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landologged · 2 months ago

Text

GG, Norris

Pairing: lando × gf!reader

Genre: graphic smut, oral sex (m → f) under a desk ;), semi‑public/twitch risk, brat‑taming, dom!lando & mouthy reader, humiliation kink, breeding talk, dirty talk, possessive behaviour, consensual power play, established relationship

Description: Lando’s been a gremlin all day—yanking your hoodie strings, tossing socks, and chirping over you every chance he gets. When he goes live, you crawl beneath the rig and silence him with your mouth while thousands watch none the wiser. He tries to keep composure; you dismantle it. Stream ends, revenge flips to punishment, and somewhere between the threats and the afterglow he whispers the kind of promise that could ruin you in the best way.

notes: im not sorry, word count is 5k

Lando’s been insufferable all day—mouthing off with that cocky little smirk like he doesn’t deserve to be dropkicked down a flight of stairs. He kept poking at you—tugging your hoodie drawstring when you were mid-sip of coffee, talking over you just to mimic your voice, tossing socks at you from across the room like some feral child. And now, the little shit’s live on Twitch, backlit in RGB glow like some overgrown gamer gremlin, laughing with Max like they’re both not moments away from divine punishment.

You slink past his racing rig and stupid ergonomic chair, a silent predator in sweats and a tank top that’s just a bit too tight. The headset muffles the rest of the world for him—he doesn’t notice the shift in weight behind his desk, doesn’t register the flicker of your eyes or the deliberate arch of your brow as you crawl under the desk like you own the fucking thing.

Max is saying something idiotic through the tinny headset—Lando’s wheezing, practically giggling, “Nahhh mate, I’d still smoke you even if you had DRS in bed.”

Instead of answering, you let your hand drift down, slow and mean, gliding from your own knee across the dark stretch of space beneath the desk until your fingertips graze his leg. He doesn't flinch—yet—too caught up in his smug little monologue to clock the shift. But then your palm flattens against the inside of his thigh, deliberate, claiming. Warmth bleeds through the cotton like ink in water, slow and spreading, and you dig in just enough to let him know you’re not here to be cute. The laughter catches in his throat mid-sentence. His voice jumps a full octave, cracking like a teenager's as he fumbles, tries to swallow the noise back before Max notices– which he fails.

Max pauses. “What was that?”

Lando’s legs stiffen beneath your hand. You feel the tension coil all the way up to his hip, a ripple of sheer panic trying to mask the unmistakable pulse already starting to throb under your fingers. His joggers do little to hide the way he’s swelling, thickening, betraying every ounce of self-control he thought he had.

“Uh—a hiccup.” Lando's laugh is sudden and high-pitched, edged with panic. His hand instinctively drops to his lap but stops short, unsure what to do with it. “I think I’m choking—on water. Gimme a sec.”

You hum, low and deliberate, a sound more vibration than voice, letting it roll up from your chest and sink straight into the fabric between his legs. Your mouth opens against the outline of him, plush lips parting just enough to press—not a kiss, not quite. Just heat. You drag your mouth along the length of him through his joggers, every inch a slow, possessive claim, like you’re mapping him out for future destruction. Tongue sliding flat, letting the fabric soak it up, just damp enough to cling to the shape of him.

His cock twitches, eager and betrayed, shifting under the thin material like it’s trying to reach you, to meet you halfway. You don’t speed up. Oh no, you slow down, mouthing him like he’s a lollipop you’re too mean to unwrap. Teeth graze, barely, just enough for nerves to spark awake and skin to goosebump beneath the cotton. The heat of your breath sinks in like a bruise, and when you do it again—open-mouthed, tongue curling under the head through the joggers like you’re licking sugar off the skin of an apple—he breaks. His breath punches out in a strangled hitch, hips jolting forward like the instinct’s not even his own. His legs tense around you, thighs stiffening against your shoulders, not to push you away, never that—but to brace, to survive whatever the fuck this is turning into.

You can feel the way he’s trying to keep still, failing spectacularly. The way his knees tremble just slightly, muscles locking like a man standing on the edge of something deep and slick and inevitable. And you haven’t even gotten his pants down yet.

“...You good?” Max again.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, just—hydrate or die-drate, innit?” His accent falters on the last syllable as you tug his waistband down, just enough. Just enough for your nails to dig in a little, for your lips to ghost over skin that’s already twitching with anticipation.

You look up, watching his face from the shadows beneath the desk, the glow from the monitor painting him in sinful outlines—blue along his jaw, red flickering in his eyes like he’s caught fire from the inside. His lips are parted, plush and trembling, his tongue darting out to wet them like that’ll help him speak normally through the chaos boiling in his bloodstream. His eyes are glassy, lashes fluttering fast, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the tension twitch at the hinge, like he's physically holding himself together with spit and prayer.

He’s trying to look normal—like this is still just a stream, just banter, like he isn’t seconds from sliding out of his own skin. But he’s fucking awful at it. That smug little posture is gone, replaced with a boy unraveling in real time, held together by a desk and a prayer and your mouth hovering dangerously close to the one thing he absolutely cannot control.

He mutes himself with a frantic click of the hotkey.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he hisses, voice low, shredded, already fraying at the edges. His breath fans hot over his mic.

You smirk against him. “Keep playing, Norris.”

Then you sink your mouth around him, slow and possessive, and he keens—silent, jaw clenched hard as his head drops back against the chair.

Yeah. He’s not making it out of this stream alive.

You hollow your cheeks, tongue dragging slow and deliberate—like you’ve got all the time in the world and none of it belongs to him. Lando’s hips twitch, one foot knocking into the desk leg with a soft thud that rattles his fancy mic arm. Panic flashes across his face, barely contained, the kind that screams this is the best and worst idea we’ve ever had and I’m gonna cum in thirty seconds and Max is gonna hear it live.

“You alright, bro?” Max’s voice filters through the headset again, casual, cruelly unaware.

“Yup. Peachy.” Lando’s voice is an octave too high. “Just, stretching.”

“Sounded like your desk kicked back, mate.”

You almost laugh, the sound curling at the back of your throat, smothered by the weight of him on your tongue. He’s heavy, twitching, a pulse stuttering beneath the sensitive skin you're dragging your mouth along with surgical precision. But there's no room for giggles—not when he’s splintering in your hands like this, breaking down second by second.

His grip on the armrests is brutal, white-knuckled like the chair might fly off into orbit if he doesn’t anchor himself. Fingers twitching, veins standing out on the backs of his hands like cords about to snap. He looks like he’s bracing for a fucking crash landing, every muscle drawn tight, thighs trembling against your shoulders, breath locked high in his chest like he's afraid if he exhales, he’ll cum right there.

And his neck—oh, his fucking neck. It's flushed, blooming red like spilled wine, the color crawling up from beneath the loose collar of his hoodie and painting its way up the column of his throat to his jawline, delicate and obscene. Like someone hit him with shame and turned the heat to maximum. It’s arousal in high-def, the kind that leaves no mystery—just raw, visual confession. Every time your mouth moves, the flush deepens, his head tips back a little more, and you can see the exact moment he forgets what his own name is.

He unmutes for a second—rookie mistake. “So yeah, like, turn three’s actually—” inhale, hiss, muted again.

Your teeth graze just enough to make his whole body jolt. You can feel the curse bubbling in his throat but he swallows it back with the desperation of a man on the brink. He’s trying to look normal, trying to hold a conversation while his girlfriend is under the desk sucking the literal soul out of him. You feel the curse rise up in his throat, bubbling hot and mean behind clenched teeth. But he swallows it—forces it down with the kind of restraint that hurts to watch. He’s holding onto that last shred of composure like it’s a lifeline, trying to sit still, trying to keep talking, keep nodding, keep pretending this is just another stream.

You see it all—feel it all. The twitch of his stomach, the locked tension in his knees, the way his chest is rising faster than before like he’s run a lap with his mic still on. He’s dying. Glorious, twitching, overstimmed death-by-girlfriend, right there on Twitch dot TV.

Max is talking about tire strategies now. You could not care less.

Lando’s trembling like a leaf in a wind tunnel, one hand inching under the desk like maybe, maybe he can tap out, call a time-out, beg for mercy. But you swat his hand away, sink deeper onto him, and he fucking chokes.

You let up, just a little, lips slick, your voice hushed and syrupy sweet. “Something wrong, babe?”

“Y—You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin up at him. “Good. Maybe Max’ll do your eulogy.”

And then you go back down, faster this time, twisting your wrist just enough to make him arch off the chair like he’s been tasered. His breathing’s fucked—shallow, staccato, gasping like he’s drowning in it. Every exhale sounds like it costs him something, punched out in ragged little hiccups, broken up by the frantic clench of his abs as he tries—fails—to keep still. His thighs are shaking now, twitching against your shoulders, his hips stuttering forward helplessly every time your throat flexes around him.

You feel him throb against your tongue, thick and twitching, precum slicking the back of your throat as he tips further into sensory collapse. He’s close. Too close. He knows it. You know it. His body’s already betraying him, every nerve lighting up like someone tripped the emergency alarm.

He mutes again—fingers slapping the hotkey with blind desperation—and croaks out a whisper through clenched teeth, like he’s physically fighting his own orgasm just to speak. “You’re actually evil. You’re—fuck—this is—oh my god.”

Your nails dig into the skin above his knees. You want him to feel every inch of it. Humiliated. Helpless. Falling apart on stream with that good-boy face, talking strategy with Max while your mouth is swallowing his soul inch by inch. He wanted to be smug. Wanted to sass. So, he got what he deserved, streaming in front of thousands with that innocent little “I’m just gaming, guys” voice while his cock’s buried in your throat and his world’s turning to static.

Max keeps talking.

Lando continues spiraling. You, however, keep going, until his legs are trembling like Bambi’s on ice, until he clamps a fist over his own mouth and stifles a moan that might have gotten him permanently banned off Twitch.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You don't stop. Of course you don't. His thighs are tensing around you like a vice, breath coming in ragged, clipped gasps, and all you do is suck harder—deeper. You flatten your tongue, hollow your cheeks, twist your wrist at the base just enough to grind against that sweet spot, right where your lips meet your hand, and that's it.

His whole body seizes. One sharp inhale—then silence. His jaw drops open, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown to hell, and the only sound he manages is this strangled, high-pitched gasp like his entire soul is getting yanked out through his dick.

