oh, she knows exactly what she is doing.

Jack shakes his head, as if that would get the thoughts of what is hiding under her towel out of his head.

He just clears his throat and reaches up to the cabinet, settling the lotion onto the counter, "Here."

She doesn't even pretend to grab it. Just lets it sit in between the sinks. In between them.

“Thank you - for today. I’m sorry, I’ve been a little bratty lately. I just had to prove to myself I could do things without having you in the room to encourage me to.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for. I should be apologizing. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much I would have to get used to you not needing me anymore.”

“I may not need you anymore but I still want you, Jack. I always will. But I probably haven’t shown that too well the past couple months so I’ll cool it with the attitude. I know you’re always just trying to help.”

“You don’t have to do anything on my account.” A beat and then, “It’s hot when you talk back.”

If Jack could shove those words back into his mouth - he would. He doesn't know what came over him, why those words came out - maybe something to do with the way she is staring at him. Eyes half lidded as she looks up at him through her lashes, a subtle grin as she bites her plump bottom limp.

"I am so sorry. That was so inappropriate."

“Jack-“

"We can just pretend I nev-"

She places a hand on his chest to interrupt his rambling and he pauses almost instantaneously, “Jack - I talk back because I think it’s hot when you put me in my place.”

Oh.

He looks down at her and lets out a low whistle, “You have no idea how bad I want you. How bad I’ve wanted this since the day you walked through the doors at the Pitt but I will not take advantage of you.”

His hands stay firmly planted to his sides but gosh she's making it really hard to keep still.

“Not even if I beg?”

He takes a sharp inhale, rubbing the back of his neck and then over his face with his palm, “You had a bad night. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret just because you’re upset”

“Jack, do you remember my first night shift? As an intern?”

“Yeah, of course. Knew I was in trouble from the jump.” He talks faster than she has ever heard him. She can tell he is a bit confused. What does her first intern shift have anything to do with why she is half naked in his bathroom almost four years later?

“That morning, when I went home, I had this dream and- fuck- you couldn’t keep your hands off me. I’ve been upset a lot over the years. I’ve been ecstatic, I’ve been angry beyond belief and every other emotion in between. But the one thing that’s always stayed the same is that at the end of every day, I wished I was coming home to you. I'm not going to regret this because I love you, Jack. No matter what kind of day I have. Good, bad, or ugly - you are always the best part of it."

“God, I think I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that.” His hands fly to cup her jaw, he looks right in her eyes before he kisses her with everything in him. He pulls away barely, his forehead resting on hers, to whisper, “I love you. So much.”

"Can you show me - because I didn't call you up here in just my towel to chit chat."

Jack chuckles, his hands find her hips. He gives them a squeeze before he turns her around to face his bathroom mirror. They lock eyes through the glass and for the second time today, her back was to his front.

“What would everyone say if they heard you were such a slut for me.”

“Probably, ‘In his dreams’”

“Behave.” She can feel Jack smirking into the skin on her neck as he kisses her there. Long and slow - she whimpers at the feeling.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice comes out shaky - clearly reflecting the effect he is having on her.

All in one swift motion, Jack unties and drops her towel, lightly smacking her ass.

“I said behave.”

She goes to roll her eyes. Not because she doesn't like what he is doing - because she loves it. Absolutely loves riling him up. But he knows her and he knows she's going to do that so before she even can, he smacks her ass again, murmuring a “So fucking perfect” as he rubs the red mark he left.

“Show me you can listen and I’ll be a lot nicer, angel.

All she can do is let out a whimper of his name. It is music to his ears.

Jack trails kisses up her neck then pecks one to her mouth before he’s grabbing her chin. They make eye contact through the mirror, one of his hands on her chin and the other splayed dangerously low pressing against her stomach.

He swipes his thumb against her lips as he whispers in her ear, his stubble tickling her cheek and she can’t help but imagine how it will feel between her thighs. “Let’s put that mouth to better use, huh?”

He swipes two fingers through her glistening folds. He can hear how wet she is. Feel it threatening to drip down her thighs. She moans at the emptiness - his fingers leave her and press their way into her mouth. His fingers weigh heavy against her tongue as her lips close around them, sucking, but never losing his eye contact. Jack groans at the sight.

“Taste yourself for me, baby. Look at how pretty your mouth is when you aren’t giving me attitude.”

Her knees are already threatening to give out and he’s barely even touched her yet. Anyone else wouldn’t notice the slight wobble. But he did. He notices every little detail about her - how could he not?

“You like it that much, hm sweetheart?”

She can’t manage words. Only a low moan and a nod as she presses her back against his front, feeling his bulge through the sweatpants he’d changed into when they’d gotten home. “Jack please, I want to see you. I want to feel you.”

“Greedy, yeah?”

“Jack, please. Too many clothes.”

“Shhh - I told you I was gonna take care of you tonight, yeah? Let me baby. Then you can have me. Be patient.”

Another moan pulled from her.

“You’re the most stunning woman I have ever laid my eyes on, you know that right? And so damn smart. My smart baby, yeah?"

She turns to face him, running her hands over his chest and then down his biceps as he talks. She takes her time. She’s trailed the veins of his large arm muscles with her eyes more times than she can count. Now that she gets to do it with her hands, she may never stop.

She gets to his hands, god those hands. His capable, strong, sturdy hands. She remembers what he said earlier today, about having two hands, and she feels her cheeks tinge pink. She’s seen his hands perform extraordinary miracles but she has a feeling the one he performs on her now will be her favorite.

His hands knead her hips as she goes, both of them relishing in each other's touch, until she breaks the silence. Her wide eyes look up at him. They look so innocent. Her words are anything but, “I want you to fill me up.”

“Fuck me. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Are you gonna be a good girl and come when I tell you to?”

“Dr Abbot, I’m always a good girl for you. Especially that night you almost called me one right in the middle of the ED.”

Jack is shocked, “You caught that?”

“Touched myself thinking about it that night.”

He practically moans, “My god.” before he turns her back around to face the mirror. One hand on the back of her neck, the other on the small of her back, slightly bending her over.

Finally, finally he presses two fingers into her. Her head falls back onto his shoulder as he pumps in and out of her, both of their breathing heavy.

“I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already soaking wet.”

“For you? Always.”

He kisses her forehead then tilts her head back up by her chin with his free hand.

“Keep your eyes open, look at me baby.”

His fingers are still working on her. She’s almost there. Gasping for air. Her eyes shut and she's right there until...she's not. He's stopped.

Her eyes flutter open and she doesn't even bother to turn around - just stares at him through the mirror, "What the hell?"

“I said keep your eyes open. I want you to see how good you look taking my fingers, angel. Gonna look even better on my cock”

At the reminder, she buck backs against him.

“Not so fast, baby. Gonna make you come on my fingers. Then on my tongue. Then fill you up. How does that sound?”

“Yes, Jack, please. I need it please.”

“You sure you can handle it, baby?”

“I can-fuck, I can handle it.”

Then he’s working her again with his fingers. She keeps her eyes open, drinking in the filthy sight of them. One of his hands cradling her chin as she rides the other one - she is completely naked and Jack is entirely clothed. It makes her so worked up, her orgasm comes quickly.

“That’s it. Good girl—that's my good fucking girl."

Then he’s stepping around her and sinking to his knees in front of her so she can still see herself in the bathroom mirror. He knocks her ankles a little wider. They’d closed a bit after the last orgasm and she gasps at his tongue cleaning up her first mess and going for a second.

His hands wrap around her thighs, holding her in place. She tugs hard at his salt and pepper curls as she unravels. She looks down at him, craving his eye contact.

He slaps her ass again as a reprimand, “Eyes up. I want you to see how pretty you look when you're spreading your legs for me."

The words make her second orgasm tumble out just as fast as the first and she’s pulling him up by the collar of his shirt, placing a blistering kiss on his lips. His hands cradle her jaw and then they are in her hair, tugging slightly.

Their hands desperately clutch at one another as they kiss, gasping into each other’s mouths as if they’ve been starved of one another.

“Jack - clothes off. Now please.”

This time he listens. Then he is back behind her just as quickly as he’s coaxing his length into her. They both sigh at the relief.