He comes hard. Violently. No buildup left, no warning, no cool-off—just one catastrophic surge that hits so fast it nearly knocks his headset clean off. The mic light’s still blinking red, but it's not picking up anything coherent—just the wet, broken gasps of a man short-circuiting live on stream. His hips buck once, twice, a desperate, instinctive jerk that punches him further down your throat. His hand scrabbles at the edge of the desk like he's trying to grip onto reality. He doesn’t make a sound—and that silence is deafening.

You feel it—every pulse, every twitch, the thick, hot spurt flooding your mouth like his body’s trying to drain itself in one brutal release. You swallow around it, greedy and unrelenting, and he whimpers. Honest to god, a full-body shiver rips through him, like you just unplugged something vital and he’ll never reboot the same again.

When it's over, he slumps. Muted. Boneless. Useless.

“…You okay, Lando?” Max asks.

Lando clears his throat. “Just finished.”

There’s a pause.

“…The race?” Max says, confused.

Lando closes his eyes. “Yeah. That.”

You lick your lips and crawl back out from under the desk, smug as hell, like you didn’t just commit several crimes beneath the camera frame. You lean in, peck his cheek, and whisper, “Next time, don’t throw your sock at me.”

He exhales like he’s seen god. Or you. Same thing, really.

He shuts down the stream like he’s defusing a bomb—mouse click too loud, movements too stiff, the awkward silence after Max’s “alright, catch you later, bruv” hanging in the room like smoke. The second OBS fades out and the little red dot of "Live" disappears from the corner of his screen, Lando leans back in the chair with the slowness of someone trying very, very hard not to look like he just got soul-snatched under his own desk on the main stage of the internet.

His head rolls toward you.

That look of ungodly levels of boyish spite. The kind that comes from being publicly humbled in the most private way possible.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” he says, voice rough, lazy, dragging over gravel and sin. His eyes track you like you’re prey. “Think you’re clever, crawling under my desk like that, nearly got me banned.”

You smile. Innocent. Shrug like, what, me?

And that’s apparently the wrong answer. Lando stands up so fast his chair screeches against the floor, and you don’t even have time to register the chaos before his fingers are digging into your hips and he’s spinning you around, walking you back, back, back until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and—

You drop like a rock.

He follows, covering you in one smooth motion like a storm front rolling in, all hot breath and twitchy hands and revenge written across his grin.

“You wanna be a brat?” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, already undoing the hoodie you stole from his closet like he’s got a personal vendetta against it. “Then you’re going to get treated like one.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you tease, breath hitching as he peels the hoodie off and tosses it somewhere across the room like it insulted his whole bloodline.

“I’m a victim, actually.” He pins your wrists down, pushes his knee between your thighs and forces them apart, slow and deliberate. “Live on camera. Absolutely violated. Twitch chat saw me ascend.”

“They only saw your face.”

“And you saw god. So now it’s your turn.”

You try to sass something back—I already did the work or you’re welcome or something equally stupid—but he cuts you off with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, no finesse, just need—raw and immediate. He bites your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp, then chases that sound into your mouth like he’s trying to steal it. It’s messy, greedy, spit-slicked and heady, full of consequences you feel before you even fully register them. His tongue slides against yours, fast, dirty, dominant, like he’s fucking your mouth just to shut you up.

Your thoughts scatter like coins dropped down a storm drain. You barely register the way his hands move until they’re already on you—fingers sliding down your arms in a slow drag that makes your skin light up, trailing heat to your wrists, your sides, your hips. Then he grips. Not gentle. Claiming. Thumbs digging in just above the curve of your ass, yanking you into place with an ease that makes your breath stutter.

He adjusts your body like you’re just a piece of the equation he’s solving. Angles your legs wider. Tilts your pelvis. Lines your hips with his like a weapon locking into its holster. Every motion says mine. Every shift says you’re not getting away.

“No escaping this one,” he mutters against your mouth, already rutting into you like the world’s ending and it’s somehow your fault. “Gonna make you fucking feel it.”

And then he’s rutting into you, grinding hard, slow, mean, the thick line of his cock dragging against you through too much fabric, not nearly enough friction. His hips roll like he’s trying to fuck the regret out of you before he’s even inside, like it’s your fault the world’s on fire and he’s the only one allowed to burn you down.

His hand slides down between you like he’s tuning a high-stakes radio, all intent and zero patience, fingers greedy as sin and twice as confident. He doesn’t hesitate, just slides them under the waistband like he owns the access, the privilege—and fuck, he finds it instantly. Wet. Soaked. You feel the shift in him the moment he registers it—his whole expression flickering into something darker, meaner, more satisfied.

“Ohhh,” he purrs, dragging the word out like he’s tasting it, that fucking grin spreading across his face like oil in water. A menace. A brat. A smug little demon who just found gold under your panties. “Look who’s not so innocent now, huh?”

You scowl up at him, even though it takes everything in you not to arch into the touch. Your breath catches the moment his fingers glide between your folds, slow and maddening, like he’s just checking inventory. Like he’s confirming, with smug fingers and a smirk, that you’re soaked through and so goddamn ready it’s embarrassing.

“I was innocent,” you snap, biting the inside of your cheek to hold composure, “until you started acting like a fucking gremlin all day.”

He doesn't even blink—just grins wider, proud and wicked. “I am a gremlin,” he says, dipping just the tip of one finger in, a slow, cruel tease that makes your thighs twitch. His eyes are locked on yours, watching every flicker of reaction with sick delight, like this is his favorite game and he’s already ten moves ahead. “But you—you crawled under the desk, babe. You woke the demon up. You knew what you were doing.”

“I was avenging myself. It was emotional warfare.”

He laughs—really laughs, head tossed back for a second before he looks down again, still grinning but now it's dark, calculated. “Yeah? We’ll see about that, darling.”

And then he pushes in—two fingers, deep and sudden, no warning, no teasing, just a hard, unapologetic thrust that knocks the air right out of your lungs. The stretch is immediate, obscene, that thick press opening you up so fast your body has no time to think, only react. You gasp, sharp and strangled, hips jerking up into his hand like you’ve been electrocuted. Your nails sink into his arm on instinct, clutching like he’s the only solid thing keeping you from short-circuiting completely. Muscles flutter around his fingers, slick and clenching, already threatening to pull him deeper, to take more, even as your brain tries to catch the fuck up.

“Oh—fuck—Lando—”

“That's the one.” He curls his fingers just so, smirking down at you like a man who just found nuclear launch codes in his back pocket. “You sound so much cuter when you’re not trying to be a little shit.”

You shoot him a glare, trying to form something savage and witty to bite back with, but all that comes out is a broken whimper as he starts pumping his fingers in and out, fast, obscene, squelching sounds already filling the room like he’s making a fucking smoothie with you. You slap a hand over your mouth, scandalized.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and pinning it beside your head. “You made me suffer silently on stream. Now you’re gonna sing for me.”

“Y-You’re insane,” you pant, legs spreading wider without meaning to, traitorous body arching off the bed into his hand like a slutty heat-seeking missile.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, thumb flicking your clit now in tight, fast circles, the way he knows makes you go from sassy to needing an exorcism in under thirty seconds. “You made me come so hard I hit a Windows error sound. You don’t get to talk shit.”

You try. You really try to keep up the banter, to sass something, anything—but he thrusts his fingers in deeper, and your voice cracks into a moan that embarrasses you on a spiritual level. Like the neighbors are gonna know kind of level.

“Thaaaat’s better,” he murmurs, face hovering just over yours, warm breath brushing your cheek. “That’s my good girl. What happened to all that backtalk, huh?”

You hiss through your teeth, grinding against his hand now like a bitch in heat, shameless. “Y-You’re cheating—using your—skills—”

He chuckles, so cocky it hurts. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls his fingers out just as your legs start shaking, cruel bastard that he is, and you let out a noise that could get you arrested in three countries. He sucks those fingers into his mouth, exaggerated, obscene, humming like you’re fine wine and he’s a connoisseur.

Then he’s sliding his boxers down, slow and casual like he’s got all the time in the world—like his cock isn’t flushed dark and aching, already rock fucking hard, already glistening at the tip with precome that beads thick and lazy along the curve of him. It bobs up against his stomach as the fabric clears it, twitching with every heartbeat, a full display of just how wrecked he still is and just how far from finished.

You can’t stop staring. Can’t help it. The way he’s thick and veiny, that curve you know too well, the flushed red of his tip already wet enough to make your mouth water—it’s mean, the way your body reacts without permission, clenching tight like it’s starving for him. Your thighs shift, instinctual and desperate, a slow rub for friction he hasn't even allowed yet.

“What?” he says, tone light, mock-innocent, voice still gravel from groaning your name minutes ago. His hand wraps around the base of his cock and gives it a lazy stroke, slow enough to show off, smearing his own slick over the shaft while his eyes dare you to break. “You gonna apologize yet?”

He punctuates it with a little flick of his wrist—just enough to make a drop of precome slide down the underside, thick and slow.

“Never,” you spit. “Die mad about it.”

Your voice is sharp, but your cunt is soaked, needy, betraying every ounce of sass with a slick heat that clings to him as he shifts closer. He just laughs—low, smug, dangerous—like he’s already decided you’ll be swallowing those words in moans.

Then he lines himself up. His hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it down between your thighs with excruciating slowness. The head drags along your folds, thick and pulsing, smearing you open with the kind of pressure that makes your back arch off the bed on reflex. It’s not even in yet—not really—but your whole body shudders, already anticipating the stretch, the slide, the ruin.

“Oh,” he grins, cockhead nudging your soaked entrance, hips rolling forward just enough to catch—not push, not yet, just press. That dangerous little tease of what's coming. “I plan to.”

And he grinds it there, circling slow, obscene, just enough to coat himself in you. Just enough to make your breath stutter and your legs fall open wider, helplessly, hungrily, like your body’s given up on pride entirely. Your clit’s aching from the friction, nerves lighting up with every teasing pass of his swollen tip.

He watches you squirm beneath him, his grin sharpening like a blade. “Hope you’re ready to scream that apology when I’m buried in your guts.”

And then—he pushes.

Slow.

So fucking slow. Not even a thrust—just pressure, the barest push of the head breaching you, thick and deliberate, like he’s forcing your body to recognize him all over again. Like he’s marking every nerve ending with the stretch. Your mouth drops open but nothing comes out—just breath. Just need.

He’s watching your face the whole time, drinking in every flicker of it—your brows twitching, lips parting, that helpless little tremble that crawls up your spine when your body realizes what’s happening. That he’s really doing this. Slow-fucking you like a punishment. Not to be kind. To hurt you in the best fucking way.

The head of his cock pops past the tight ring of resistance, and your whole body jolts like a live wire’s been jammed up your spine. He hisses through his teeth at the way you clench, how fucking wet you are, how you grip him like you don’t want him to leave.

“Ohhh, f-fuck—look at that,” he groans, barely able to speak through the pressure. “She’s pulling me in already. What a fucking slut.”

Then he sinks in another inch—slow, torturous, dragging the thick weight of him against walls already fluttering in anticipation. You gasp, toes curling, nails digging into the sheets like you can anchor yourself to something, anything, before he breaks you. Every ridge, every vein along his shaft feels like it’s scraping against your sanity in slow-motion.

“God, you're tight,” he growls, voice frayed at the edges, forehead resting against yours now, sweat already gathering at his hairline. “You feel that? Every inch, baby. You asked for this.”

And still—he doesn’t thrust.

He feeds it to you, inch by aching inch, until you're stretched wide, stuffed full, practically shaking beneath him. Your cunt spasms around him, greedy and desperate, and the noise you make—high, cracked, needy—goes straight to his fucking ego.

“Fuck, you’re gonna break,” he whispers, voice all grit and glory. “Should I make it worse?”

And then—he slams forward.

One brutal thrust, all the way in, balls flush against you, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and filthy as it echoes through the room. Your scream is instant. He grins like the devil who just cashed a bet.

“Good,” he growls, pulling back just enough before hammering in again, harder. “Let’s see how long you last.”

Your scream barely fades before he’s thrusting again, harder this time, fucking you with that brutal rhythm that says he’s not pacing himself—he’s taking you. His cock slams into you again and again, thick and slick and relentless, dragging a fresh cry out of your throat every time his hips smack against yours.

And he’s talking now—low, filthy, breathless filth right into your ear, every word rough and ragged and soaked in something feral.

“Fuck—you feel that?” he grits out, his hips stuttering just enough to grind that thick cockhead right up against your cervix. “You’re milking me. Gonna make me come in you like it’s fucking biological.”

You claw at his back, eyes rolling, mind fogged with nothing but sensation—his cock splitting you open, heavy balls smacking your ass, every thrust punching your thoughts out through your mouth in gasped curses and broken moans.

He grabs your jaw, forces your gaze back to him. Eyes locked.

“Nah—look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his temple, lips wet, voice shaking. “Gonna make you mine for real.”

Then his grip tightens, hand splayed wide over your lower belly like he’s feeling himself from the outside, like he wants to watch his cock bulge under your skin.

“Gonna breed you,” he snarls. “Fuck a baby into you. You hear me?”

You whimper, thighs locked around his hips, cunt spasming around him like your body’s already begging for it—please, fill me, mark me, ruin me.

“I’ll fucking marry you,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt, holding there, twitching deep inside you. “Swear to god. Put a ring on your finger and a kid in your belly.”

Then he pulls back and pounds in again—once, twice, three savage thrusts—wet, deep, loud—and you feel it, that telltale twitch, that low growl in his chest, the way his abs seize against your stomach.

He’s close.

“Gonna fucking fill you up,” he growls, voice raw, ragged, forehead pressed to yours. “You’ll feel it for days—my cum dripping down your thighs, stuck so deep inside you, it’s not going anywhere.”

And then—he breaks.

One final thrust, deep, forced so far into you your legs snap around him and your body locks down, clenching tight—

He roars your name, hips jerking, cock buried deep as he comes—thick, hot, endless. Spurting in waves, flooding your pussy with so much cum you feel it seeping out around him, warm and filthy and perfect.

“Fuckfuckfuck—take it, take all of it,” he groans, shivering against you, cock still twitching, still pumping as he rides it out, thrusting slow and shallow, like he’s grinding his claim into your womb.

His body trembles above yours, slick skin clinging, muscle taut then gone soft as he slumps forward, breath crashing into the crook of your neck. Not all the way gone, not yet—he gives one last lazy grind, a roll of his hips that makes you twitch and sigh against him, the pressure just enough to drag a whimper from your throat.

The comedown hits you both like a sucker punch made of glitter and gravity—one second he’s practically growling into your throat, the next he’s collapsed on top of you like a glorified space heater, sweaty, heavy, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “fuckin’ deserved that, didn’t I…”

You wheeze under his weight. “You’re crushing me, Norris.”

“I’m post-orgasmic and vulnerable. Be gentle.”

“You just tried to breed me like a feral raccoon.”

“Yeah but emotionally?” he slurs, nuzzling his cheek into your collarbone like he’s recharging. “I’m a soft boy inside.”

You groan and reach up to push his sweat-damp curls out of his face. “Yeah, yeah, you are.”

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bueckets · 3 months ago

Text

Love Me Tender (Then Crank Up the Dial)

Pairing: dom!Paige x sub!reader

Genre: uh vibrator, a bathroom, and your little shit girlfriend, this is just literal porn

Description: It’s supposed to be dinner. A quiet, romantic, Valentine’s Day reservation. But nothing about is quiet—especially not when she’s got a remote in her hand, a smug look on her face, and complete control over the vibrator tucked between your thighs.

Spoiler alert: you won’t leave the restaurant dry—or alone.

WC: 4.3k

Notes: i’m unwell.

The smooth silk of your dress clings to you, hugging the shape of your thighs where you sit stiffly in the restaurant booth, hands folded in your lap like you’re prim and proper. Like you’re not unraveling. Like you’re not shaking, just barely, under the heat of Paige’s gaze.

She’s across from you, fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of her wine glass, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She’s in a suit—tailored to perfection, navy-blue, the crisp lines sculpting along her broad shoulders, the deep V of her collar teasing a glimpse of collarbone. Paige has always known how to command attention without trying, without forcing it—she owns it, the same way she owns the court, the same way she owns you.

Under the table, pressed between your legs, is a slick, buzzing little secret. Her secret. The vibrator nestled against your clit hums at the lowest setting, teasing, thrumming against your pulse. Paired with the stretch of the plug buried inside your ass—God, you’re already at the edge of insanity.

The worst part? She hasn’t even touched the remote yet. Not properly, at least. Just enough to remind you it’s there, enough to make every shift of your hips a risk, every movement a battle between relief and torture.

Your breath hitches as she tilts her head, watching you closely, fingers tapping lightly against the remote resting beside her plate. Her nails are short, painted clear, effortlessly clean—the same hands that have spent hours palming a basketball, wrapping around your throat, spreading you open like she has all the time in the world.

“You’re quiet,” she murmurs, taking a slow sip of wine. “Something wrong, baby?”

Your jaw clenches. You want to glare at her. You want to fight, but you can’t—because Paige loves this part too much. Loves the way you squirm, loves the way you bite your lip bloody just to keep from moaning in a public setting.

Her foot slides forward under the table, nudging against your ankle, teasing its way up your calf, slow, lazy.

“Tell me,” she says. “Or do I have to turn it up to get you to talk?”

Your nails dig into your palms. The thought of her cranking the setting higher—no, no, not here.

You clear your throat, forcing your voice even. “I’m fine.”

Paige hums, unconvinced, swirling the wine in her glass before setting it down. “Mmm. Liar.”

Your heart stops—or maybe it kicks up, your pulse hammering in your throat as she casually picks up the remote, thumb hovering over the dial. Your muscles go rigid, every nerve locked in anticipation.

She doesn’t press it. Not yet. Instead, she leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.

“Let me guess,” she murmurs, eyes flicking down toward your lap. “It’s starting to get a little unbearable, isn’t it?”

Your thighs clench, heat flashing through your body. Fuck. You shouldn’t—shouldn’t react so much to just her words, but she knows you too well. Knows how to slip under your skin, how to make you burn with just a look.

Paige smirks, and then she finally presses the button.

A sharp, sudden jolt slams through you. The vibration spikes—no longer a subtle tease, but a deep, rolling pulse against your clit, strong enough that you jerk in your seat.

Your fork clatters onto your plate. Heat immediately rushes to your face.

“That’s better,” she muses, tilting her head. “So sensitive tonight, baby. Maybe I should’ve gone with something stronger.”

Your breath comes out in short, uneven gasps. The plug stretches tight inside you, every pulse of the vibrator amplifying the heat coiling low in your stomach. It’s too much. Too much and not enough, because you need to move, need to grind down, but you can’t—not here, not in a fucking restaurant.

“Paige,” you hiss under your breath, barely managing to keep the desperation from your voice.

She quirks a brow. “What?”

“Turn it down.”

She laughs—low, deep, like she enjoys your suffering. “Turn it down?” Her gaze flicks to your lap, her smirk sharpening. “But you’re already soaking through your dress, baby.”

Your stomach plummets.

Your hands fly to your lap—fuck, fuck, she’s right. The silk fabric, already thin, has betrayed you, the dark spot between your thighs a damning proof of your arousal.

Paige hums in satisfaction, setting the remote back down, not bothering to lower the setting. Your whole body trembles.

She leans back, taking her time, pretending to glance over the menu like she hasn’t just reduced you to a mess in the middle of a five-star restaurant.

“You’re such a good girl for me,” she murmurs, not looking up. “Sitting there, taking it.”

A shudder runs through you. Your mind is a blur, the pleasure cresting just enough to drive you insane but never enough to push you over.

Paige knows exactly how to keep you suffering. You sit there, legs squeezed so tight your thighs ache, hands clenched into useless little fists in your lap, every muscle locked as you fight to hold yourself together. To keep from breaking.

Paige is relaxed. She sits back against the plush leather of the private booth, legs spread, hand resting lazily over the remote, thumb idly circling the dial but not pressing it. Yet. Just teasing. Just reminding you that she’s in control.

Your breath is ragged, shoulders trembling as you try to not fucking whimper in a public setting.

A waitress approaches—blonde, pretty, her uniform perfectly pressed—and for a second, just a second, you think Paige might have some mercy. Might turn the toy off while she places her order.