“Doing so good for me, baby. Give me one more, yeah?”

He presses his forehead to hers. She nods and he leans up to kiss her temple again before rutting into her. Both of them loudly moaning at the sensation.

“Holy shit. And I thought nothing was gonna beat how fucking delicious you tasted. You feel like fucking heaven, angel.”

His broad hand crowds her neck, forcing her gaze to meet him in the mirror again as his fingers find her clit as he pounds into her from behind. Not too slow, not too fast but intentional - hitting all the right places because although they’ve never done this before he just knows. He knows her.

“Look at how pretty you look taking me.”

“Jack-“ she can’t get the sentence out. She trails off into a string of whimpers and moans as she verges on her third orgasm of the morning. She squeezes her walls around Jack and he grunts, he’s close too.

“So this is all I’ve got to do to get you to listen to me, huh? Why didn’t you just say so baby?”

“Jack-“

“Yeah, sweetheart.” He barely manages to get out.

“Can I come for you?”

At that alone she feels him spilling into her, “Yes baby. Oh my god, yes.” he falters, caging his arms around her, steadying them against the counter as they both ride out their highs.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Me too- told you to start listening to me.”

“You’re filthy.”

“And you fucking love it.” Jack smirks as he uses one hand to wipe her clean with a warm washcloth, the other hand holds her head against his lips. He presses a kiss to her temple then her lips and then up and down her shoulder and neck until she is a giggling, blushing mess.

Jack picks up his shirt he had laid out for her but leaves the pants. She lets him tug it over her head and hugs him tight when he's done. Arms around his middle, just as she had done earlier. He dips his lips to the crown of her head, arms around her shoulders as he inhales his shampoo in her hair. It makes him want to melt.

He plants a kiss into her hair, "Come on - lets get some food in you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack didn't think his life could get any better after what just occurred in his bathroom but here she was - barefoot in his favorite shirt - prancing around his kitchen. She fiddles with the police scanner, he told her she could find one of the music radio channels instead. He used the police scanner as a distraction but he doesn’t want any distractions from her.

He restarts the omelettes because he got a little distracted before. He doesn't recognize the song that is on but she must - the way a grin bubbles from her lips. He kisses it off and pulls her into his side as he cooks.

Your love run through me like lava

Pull my fit over these hips

You grip, I grind

Then taste this wine, I'ma taste what's mine

Jack couldn't wait to taste her again. And she couldn't wait to taste him for the first time. If they hadn't just worked a twelve hour shift with little to no food - omelettes would be the last thing on their mind.

'I'll never stop you, you'll never stop me

From bein' whatever we need to be

And in these dark times, I'm so glad that this love is blinding

'Cause all I see is the best of you and all you see is the best of me

And you bring out the best of me

And all I see is everything

Your goals, your glow, your inner being

And our bigger meaning

Jack decided he liked this song. It reminded him of them. They brought life into this world one hour and were saying goodbye to it in the next. But in both hours they helped people. And they helped each other by loving each other through it. Their purposes were intertwined - both inside and outside of that hospital.

So, let's lose us in these sheets, yeah

And when I get up to walk, I wanna feel weak, yeah

Well, I ain't goin' far

So, stay where you are

Feel like you partied in Venus and we woke up in Mars

"You're not going to be able to walk tomorrow. Could barely get downstairs." Jack smiled to himself thinking of how he'd carried her down the stairs just moments ago.

"Oh shut up and dance with me." He turned the stove top off and turned to her. These omelettes were never getting made.

With the way she was looking at him - he was perfectly fine with that.

I been waitin' my whole life

And I'm gonna give you the best years of your life

You and I

He twirled her around as they danced - her singing the last words of the song to him. He didn't care that she had the world's worst singing voice - he was still blushing. Because she'd already given him the best years of his life - he couldn't possibly imagine the happiness that lied ahead of them now that they were finally letting themselves have it.

He felt himself getting emotional. He tugged her to his chest, cradling her head, mindlessly pressing kisses to it - ensuring she was real. That this dream was real.

"Jack"

"Hm, baby?"

The cutest yawn he’d ever heard and then, "Take me to bed, please."