You should know better.

"Have you decided, ma’am?" the waitress asks, her voice smooth and polite.

Paige hums, tapping her finger against the remote like she’s thinking. Like she’s deliberating. And then—oh, fuck—she turns the dial up another level.

A sharp, intense pulse slams through your clit, the vibrator kicking up into a deep, rolling rhythm that has you jerking against the seat, nails digging hard into your palms as you bite back a strangled moan.

Paige doesn’t even look at you. She’s calm, unreadable, as if she’s not watching you come apart right in front of her.

"I’ll have the filet mignon," she says smoothly, voice completely even, like she’s not currently wrecking you under the table. "Medium-rare. And she’ll have—" Paige pauses, finally looking at you, eyes dark, lips quirked.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, breath shaky, helpless, as the relentless vibration works you open, thrumming deep through your clit, pulsing against the plug inside you. It’s too much, too good, but not enough—never enough—because Paige is keeping you right there, dangling on the edge, teasing, tormenting, watching you drown in it.

"She’ll have the salmon," Paige finally says, answering for you.

Her eyes are locked on you, watching you struggle. Watching you break.

The waitress scribbles it down. "Any drinks?"

"Mmm," Paige hums, pretending to think—and then, just to be a bitch, she cranks the setting higher.

A sharp, punishing jolt tears through you.

Your body locks, your breath catches, a tiny, choked whimper slipping out before you can stop it. The waitress doesn’t notice, but Paige does. She loves this, lives for it.

"Just water for her," she says smoothly, shutting the menu. "She’s already a little… flushed."

Your whole face burns, thighs trembling as you desperately try to keep your breathing under control.

The waitress nods, stepping away, leaving you alone in the private booth with her.

Silence stretches. Paige leans forward, eyes glinting, her fingers slowly tracing the outline of the remote like she’s considering ending you right here, right now. Her voice is low, sultry, dragging over you like silk and sin.

"Did you just whimper for me, baby?"

Your breath stutters, muscles coiled so tight you might shatter, the relentless, pulsing vibration burrowing through you like a second heartbeat—no, stronger, crueler, because your heart doesn’t make your knees weak, doesn’t flood your core with helpless, dripping heat. Paige watches you like a wolf watching prey, that smirk just bordering on smug as she twirls the remote between her fingers.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “Such a mess, and I haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

You swallow hard. Your thighs clench—useless. The silk of your dress is ruined, clinging to you like sin, like evidence. The heat of the restaurant, the murmur of distant conversation, the candlelight flickering between you—it all feels unreal, like you’ve been removed from normalcy and placed in a purgatory of her design, one where every breath, every twitch, is hers to control.

The waitress is gone, the order placed, and yet Paige still hasn’t granted you relief. If anything, she’s enjoying the game too much, savoring your trembling hands, the way your body betrays you with every involuntary shudder. You feel it in the way she leans back, lazy, her legs spread beneath the table, confidence dripping from her like fine wine.

“What’s the matter, baby?” she taunts, her fingers flexing over the remote. “You look like you’ve got something to say.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes. Not when she shifts slightly, boot nudging between your ankles, forcing your legs apart just enough to remind you who’s in control. Not when she presses the remote’s dial forward another click—just one. Just enough to send a fresh wave of torturous pleasure rolling through your oversensitive core.

Your breath shatters into something between a gasp and a choked moan. Your fingers fly to the edge of the table, gripping hard, knuckles white.

Paige’s eyes glint.

“Careful,” she warns, tilting her head. “People might hear you.”

It’s too much. You can feel yourself unraveling, every nerve raw, every second a stretch of unbearable tension. And she knows. Oh, she fucking knows. The bastard. The sadist. The woman who holds you together and tears you apart in equal measure.

Paige leans in, slow, deliberate, resting her chin on her palm like she has all the time in the world. Like she’s not currently dismantling you one pulse at a time. The flickering candlelight between you casts shadows across her sharp jaw, highlights the smug amusement in her eyes as she watches you tremble on the edge of something devastating.

“You’re shaking, baby,” she murmurs, voice syrup-thick, low enough that it curls around your spine like a touch. “That bad, huh?”

Your nails bite into the tablecloth, your breath a wrecked thing in your chest. The vibrator’s merciless now, the setting just high enough to keep you right on the brink, never letting you tip over, never letting you breathe. It’s a calculated cruelty—Paige knows exactly how to play you, how to keep you strung out, how to turn you into a mess of heat and need with nothing but a dial and a smirk.

Her boot slides further between your legs, pressing, just barely, but it’s enough to send a fresh bolt of pleasure lancing through you. Your thighs clench around nothing, your body an open wound of want, so fucking desperate it’s humiliating.

“Paige,” you whisper, half a plea, half a warning.

She hums, tilting her head, pretending to consider. “What is it, sweetheart? You want me to stop?”

Paige sees the truth before you can even think to lie. Her smirk sharpens, and then—she has the audacity to stretch, to feign casual boredom as she flicks the remote again. Just a little. Just enough to send another sharp pulse through your clit, enough to make your body jerk, enough to make your mouth fall open on a silent gasp.

She watches you drown in it. Watches your shoulders shudder, watches the way your legs twitch under the table, helpless against the cruel, endless tease. And then—she sighs, setting the remote down with an air of finality, like she’s lost interest. Like she’s done playing.

Your stomach drops, panic cutting through the haze of arousal, because no—no, she can’t just leave you like this, can’t just push you to the edge and then fucking abandon you in the middle of a restaurant.

“I think you need a moment,” she says, smooth, detached, like she’s commenting on the wine selection instead of completely wrecking you.

She leans back, stretching her arms over the booth, legs spread in that infuriatingly casual way, radiating dominance, confidence, control. You can feel it from across the table, the weight of her ownership, the unspoken demand curling thick between you.

Your pulse hammers. Your thighs tremble. The ache between your legs is unbearable.

Paige cocks a brow.

“Well?”

It’s not a question. Your breath catches. A second passes. Then another.

And then—your legs move before your brain catches up. You force yourself out of the booth, every step shaky, every nerve raw. The vibrator is still on, still buzzing insistently inside you, and it takes everything in you not to stumble, not to let your knees give out under the weight of your own need.

The air of the restaurant is thick, suffocating, heat curling in your chest, your head. You barely register the dim lighting, the hushed conversation around you, the clinking of silverware against porcelain. All you can feel is the slick, throbbing ache between your legs, the torturous pulse of pleasure rolling through your core.

You don’t have to look to know Paige is watching you.

The moment you step into the hallway leading to the bathrooms, the noise of the restaurant fades, leaving you in a quiet, empty stretch of dimly lit space. Your breath is shallow, ragged, your body vibrating with tension.

The second you slip into the bathroom, you brace yourself against the sink, gripping the cool porcelain like it can ground you. Your reflection stares back at you—flushed, disheveled, pupils blown wide with need. You barely recognize yourself.

The door creaks open behind you. Paige steps in. Then locks it. Her boots strike the tile slow. Measured. She stalks toward you like a huntress with the kill already bleeding in her claws. You don’t move. Can’t. Your fingers clutch the sink, trembling, white-knuckled, and that treacherous little hum still buzzes in your core, low and deep and maddening. Your thighs are soaked. Your knees feel like they’re not yours. And Paige—Paige is silent as she comes up behind you, a shadow in navy and control.

You meet your own eyes in the mirror—wide, desperate, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any color left. Behind you, Paige moves closer. The heat of her body rolls off her in waves, a living furnace pressed just shy of your spine.

“You’re a mess,” she murmurs, her voice just a breath, her lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “Look at you.”

You do. God, you do, even though shame burns hot under your skin. She places her hand over yours on the sink—solid, sure, hers—and leans in just enough that her front brushes your back. It’s not a question. It’s an assessment. A challenge. A reminder.

“You walked through a five-star restaurant dripping into your fucking heels,” she says, dark amusement threading through every word. “And no one knew. No one but me.”

Your breath catches, a soft whimper escaping without permission, and she grins—teeth sharp, cruel delight dancing at the edge of her lips. The hand not bracing you pins your hip, pulling you back into her. And then her thumb dips between your thighs, presses firm against the soaked silk clinging to your cunt.

“Still buzzing for me?” she teases, rubbing in a slow, maddening circle, the pressure enough to make your legs wobble. “Fuck, baby. You’re soaked. That little toy’s been working overtime, huh?”

You nod, desperate, a choked sound breaking in your throat. You want to beg. Want to scream. Want to come and die and live again all in one breath. Paige just chuckles.

“Oh no,” she purrs, her lips brushing your neck. “You don’t get to come just because you need it.”

The hand at your hip tightens. She lifts the hem of your dress slowly, dragging the silk up your thighs, exposing more and more ruined skin until the cool air kisses your slick folds and the faint metallic glint of the plug winks in the mirror. Her eyes meet yours in the reflection, hunger coiling deep in the burnished gold of her stare.

“You get to come,” she whispers, “when I say you come.”

She drops to her knees. Your hips jerk as her hands spread you open, rough palms skating up the insides of your thighs. Her mouth—God, her mouth—is hot and brutal when it lands on your clit, tongue pressing firm against the vibrator’s head, the added pressure making your knees buckle. She moans into you, devours like she’s starved, licking and sucking with calculated cruelty, the vibrations driving deeper under the intensity of her touch.

You’re gasping, broken little whines spilling from your lips as her tongue works you open, the plug inside you shifting with every tremor, every pulse. Her grip bruises your hips, nails digging crescent moons into your skin as she pulls you back onto her face like she owns it. Like you’re not allowed to escape.

You don’t want to. You want to come. Want to shatter.

She stops.

The silence hits like a slap. Your body trembles, needy, on the very edge of ruin—and Paige just stands. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes glittering with something feral. You watch her in the mirror, desperate, wrecked.

“On your knees,” she commands.

You drop. The floor is cold tile against your knees. Your thighs are twitching, trembling, drool slicking the corner of your lips just from the aftertaste of her tongue on your cunt. And Paige stands tall above you—tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease her inked collarbone, her strap already bulging thick beneath her slacks, ready.

She unzips. You whimper.

“Open wide, baby.”

Your mouth drops before she finishes the sentence. Tongue out, lips parted, already drooling down your chin, desperate for it. Paige fisting your hair is the only warning you get—then she feeds it to you in one slow, deliberate thrust. Her cock hits the back of your throat before your reflex even wakes up.

You choke.

“That’s it,” she growls, holding you there, her hips flush with your lips, her grip tightening until your scalp aches. “Fucking take it. You’ve been gagging on my attention all night, haven’t you? Look at you now—on your knees, plugged and soaked, and I haven’t even made you come yet.”

Your throat spasms around her, spit spilling free, dripping messily down your neck, your chest. She starts moving—slow thrusts that build, in and out, in and out, then faster, harder, until your head’s bobbing like a toy on a string, her grip controlling every inch. Your mascara smears, tears spilling as she fucks your face without mercy.

“Sloppy little cockdrunk whore,” she snarls, slapping your cheek with the flat of her hand when you gag too hard. “You like being used like this? Don’t answer. I know you do.”

Your eyes roll. Your throat stretches. The tip of her strap punches into your resistance with every brutal thrust, and still you moan. You moan around it like you love being used, like you need it deeper. Paige’s eyes flash with something dark, primal.

She spits. Right in your mouth. Doesn’t stop fucking your face even when the mess dribbles out again.

“Swallow. Good cumslut always swallows.”

Then she yanks you off. Just enough for a ragged breath, your tongue lolling, chin and chest shiny-wet, and before you can suck in oxygen—

SLAP.

Her palm cracks across your cheek. You whimper once again, drained.

“God, you’re pathetic. Can’t go five fucking minutes without drooling like a bitch in heat. Get up.”

Your legs barely obey. The plug’s still inside you, throbbing in time with your clit, the toy still buzzing—a wicked low pulse that’s kept you riding the knife’s edge of orgasm for so fucking long. She shoves you hard against the stall door, yanks your wrists behind your back and holds them with one hand, the other dragging your dress up again.

And then her mouth is on your ass. Her teeth bite your cheek, her tongue licks the base of the plug.

“Oh my god—Paige—!”

Her chuckle is low and mean. She spits again, this time between your cheeks, letting the wet drip down the base of the toy. Then she licks it—slow, nasty, devouring. Her tongue circles the plug, and then presses against your hole, licking around it, fucking into it until you’re moaning like a fucking animal.

“Filthy little anal slut,” she breathes, slapping your ass so hard you jump. “You want me to fuck you here instead? Make you come with nothing in your pussy at all?”

You shake your head. She slaps you again.

“Wrong answer.”

Then her fingers slip between your folds. One slap to your clit, and your knees buckle.

“Look at this fucking mess,” she murmurs, fingers sliding through the slick heat of your folds. “You’re gushing and you haven’t even come. Ruined your panties, ruined your dress, ruined yourself. Just a broken, desperate little thing waiting to be bred.”

You whine. Your voice is gone. But your body screams—hips jerking back, needy for anything, everything.

“Beg for it,” she growls, pulling your head back by your hair. “Beg for your orgasm. Beg like a fucking bitch.”

“Please, Paige—please—fuck, I need to come—I’ll do anything—”

“Anything?”

She steps behind you again, lines the slick cock up with your soaked pussy. The stretch hits instantly, wide and mean and so deep your eyes cross. She doesn’t give you time to adjust. She just slams in. Hips crashing into yours. Your voice breaks on a scream.

Then—she twists the vibrator inside you higher. The plug pulses. The cock rams deep. You explode.

You don’t just come—you implode. Screaming, sobbing, squirting all over the floor, her thighs, your own. She holds you down by the hair as your legs collapse, fucking into your orgasm with vicious, unrelenting force. You scream her name, voice ragged, throat raw, body twitching.

She doesn’t stop.

“Oh no, baby. We’re not done.”

One hand grabs your throat, choking you just enough to feel your pulse stutter. The other slaps your clit. Over. And over. And over.

You squirt again.

“That’s it,” she growls, voice right in your ear. “Give me everything. You’re not leaving this bathroom until you’re empty.”

Your knees are still shaking. Your slick coats your inner thighs, streaked down to your calves, puddled on the floor under you in obscene splashes. The plug’s still in. The vibrator’s still buzzing, just low now, like a sick little reminder of everything she just did. You can barely lift your face from the cold, come-smeared tile. Mascara tears painted down your cheeks, lips swollen, your cunt raw and twitching from being fucked through three—four?—mind-shattering orgasms.

Paige is fixing her collar like nothing happened. Cool. Composed. Buttoning up her shirt with smooth fingers, wrist flicking her tie back into place, slipping her belt through the loops like she didn’t just break you over her strap and leave you leaking like a used toy. The scent of sex clings to the air thick as heat. But she doesn’t even look mussed.

You finally find your voice—barely.

“P-Paige—”

“Shhh.” Her tone slices through the haze. Calm. Cold. Final. “You’ll clean up when you’re back at the table.”

She slides the remote into her pocket with a quiet click that still makes your thighs twitch, and crouches down just long enough to tug your ruined dress down your hips again. Not fixing your hair. Not bothering with your makeup. She wants them to see. Wants you walking back out into that restaurant wrecked, ruined, dripping like a whore who just got used in a public restroom and liked it.

She leans in, breath brushing your temple.

“Get up, baby.”

You do. Fuck, you do, legs wobbling, cum still leaking with every step. The plug shifts. The vibrator hums. You shudder. Your cunt pulses around emptiness.

“You’re not done yet,” she says, brushing invisible lint off her slacks. “I’ve still got dessert coming. And so do you.”

She reaches over, grabs your chin, makes you look up at her. Her thumb brushes your spit-slick bottom lip—then presses in. Makes you suck. You moan, automatic.

“Good girl.”

Then she turns. Unlocks the bathroom stall. Walks out. Just like that. No looking back. No waiting. Not even a final command—just the click of her boots as she strides back toward the table, calm as ever, as if she hadn’t just turned you into a dripping, shaking, breathless thing.

And now it’s on you. To fix your hair. To wipe your mouth. To walk out there soaked, flushed, plug inside you, vibrator still on, heels clicking through your shame.

To follow. Like a good girl.

#uconn #paige bueckers uconn #bueckets #paige buckets #paige bueckers #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader

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nghtwngs · 29 days ago

Note

can i pretty please get a bob reynolds fic with the prompt “ you’re bleeding— how long have you been hiding this?! ”

yes you mayy!!! not a new white man for us both to obsess over… how predictable we are… unfortunately. this reads both platonically and romantically tbh but that wasn’t my intention

send requests !

“You’re bleeding—how long have you been hiding this?”

You try to laugh and brush off his concern, but it only hurts and makes you wince. Warm pools down your stomach, and not in any nice way. “I’m alright, Bob. Swear it. Hey, it’s only been like… fifteen minutes. I thought we’d be back before then.”

His eyes meet yours before assessing your injuries. Bob holds you carefully, trying to be mindful of his strength. The fingers of his free hand ghost over your limbs, sending a subtle shiver down your spine. It’s embarrassing how much he can affect you even though you have a giant hole in your stomach.

“You’re not alright—you’re hurt. You could be dying—“

You hold your palm out, waving his words away. “Jeez, dude. Relax, okay? I’m fine. And neither of us are gonna let me die, yeah?”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and nods. “No.”

“Just like we practiced, right? You’re gonna fly me back to the tower before I…”

In a panic, he calls your name, gently shaking you. You’re unresponsive. He curses lowly, bracing himself for flight. Bob, well, The Sentry, had only recently been cleared for (New) Avengers missions—saying he’s nervous is an absolute understatement. You guys all rode together in the jets. There are plenty of risks at hand here: he could lose control and hurdle you into space, he could lose control and let you both fall back to earth (and you’re not invulnerable), he could lose control and contort your body into a human ball, and plenty of other awful, horrific, terrible scenarios his cruel mind could conjure up.

Ultimately, they all equal an extremely painful death for you, and it’d be his fault.

But if he doesn’t act now, you would definitely die. The two of you got separated from the others during the fight, so he’s on his own now. He takes an even deeper breath, glancing down at your limp body in his arms. He could do it. He wouldn’t fail you. Not now. Not ever.

And he flies.

The moment you wake up, eyes scrunching at the bright fluorescent lights, you can kind of make out Bob’s sleeping form. The chair is a bit small for him, and it looks uncomfortable.

Your mouth feels like you swallowed about thirty cotton balls, so you go to sit up to drink from the glass of water on the tray next to you. You let out a long breath before you hear, “You’re awake!”

Bob scrambles to your bedside, helping you sit up.

“Thanks,” you tell him, grabbing the water. After taking a sip, you continue with a smile, “You saved me. Like I knew you would.”

“You’re the one who helped me practice my flying.”

“And you’re the one who can fly. I’m just… your moral support. Go Thunderbolts!” You giggle, making a fist of encouragement in the air.

He smiles bashfully, looking down at your bed. “Go Thunderbolts.”

“Welcome to the team, Bob,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “Officially, now.”

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds fluff #bob reynolds angst #sentry x reader #sentry imagine #sentry fluff #sentry angst #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts imagine

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yieldtotemptation · 11 months ago

Text

REPUTATION ft. Minji

minji x male reader smut

9k words

“So, you’re the one,” Minji says, an accusation to make you look up from your drink. “The one they warned us about.”

Firstly, you didn’t plan for this (you never do).

The night began, as always, with the best intentions. You promised your manager that you would follow his instructions to the letter: show face, smile for the cameras, and then slip out before the real party kicks in and you find yourself knee deep in scandal. Again.

And (if you were extra good) you would end the night by scrolling through the greatest hits on your contacts list, looking for a fellow insomniac needing to past the time, needing a bed to share.

A normal, everyday kind of night.

But yet, here you are now: cornered by the girl on everyone’s playlist, all fierce determination and pouty lips wrapped up in a tight black dress.

She doesn’t bother with an introduction—no, that would be silly—instead she just stands there, looking pretty, expecting your full attention.

You quirk an eyebrow. “I require a warning?”

There’s a smile there, just a hint, playing at the edges of Minji’s mouth, like she’s in on a secret that you’re not privy to. “Beware of male seniors. Specifically,” she adds, tilting her head to the side, raising her hand, peeling one finger off the drink she’s holding so she can point a single glossy nail at “you.”