Yep, definitely real.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

They'd been in bed cuddling for a mere five minutes when Jack's phone dings on his bedside table.

“You are not seriously on call right now?” Her head pops up off his chest and he has never been more annoyed at Robby for texting him than he is right now.

Jack groans as he reaches over, “No, just a question from Robby about that heart attack case we had this morning.”

“He can figure it out.”

“Let me answer - it will take two seconds.”

Jack types or at least tries to. She kisses up his neck - lightly sucking at the sensitive spots and then licking over them. Never doing enough to leave a mark. They don't need those questions at work tomorrow. But enough to make him dizzy.

Her legs are tangled in his and he lightly slaps her ass, “Stop being so hot please, I’m trying to get my work done.”

“Work? Flirting with Robby is more like it.”

“My bad flirting is reserved only for you.”

She points at his chest like she had done this morning, “Better be.”

He looks down and she flicks her fingers up, flicking his nose a lot lighter than she had earlier.

Jack is quicker now, grabs her finger and uses it to gently tug - to wrap her arms around his neck and pull her on top of him. Her legs fall to either side of his waist. It is hard to tell where she begins and he ends but they are a ball of laughter as they settle into each other.

She rests her head in the crook of his neck, placing a kiss there as he does the same to her forehead. Her hands play with the curls at the nape of his neck. One of his rubs up and down her thigh. Then her back. The other in her hair massaging her scalp, lulling her to sleep.

“Get some sleep, baby. I’ll punish you for that when we wake up.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Behave”

“Only cause you said so.”

They both fall asleep with grins on their faces. And wake up with them too.

#jack abbot #the Pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fic #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbott x female reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot fanfic #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbott #dr jack abbot #jack abott #jack abbot smut

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invoncible · 3 months ago

Text

KEEP AWAY with the INVINCIBLE VARIANTS ! ✧˚. — after finding you in this universe, they're not gonna let you go! w/ mohawk, viltrumite, no goggles w/ gn! reader cw. suggestive. no goggles is a freak

— a continuation of running into the variants during the war :)

"donald, give me some good news." cecil had his hands on his hips as he stared at all the destruction broadcasted to the pentagon control room.

"uh... some variants seem to be slowing down on their escapades, sir."

"that could go both ways," cecil's eyes narrowed. "depending on what they've decided to do instead."

the big screen zeroed in on a version of mark dragging some random through the air. the blood drained from cecil's face as he walked closer, eyes narrowing at the footage.

"who the fuck is that?" cecil snapped. he deprived them of the chance to respond when he followed up with, "get me an ID on that kid. and prep the next squad of reanimen to go after them."

now, did cecil really think that was gonna do anything against him? he was hopeful, but his top priority was saving a life. but mark was not going to make that easy for him.

MOHAWK MARK

mark was having the time of his life! he was set to conquer dimensions, he'd killed so many people, and he was making out with the love of his life on the roof of some random building against the napalm skyline.

he was so content kissing you silly. imposing his body into your space, his forearm flattened against the wall behind you right next to your head, his other tilting your jaw up; being in your arms felt like coming home, and he'd kill anyone to stay there.

his eyes only broke open when he heard the wailing screams of cecil's undead soldiers in the distance. he sighed heavily, pulling away slowly and smiling proudly when he swiped his thumb over your swollen lips.

"c'mon, baby," he muttered lowly, pulling you in his arms. he scoffed amusedly at your dazed state, pressing one last kiss to the fat of your cheeks before his feet left the ground. "some bad guys are tryna take you from me."

"who?" you responded, wrapping your arm around his shoulders.

"no one you need to worry your pretty little head about!" he laughed, taking off into the sky. "i'm not letting anyone ruin this."

you could only hold on for your life as he wove through the clouds, avoiding the squadron of reanimen pursuing him.

"mark!" you screamed, ducking into his chest as one frantically launched itself into the air, swiping at your head.

"yeah, hold on, baby." mark's grin would scare you if you hadn't realized how devoted he was to you within the hours of meeting him. "i've got you."

an undead solider leaped into the air, clasping its metal hand around his shin and letting its weight drag him down. mark grit his teeth, swinging his leg in an attempt to shake it off.

but the soldier held firm, climbing up mark's body.