“Hm,” is all you have to say, playing coy, like this is all news to you. Like you’re not aware of your own reputation, of the things you’ve been accused of, the things your company has scrambled to cover-up, the things you’ve actually done.

“So,” she says, so carefree, so easily charming. It’s all an act, of course, a meticulously curated ‘cool girl’ image, something well-rehearsed and played a thousand times before on a thousand lesser men, a tightrope walk between relatable and unattainable. “Should I be worried?”

You know what she’s really asking for: an assessment. Do you find me attractive? Do I tempt you? Am I the type of girl worth risking your career over?

And so, you take her invitation and do the one thing that always gets you in trouble. You look. Look at her legs, long and toned and smooth, begging to be wrapped around your waist. Look at her thighs, creamy-white and barely covered by the hem of her dress. Look at her chest, the soft swell rising and falling with every breath, her collarbone glittering with the sweat of excitement.

Look higher—at how effortlessly perfect she looks, as if she wakes up every day looking like the ideal type of every man and woman in Korea. Oh, there’s make-up, it’s subtle but it’s there, playing up her best features: the height of her cheekbones, the almond curve of her eyes, the fullness of her lips.

She’s so undeniably, obviously gorgeous: a bombshell wrapped in the guise of a girl-next-door.

It’s no wonder she’s so fucking popular.

You give her a non-answer, “Depends what they’ve been saying about me.”

Minji takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours, her full pink lips curling around the straw as she sucks in the sugary liquid. It’s a deliberate move, so casually erotic—borderline pornographic, in fact—designed to make you want to grab her and kiss her and prove everything they’ve been saying about you right.

But she’s busy assessing you, you can tell, trying to reconcile the rumours with the reality—Can you really make a girl like her lose control? Make her beg? Make her forget about her image, her obligations, her entire life outside of your cock?

“Word gets around HYBE quick.” Minji’s eyes narrow just a smidge, she’s biting down into her bottom lip, and it has you imagining all sorts of things you’d rather she was doing with her mouth. “The girls at SM can’t stop talking about you. The guys at JYP hate your guts, so that says a lot.” She smiles at that last point, before listing off, “fuckboy, heartbreaker, group-wrecker, industry villain.”

It’s funny, hearing your dirty laundry aired out like that, and you can only shrug, give a casual smile as if to say ‘who, me?’. It’s admittedly a practiced move, one you’ve used to get out of sticky situations before (you may have even used it as an ending pose once). “Is that what they told you?” You ask, nodding in the direction behind her.

Minji follows your gaze, glancing over her shoulder, the wall of noise and flashing lights of the club framing her face, painting her skin with a rainbow of neon shadows.

There’s her bandmates, doing a terrible job of spying, a trio of worry and concern and gossip: they’ve found their little bunny, and she’s been caught speaking to the big, bad wolf.

She muses, “we’ve all heard the same rumours…”

“And so you came to… what?”

Minji takes a step closer, close enough for you to get a whiff of her drink; one of those sugary mixes, deceptively sweet, but just as strong as the one in your own hand. “To find out for myself,” she answers, “to see if you’re really as bad as everyone says, to see if it's all hype, or if there’s actually some truth to the legend.”

“Legend,” you repeat, trying the word out on your own tongue (it sounds sweeter on hers). “That sounds a bit much, don't you think?” you ask, trying to ignore the way she’s leaning forward now, letting the top of her dress dip, revealing just enough cleavage to stimulate your imagination. A simple gesture, so perfectly choreographed that you'd think it was incidental if you didn't know better, if it didn't have you picturing what it would be like to rip that dress off her, to expose her bare tits, to grab, lick, kiss, and—

She’s giggling out loud now, like she can hear every single filthy thought racing through your mind. “I think I'd like to be the judge of that.”

There’s an alarm bell going off in your pocket, the vibration of your phone buzzing with messages—who else but your manager, demanding to know why you haven't gone home like a good little idol yet, begging you to please, please not make another mess.

But you ignore it and take another sip of your drink, savouring the burn of the cold liquor down your throat, giving you a moment to consider. You’ve got Minji figured out, you think. It's nothing you haven't seen before (nothing you haven't dealt with before). The dream girl, the ‘ideal type’ who’s growing tired of maintaining a perfect image, looking to see how far she can push, how much she can get away with (how much you’ll let her get away with).

Because she’s probably never been told no in her life. Because she's used to getting what she wants with a bat of those lashes or a pout of those lips.

In a way, coming to you is safe, because if the worst were to happen—if you were to get caught—no one for a second would believe that one of the nation's precious daughters was the instigator.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, cutting through the din of the club like a knife, making you believe that she just might be telepathic. “You're thinking: she’s just another innocent idol playing at being naughty for just the night, but the second things get too wild, she’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘Dispatch’.”

“Because you’re not like other girls.”

“Please,” she scoffs, dismissing the idea entirely. “I always see things to the end.”

“Alright then,” you say. She’s thrown down the gauntlet, and you’re going to pick it up, if for nothing else than to see just how far she’ll go. "Shall we do this here? I'll rip off your clothes, nail you in the middle of the dancefloor in front of all our friends and peers?"

She’s grinning now, not backing down, in fact she’s moving closer, like yes, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. “From what I’ve heard that would be tame for you. Is it true, what you got up to at Inkigayo?”

“That was in a parking lot.”

“And at M Coundown.”

"Under the stage.”

“Music Bank?”

“The staircase, of course.”

“See,” Minji’s whispering now, close enough that you can hear her over the thumping bass of the music, her breath warm against your ear, “you are a man-whore.”

“I have a name,” you reply, dryly.

“That’s nice.” She’s touching you now, her hand sliding up your chest, fingers playing with the buttons of your shirt. “Wanna hear me scream it?”

Your phone is still buzzing, and you know that you should be walking away. It would be the right thing to do: it’s far too public, she’s far too popular, and getting caught leaving hand in hand with her would be nothing short of an announcement that will hit the top of every social media platform by sunrise.

But it’s too late—it was over the second you locked eyes with her from across the dancefloor, when she caught you staring, blatant and unabashed, lingering on the way her ass bounced, mesmerised by how her hips swayed to the beat.

You just had to let her know she was wanted.

"Look," Minji says, her hands sliding higher now, fingers idly adjusting the collar of your shirt. "There's no angle here, no game. I'm not looking to get caught or land in a scandal, and I'm definitely not looking for love or a boyfriend or whatever fairy tale shit you sing about. I just want what all the other pretty idols are getting."

She's forward, no shame in saying exactly what she wants, daring you to dispute it, but all you can do is cock your head to the side, and flash a smirk of your own. "And what makes you think you're my type?"

Minji laughs, her teeth glinting in the neon lights—you both know it's a very, very idiotic question. "Please," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'm everyone's type."

Another glance over her shoulder, where her bandmates have been pretending not to hover, and now there’s a new face in the mix: Yunjin. Her eyes narrowed to slits, her arms folded, and her jaw is clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding from here. Unlike the other three, she’s not playing the concerned friend card; she’s the pissed off mother bear, ready to pull Minji away from the walking, talking red flag.

And so adds to your stellar reputation.

Minji notices your eyes flicker in that direction, and looking back at the group with amusement, she takes it as the cue she's been waiting for. "We better get out of here before they take your head off."

It's inevitable, really, this is how it always ends up: the sweet, innocent idol lured into the jaws of the industry monster. But you can’t help it, not when she’s looking at you like that, like she wants to be eaten alive.

You know the score, you’ve danced this dance before, and you’ve got a role to play. The only thing left to do is to take her hand and lead her out of the chaos—through the throngs of familiar faces, not giving them a chance to register what you're doing, or who you're with, or what's about to occur, again.

Not like anyone could stop it now, anyway.

"So, this is how it happens," you hear Minji murmur as you lead her out of the club, through a hidden metal door, and into the cold, night air.

Minji tastes like gin and lime cordial, her lips sticky and sweet against yours, her arms around your neck, her back pressed up against the back-alley wall. There’s something in the way she’s kissing you—giggling between breaths—like she can’t believe this is happening, like she’s getting away with the crime of the century.

Her hands are in your hair now, tugging gently, the cool metal of her rings pressing into your scalp, begging you to kiss her harder, to burn the memory of your lips onto hers. Your tongues meet in a dance that’s more battle than ballet, and she’s matching you move for move, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip, her nails scraping down your neck.

She’s eager, she’s pressing her chest against yours, making you feel just how hot she is. But yet, there’s still that annoying voice in your head, the last shreds of your conscience, telling you to give her that final out, to let her walk away with her dignity intact, go back to her members and tell them she just had to get some fresh air.

So, you pull back, tearing your mouth away from hers, giving her room to gasp for air, to let the world come back into focus, and you ask her, loud and clear, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Minji’s panting, breaths coming in short gasps, little puffs of steam out into the winter air, and she smiles. It’s a wicked little grin, equal parts surprised and thrilled, like you’ve just passed some kind of test she didn’t think you knew existed. “Are you asking for my consent?”

You balk at that. Your reputation can't be that bad. “Is it so unbelievable that I'd ask?” Even though you already know, deep down, she’s not going anywhere, there’s a power in hearing her say it. Saying that she wants you, specifically, to ruin her.

“No, it’s just…” Minji starts, eyes big and dark. The gears are turning in her head, trying to figure out how to play this, before ultimately landing on the word, “nice.”

She pulls you back towards her, needing to kiss you again. Soft, pillowy lips meeting your mouth in a kiss that’s so inappropriately sweet, like she’s sealing a deal with sugar rather than ink.

“Yeah,” she whispers, steady, sure. “I want to do this. More than anything.” Minji tilts her head back, exposing the column of her throat, inviting you to kiss it, to suck, to bite. “I want you."

You don’t need any more convincing than that. Put your hands on her body, run them over the swell of her tits, her curves, her hips, the dip of her waist. Let her lean into your touch, needing to feel more of you, wanting you to explore her.

And you do, do it all, greedily, feeling her breath hitch when you graze her nipples through the fabric, feel her hips jerk when you trace the line of her panties.

“Are we going to—gah—go back to your place?” Minji tries to ask, her question punctuated by a moan as your fingertips dance over the smooth skin of her inner thigh, the hem of her dress whispering against your skin.

You’ve already made your decision—you're not taking her home, you're not taking her anywhere with a bed, or even a chair. You're going to have her right here, right now. There’s no need to answer her, just let her work it out for herself when her back meets the wall and your thumb finds the slick, wet heat between her legs.

“Here?” She gasps, turning to look down the darkened end of the alleyway, at the distant streetlights, at the crowds of people oblivious to what’s about to happen beneath the shadows.

“It’s not the dancefloor, but it’ll have to do,” you shrug, busy pressing your lips against her cheek, travelling up to her jaw, her earlobe.

“B-but, what if—” Minji stammers, but you’re busy toying with the lace of her panties, nothing more than a mere formality at this point, only existing to get wetter, to be unavoidably ruined by you.

“What if someone finds us?” You finish her question, nibbling at her ear. “Then we’ll just have to make sure we leave them something to talk about, won’t we?”

She’s shivering at the thought of it—the headlines, the comments, the whispered scandals that will follow you both for weeks, maybe months, maybe forever. But you can feel her resolve hardening, her spine straightening, her body arching towards yours, and she replies, “Then don’t hold back.”

The challenge is clear: she’s embracing the thrill of the forbidden, the rush of potential disaster, the heady feeling of need overshadowing the fear of getting caught.

You don’t disappoint. Your fingers slip under the soaked lace, and she’s sensitive, so, so sensitive. She’s staining your fingers, needing only the smallest amount of pressure to garner a reaction. You tease her, drag your finger across her tender folds, dare to skim over her clit, torture her with anticipation.

Whatever concerns she has evaporates as you kiss down to her collarbone—you’re going to leave a mark—and she’s already asking for more, “Please.”

She’s whining, parting her legs, desperate for you to do more than just touch her, needing you to rip through her panties and take her.

“You're right—I don’t care,” she sighs into the wind, handing her fate over to you. “I need you. Now.”

That's all you need to hear, everything you've ever wanted to hear someone as seemingly untouchable as Minji say to you. You pull down her panties, needing an extra tug as her slickness sticks them to her thighs—she’s so fucking wet for you—and you draw a circle around her entrance with your finger.

“Right there,” she cries. She’s much more honest when she’s desperate—gone is the posturing, the taunting, the act—she’s just a girl who needs to feel something real. So, you give it to her—push your finger inside, gliding in smoothly, a perfect fit around your digit.

Only knuckle deep but she’s already got you like a vice, squeezing around your finger like she’s trying to keep it captive—so wet, so tight, so fucking good. Her nails dig into your shoulders as you push in another finger, stretching her just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her fulfill her promise to cry out your name, “Fuck—!”

Her pulse is racing like a runaway train, hammering against your lips—you’re pushing both fingers all the way inside her now, sawing them in and out of her, making her groan, making her repeat your name over and over again.

You’re in her ear, “you’ve got to be quiet, Minji.”

But she’s not having it. “Make me,” she laughs, daring you, another challenge she’s putting down.

You kiss her hard, replacing the laughter in her mouth with your tongue, muffling her cries as you fuck her with your hand, you’re going to ruin her now. You curl your fingers up to hit that spot that makes her toes curl in her sky-high heels, making her gasp, her head thunking back against the wall.

She’s trying, she really is, to keep it in, but she still needs you to keep her standing, to hold her up as your fingers delve deeper; to keep her from melting into a puddle all over your hand.

Still, you’re relentless, feeling her out, learning her rhythm, her reactions, the spots that make her sigh and fall apart. You know you’ve found it when her breaths turn harsh and ragged, and she’s rolling her hips against your hand, and there’s that noise—the sweet, slick sound of her pussy swallowing your fingers whole—and she’s whining into your mouth, “This feels so—”

“Hot,” you finish for her, watching as her cheeks flush a delicious shade of pink, her pupils blown wide, those angelic features of hers contorting with every thrust of your fingers. “You’re so fucking hot, Minji.”

And she is, she’s hot, she’s so hot around you, against you, her hips bucking at the praise, and she whimpers, your name a staccato prayer on her lips. “More,” she demands, but she’s tripping over her words—“more—please—how does it feel so—”

“I’m going to make you cum now, Minji,” you state, your voice low and sure, your fingers continuing their persistent rhythm inside her. She nods, panting against your neck. “And after that, I’m going to fuck you and make you cum all over again. Until you can’t walk straight. Until you forget every other name but mine. Do you understand?”

Her eyes flutter closed, and she nods again, a whine escaping her throat, and she’s biting her lip so hard it’s going to bruise—another mark she won’t be able to explain tomorrow.

You lean in closer, whispering, “Good girl.”

You’re finger-fucking her in earnest now, her body moving in sync with your hand, the alleyway walls echoing with the slap of skin and the wet sounds of your digits plunging into her, your knuckles smacking against her clit. She’s trying to keep it together, trying not to scream out loud, her eyes squeezed shut tight as if that could hold back the orgasm that’s barrelling down on her.

Her breaths are coming out in little pants, and you know she’s close, so close, she’s nearly crying. “Just your fingers—fuck—it’s just your fingers,” she’s repeating it in disbelief, like it shouldn’t feel this good, not yet, like she needs the mantra to keep herself grounded as your hand lights up every nerve in her body.

She’s there, right on the edge, only needing that extra push, that pressure in just the right place, just waiting for your word to send her spiralling over. “Cum for me now, Minji.”

And that’s all it takes.

You hold her steady, fuck her hard with your fingers, rub at her clit, and she’s clenching down, all tiny shakes and choked gasps, her eyes snapping open and then squeezing shut as she reaches the precipice.

"God—fuck—I can't—"

It hits her hard and fast and all at once—her whole body seizing around your hand, her cunt tightening, hips thrusting forward, needing more friction. Her mouth opens wide, but you trap her lips before she can make a sound, kissing her, tasting her, feeling the tremors of her orgasm travel from her core to the tips of your fingers.

Her hands are all over you, nails digging into your shoulders, there's danger of drawing blood. But she clutches you closer, her tongue dancing with yours as if her life depends on it. You keep going, not letting up until she’s fully made her way past the tide, and it’s a sight to behold—Minji coming apart against a dirty alley wall, the architecture of her legs threatening to come crumbling down.

When she does finally go still, when her breathing starts to even out, you break the kiss. Pull away to look into her eyes, searching for the any signs of regret or embarrassment that often follow.

But there’s something else entirely. Awe. Excitement. Like she’s just experienced something she never knew existed.

“You okay?” You murmur, the question more of a formality than anything, because she looks absolutely anything but okay. She looks fucking amazing, a breathless, boneless mess against the wall, her chest rising and falling rapidly with every inhale.

Her eyes are still glazed over, wide and dark, mouth slack and swollen from your kisses. Trying to process what just happened, the reality of it all. But still too lost in the aftermath of her orgasm to form coherent thoughts.

“Yeah,” she takes a breath. Nods, shakily. “I’m—yeah, I’m good.”

Pull back your hand, giving her pussy one last gentle squeeze; trying your best to ignore the whine, the high-pitched noise that makes you twitch.

She’s flushed, hair a disaster, lipstick smudged, dress in ruins around her waist, panties around her ankles. And she's looking at you now, and it's worship. Like you’re a secret that she’s just discovered; a secret she's desperate to keep to herself. “I fucking knew it,” she says. “The rumours were true.”

You smirk, wiping the slick off your hand on the side of your pants. Enjoying seeing her struggle to stand straight. “Ready for round two?”

Her gaze flicks downwards, to the bulge in your pants. She nods, swallows hard. “Yeah, I—fuck yes.”

There’s no hesitation now, no pretending she doesn’t know what she’s signed up for. She’s all in, and you want her, here, now, because that’s what you do—you take what you want.

Another kiss, deep and greedy. One hand posted on the wall behind her head, the other gripping her tight. Keeping her in place as you grind against her, letting her feel just how hard she's made you, make her feel everything you've got for her.

“Please, don’t stop,” she pleads, but it's unnecessary—you can’t.

Not now. Not when you're busy tugging down on her dress, leaving it to pool around her ankles. Fuck, she’s a vision, standing in the cold, stark alley in just her heels and her underwear—and there’s her tits, perky and perfect, begging to be touched.

Don’t even bother with the bra, just yank it down, the straps snapping and the fabric falling away to reveal her nipples—pink and stiff and so fucking tempting. You can’t help yourself, they’re practically calling for you to taste them, so you draw one into your mouth, feeling her gasp against your ear, her hand sliding into your hair, holding you against her chest.

Her skin is hot against your tongue, and you suck, and bite, and lick. Not stopping until she’s whimpering, until she’s pushing herself into your lips. You just can't help yourself, can't stop your hands from running down her stomach, tracing the lines of her abs, feeling them flex with every breath she takes. So fucking tight, so toned—it’s like you’re touching a sculpture, or a personal playground made just for you.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers, “so good, so, so good, how does it feel—?”

Her words cut off as your teeth graze her nipple—she’s so reactive to every touch, and it has you wondering—has she ever been touched like this before? Has her body every truly been explored like this, pushed to these heights?

“You want more?” You murmur into her chest, your fingers returning to her wet folds, your thumb reintroducing itself to her clit.

“Your cock,” she says, sucking a harsh breath through her teeth. “I want it, I need it—please—I’m ready for it.” It’s that word—please—how it rolls off her tongue, the desperation in it, how it makes her sound so needy.

You break away. Step back. “Then take it.”

Minji doesn’t miss the opportunity. Hands gentle but determined, fingers at your belt, fumbling with the buckle, loosening the zipper. She’s hungry for it, for this moment of truth, to verify for herself—what’s been talked about in whispers and rumours, what’s been taunting her all evening.

Your pants hit the ground, and she’s staring at your cock with wide eyes, and for a second you can almost see the doubt creeping in. But she swallows it down, and with a soft grip, wraps her small hand around you, stroking you from base to tip.

“So this is it,” she says, taking the full measure of your length, her thumb smearing the pre-cum over your head. “This is the cock that ruins idols. They said it splits women in half.”

You chuckle, but she’s completely ignoring you, well, ignoring all parts of you that isn’t your cock. Her hand is tentative at first, working its way up and down, feeling you grow harder by the second in her palm. You can feel her wonder, her excitement, a hunger matched only by the ache in your cock.

It's the way she’s not saying anything, just touching, feeling. It's intimate, just the two of you, the sound of her breaths, your heart beating in your ears, the distant thump of the world you left behind.