"are you fucking kidding me?" mark groaned in annoyance. he turned to you. "i'm gonna need you to trust me, y/n." you felt his grip around you loosen.

your body tensed, nails digging into his shoulder. "no—"

"trust me." he braced himself, muscles coiling as he prepared to throw you.

"mark, what—"

"it's gonna take a minute, tops, and i'll catch you."

"what the fuck?!"

"pretty please with a cherry on top?"

catch me? your eyes blew open, grappling at his arms even as he lowered you down before catapulting you into the air.

mark immediately turned to the bitch on his leg, grabbing its throat and twisting until its head popped off. he shifted his weight as he zipped through the rest of the hordes of reanimen, ripping them limb from limb.

all the while you were on the verge of passing out, falling from who knows how high back onto the abandoned streets. you regretted all your life choices in that moment, especially getting involved with this half-bald freak of nature.

your stomach lurched as the ground rushed up to meet you. you barely had time to scream before something caught you midair, arms locking around you like a vice. the impact rattled through your bones, but before you could process the relief, you realized it wasn’t mark—it was one of the sentries he was fighting. held in someone’s arms for the second time that day, you were whisked away from the battlefield, your head spinning.

"what the fuck is going on?" you whispered to yourself, dizzy and lightheaded from your some-hundred ft. fall.

mark's head turned as if he had a sixth sense. he saw the red light fading in the distance. he snapped the final limb before ricocheting towards you.

his hands curled around the base of its neck, stopping its escape in its tracks. "think you got something of mine..." he said lowly, lifting the cyborg off the ground.

its jaw snapped wildly, thrashing to try and dislodge itself from his grip. mark clicked his tongue, laughing. "aww, look, y/n!" he grinned and pointed his free hand to the reaniman. "it's trying to get away!"

you just stared at him, dumbfounded. thankfully, he got his satisfaction and snapped the neck of the soldier, wrapping an arm around your waist as he tossed the dead agent over the rooftop.

"there," he pressed his lips to the side of your head as he took to the sky again. "see? wasn't so bad. now, where were we?"

you rolled your eyes, but rested your head against his shoulder anyways.

VILTRUMITE MARK

"first, we'll get married."

"married?"

"as soon as possible."

"uh-huh."

"then kids."

"kids?!"

"at least... four."

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a smile. reaching over, you took a french fry from the package he was holding (the same one he’d terrorized a McDonald's to get for you). you two were sitting atop the golden gate bridge, and for some reason, the shitshow beneath your feet didn't make you feel queasy anymore.

mark, as you've learned, saved the softest spot in his heart for you and his mother. he was adamant on just talking to you, rekindling the love he knew he had for you.

"it seems like you're trying to replace your y/n with me." you hum, passing him a look. "we're not the same person."

he shook his head, resting his head in your lap. you softened against your will, dragging your nails against his scalp.

"you say that like it matters." he sighed, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzled into your thighs. "you’re mine. you’ve always been mine. doesn’t matter what version of you i started with—i like this one just fine."

"that's—"

mark's head hit the cool metal of the bridge in the next second, his eyes flying open as he saw a squadron of reanimen bolting away with you in their arms.

his eye twitched, a crazed genre of rage rushing through his veins. not again. not my y/n. he shot off the landing after them.

other soldiers fell out of formation to slow him down, thrusting the reinforced soles of their feet into his face. he barely flinched, grabbing anything he could and throwing them off into the distance. carnage could come later; right now, he needed you back with him.

what was cecil thinking sending these zombies after the mark raised on viltrum? mark shut that whole thing down real quick, snatching you by your waist and throwing you over his shoulder as he mopped the rest of them up.

he held you in front of him, a frown on his lips as he asked oh-so-gently, "are you okay?"

brain rattled by being treated like a football, you settled for nodding. your eyes drifted behind him, too slow to warn him about the lone zombie throttling through the air towards him.

the sentry's feet slammed into mark's back. its hand grabbed onto you, preventing you from being sent to the ground with mark. you dangled in the air, watching the asphalt below crack under the impact of his fall.

"mark!" you yelled after him, gagging in disgust when you were brought closer to the agent's rotting flesh. "shit—"

below, mark stood slowly, letting the gravel fall off his white uniform. he exhaled in annoyance, like a bull grunting before charging. he watched you struggle in the soldier's arms as you were carried farther and farther away, and he's never felt his heart beat so erratically.

he zipped towards you. a sonic boom tore through the air as he slammed into the reaniman's side, driving it into the ground. right before the agent could be reduced to paste on the pavement, you were ripped from its grasp into mark’s.

he barely spared a glance at the corpse, scowling as he shifted his grip on you. his next words were muttered, spoken more to himself than to you.

"more reason this stupid planet needs our oversight. they waste their time with their arrogant pursuits." he sneered, flying to another location you two could be alone.

your pulse began to steady, body sinking against his.

mark exhaled, softer this time. his grip around you tightened, but his lips were gentle when they pressed against your temple. then your cheek, then your lips—languid, warm and slow, savoring the way you felt in his arms.

"they could never keep us apart." he murmured against your lips. "if they want to figure that out the hard way... so be it."

NO GOGGLES MARK

mark came back to you, like he promised. he wasn't going to miss the opportunity in front of him! you handled him so well.

there was nowhere he wanted to be other than under you, your hands wrapped around his neck. at first you were weirded out. he claimed you were together in another dimension, and with everything he knew about you, you believed him. now you were just... intrigued.

"squeeze harder, baby, come on." he gasped, winking up at you in his delirium. "i can take it."

you pouted, eyebrows knitting. "i don't like this game." you needed to work up to the level he was expecting from you, as much as you were enjoying this too.

he laughed hoarsely, curling his fingers around your wrists. "we got a couple more we can play. but i dunno if you'd want to do them all out in the open."

you rolled your eyes, a small chuckle slipping through your lips. you dragged your nails down his chest, noting the way he shivered. the maniacal grin you've come to know him for grew on his face once again.

"i wouldn't mind, of course." his eyes glinted with a twisted delight, his hands squeezing at the fat of your thighs. "don't think i can wait any longer, actually."

"you might just get lucky," you giggled so sweetly that mark's fucked up mind paused its depraved thoughts to really take it in.

he began to respond when the rooftop caved under you. soldier after soldier emerged through the hole, bombarding you with numbers. their half-metal bodies blotted out the setting sun. mark growled in frustration, swiping through the swarm. when the smoke cleared, you were nowhere to be found.

"fuck," he chuckled, cracking his neck. "making me chase you, huh?"

mark grinned, tilting his head as he watched them try to drag you away. fun! did they really think they could outpace him?

he shot forward, cracking through the air like a bullet. he didn’t even slow down as his fist caved into the first reaniman’s spine, sending it crashing into the pavement below. the next got a foot to the chest—its entire torso collapsing under the force, mechanical parts sparking and hissing as they fell.

you yelped as one tried to launch itself away, still holding you tight in its arms. mark barely had to think yet he caught its ankle, spun it mid-air, and slammed it into the ground so hard it cratered on impact.

you didn't have the time to register you were falling; you landed in his arms a second later.

"there we go," he hummed, dusting debris off your clothes. "still breathing?" he pressed his ear to your chest, heat blooming across his skin with every thundering beat of your heart, head rising and falling as you inhaled and exhaled.

your chest heaved, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. he laughed, delighted by the look on your face.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face up. "hey, don't tap out yet. you said i was getting lucky."

"i said you might get lucky." you corrected, even though you already decided how the night was going to go.

he grinned. "will you actually choke me out this time?"

"i'll fucking slap you." you hummed, a pleasant breeze drifting past your face as he carried you off to a more secluded location.

"i love you so fucking much." he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. his hands tightened around you. when you looked up, he was biting his lip to conceal his excitement.

"this planet better give you a medal of honor or some shit the way you're saving lives right now," he chuckled, leaning down and gnawing on the fluff of your cheek. "how long do you think you can keep me occupied?"

he didn’t need to hear your answer—he was already planning to keep you up all night. but the look in your eyes told him he didn’t have to do much convincing.

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