She’s gaining confidence now, each stroke more deliberate; a smug smile gracing her lips as she watches how you react to her touch. You bite back a groan, not wanting to give away how much she’s getting to you, but fuck, she’s getting good at this. She’s clearly learning on the job, eyes keen to see just how you like it—how fast, how tight—how to make you fall apart in her hands.

It’s time to reign her in, you’re heading into deeper waters now. You grasp her wrist, stopping her, ignoring her pouts and whines. “Not yet,” you say, “I’m going to split you in half with my cock now.”

That makes her grin. She does this thing, this cute little twirl, spinning around on her heels to face the wall, and posting herself up against it. Her legs spread wide, giving you a perfect view of her splayed pussy, glistening under the dim neon light. She’s got her hands above her head—she’s putting herself on display for you, like your own private Mona Lisa.

A look back at you and she catches you gawking—eyes glued to her ass, her pussy—and she winks. “Are you just going to stare, or do I have to make you fuck me?” She says it so casually, like she’s back at the bar ordering another drink. “Hurry up, please. I need it. Inside me. Now."

No more waiting, no further invitations needed—there’s teasing, and then there’s both of you craving it, dying for this.

You’re behind her in an instant, pressing her into the wall, her cheek against the cold brick, her juicy ass up in the air. You guide your cock to her entrance, the head nudging against her—she’s soaked, pussy drooling on your tip—and she gasps, looking back at you with those doe eyes, all wide and innocent—like she hasn’t been begging for this since the moment she looked in your direction.

“Fuck Minji, you're so fucking wet for me,” you say, running your cock down her slit, coating it in her juices, “so needy for me, aren’t you?

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice strained, like every moment without your cock inside her is torture. “I want it all. Every fucking inch.”

The first push is a slide into heaven—she’s tight, so fucking tight, so, so wet, like she’s never had anyone else—like she’s been waiting just for you. She’s teary, gasping, and you feel her body tense, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t dare ask you to stop. Instead, she arches her back, pushing herself back onto you, urging you deeper.

“God,” she’s chanting now, feeling inch after inch sliding into her, “it’s so—it’s already making me so—”

It’s slow, deep, fucking, stretching seconds into an eternity, stretching her pussy out with your girth, stretching her to fit you, to keep you, to never let you leave. It’s careful, almost tender at first—let her set the pace, let her show you how much she can take.

She’s moaning, low and guttural, and you wrap one hand around her waist to hold her steady as you thrust into her, let her get comfortable with your size, make her tits bounce with every pump, make her legs shake beneath her. And then there’s that lip bite again—she’s trying to keep quiet, but little moans are escaping her, getting lost in the night.

You ease out, then push back in, setting a steady rhythm that’s got her rocking back onto you. Minji seems like a delicate little thing, but there's a strength to her, a suppleness—she’s meeting you thrust for thrust, her pussy like pure velvet around your cock, gripping you tight, trying to milk you.

Hand finds her chin, tilting her head back so you can kiss her again—long, deep, tongue-filled kisses that make her whine and buck against you. She’s slowly, but surely adjusting to you now, her body learning the rhythm of your cock, getting used to being so completely filled.

It's in the way she's moaning into your mouth, like she's never been fucked like this before, never had someone so big, never had a cock so demanding of her tight little cunt. But she's so eager for it, her pussy so warm and welcoming, swallowing you up with every thrust.

It’s not normally like this—you’re not normally like this—but something has you asking between kisses, “You okay?”

She laughs, pushing herself back against you, pushing her cunt down on you, taking you deeper, burying your cock to the hilt. “I’m not going to break, I promise,” she says, looking over her shoulder, needing this. “I need you to fuck me—no holding back—I can take it all—everything you’ve ever given anyone else, all those other girls. I can handle it.”

“Show me.”

It’s throwing gasoline on a fire—she's asking for it, burning for it. You fuck her like you mean it—pull out all the way, force it all the way back in, hard, deep, rough. A shriek and she's wailing now, true to her word she’s taking it, taking it all, utterly lost in each perfect push into her cunt. She’s so beautiful like this, so open and raw—gone is the perfect idol, she’s just another girl getting fucked in an alley by some guy she just met.

Both hands are gripping into her hips, holding her in place, holding her upright, feeling her walls clench and release around you. Marks are going to be left there too, your fingerprints on her skin, bruises that she’ll have to hide with makeup tomorrow.

“So good—so fucking good—just—“ Minji can barely make out full sentences, let alone words as you fuck her, as you own her. “Harder! Fuck! Rougher!"

It’s like a drug, this power, watching her come apart for you, knowing you’re the one making her feel this way, knowing she’ll let you do whatever you want, whatever you need as long as it makes her come apart. And you’re feeding off of it, her words pushing you closer to the edge, letting her need for you drive you, unlock that primal part of your brain. Fucking her like this, so filthy and wrong and everything you love about this life.

You pick up the pace, driving your hips forward—"harder—fuck—harder"—until she’s shaking, her legs giving out, and the only thing keeping her on her feet is your cock and your arms.

“Fuck—I know what they said but—fuck! Is this what they all felt?” She gasps out, “is this how it always feels?”

Your lips on her neck, her hair sticking to your face, the scent of her perfume, of her, intoxicating. “It doesn’t always feel like this,” you answer, you grunt. “But you do. You feel so fucking good, Minji. So fucking perfect for me.”

“You're so big,” she says, her voice trembling, “I feel so—fuck—full.”

It’s not just the way she’s clenching around you, how she’s now able to take every inch of you like she’s been fucking you her whole life—it’s how she says your name, like you’re the only one that could ever make you feel this way, like you’re the one who ever will.

You grab her tits, squeezing them, seizing them, pinching and twisting her nipples between your fingers. All it does is make her beg, “fuck—I love it—how rough you are—” needing more of everything you have, “your hands—your cock—please don’t stop, don’t ever stop—I can take it please—rougher please—fuck!”

Something cracks inside you, and your hand comes down on her ass, the sound bouncing off the walls like a gunshot. Minji jolts, yelps, but the noise is quickly swallowed by a moan, a squeezing of her cunt around you.

“Fuck that felt—”

You do it again, and again, each slap a little harder, a little more punishing, the sting making her flesh jiggle deliciously with every impact. She doesn’t retreat, she’s slamming her ass back down on you, slapping her cheeks against your waist, needing to feel more.

“Gah—fuck—harder!”

She can’t help herself, minutes ago she could barely handle your size, now she can’t hold back from crying out for more pain, more excruciating pleasure.

Each smack, each groan, each breath that’s ripped from her lungs is a declaration of your power, of her need. And you revel in it, your hand coming down on her ass, leaving a trail of red marks against her creamy-white skin.

“More, please, more,” she calls for it, calls for the sting, the heat, her pussy clamping down on you, walls pulsing with every hit, her body needing the release that’s building up, inevitable and intense.

Her ass is nothing but a canvas painted by the strokes of your hand and the relentless pounding of your cock, and you can’t help but admire your handiwork, you're struggling to suppress the urge to lean down and kiss each spot you’ve marked.

“You’re going to be so sore tomorrow,” you say, your teeth grazing the shell of her ear.

“I know,” she answers, her voice a whine, a plea, a moan. “But this is what I wanted—to feel—to remember this—this moment—getting fucked like you own me—because you do—so don’t hold back—don’t ever hold back.”

You’re both sweaty, panting—you can feel her orgasm building, like a storm in the distance, thunder rumbling closer and closer until it's right above you, ready to break. And there’s your own, too, that delicious pressure at the base of your spine, the promise of release, coming at you just as quick.

But you’re not going to let her get there—not yet—not when you’ve got her like this, pliant and open and so in need. You lean forward, your chest pressing against her back, and slide your hand down, reaching around to find her clit.

It’s slick and stiff and wanting, and Minji screams—a high, keening sound that you want to hear again and again. You’re playing with it, swiping it with your thumb in tight circles, feeling her clench around you with every pass.

“I’m almost—God that feels so good—I’m almost!”

But you stop, pull out of her, abruptly, making her cry out, making her turn around, a mess of emotions on her face—desire, confusion, awe.

“What are you—” Minji tries to ask, but you’re spinning her around and pressing her back against the wall. Her leg comes up, wrapping around your waist, but you take it and lift it higher, testing the extent of her flexibility, throwing it over your shoulder.

She’s right on that edge, you can see it—her pupils dilate, her mouth opens in a silent scream, her body tenses, her cunt melting around you. But you weren't going to let her cum like that, not without watching her face, not without seeing the moment she cracks and shatters.

Now you’re face to face, chest to chest, her eyes needing yours to anchor herself to, needing to know what you’re going to do to her. No time for breaks—in one, deep thrust you're all the way back inside her, making her scream with the suddenness of it, the shock, the bliss of being so perfectly filled.

She groans, weeps with each pump into her, and she’s smiling through it all. “So—” she asks, struggling to form intelligible sentences. “How do I—fuck—how do I—mmmph—compare to the others?”

You grunt, barely registering the question, your mind clouded by the spasms of her cunt around you. “What others?”

“The other girls—God—the other idols,” she says, strained. “The ones you’ve fucked before—the ones you’ve ruined—how do I—aah—compare?”

You kiss her again, a bruising, punishing kiss that steals the question from her lips. You don’t need to answer that. You’re showing her. You’re fucking showing her how she compares, how she’s the best, the tightest, the wettest, the most eager. You’re showing her how she’s going to be the one they whisper about in the halls of HYBE and beyond, she'll become the story that will be told as a warning, about the sweet, innocent idol ruined in a dirty alleyway.

Your world is spinning around you now—there’s your hand on her throat, a gentle squeeze, just enough to make her eyes water, to make her breath catch. But she’s not scared, not with the way she’s grinning, not with how she’s grinding her hips to meet yours.

“Fuck—make me scream—” It’s a plea, a demand, she’s so stunning, so tortured in her need for it, “do whatever you want to me, whatever you need—just—make me cum harder—God please—harder than any of them ever did.”

Any care you had for getting caught, about the consequences of what you're doing—where you're doing it—dissipates into the ether. Nothing exists outside of the race to her orgasm, outside of your hips recklessly pounding into her, reducing her to moans and shakes and trembles.

“Cum for me,” you growl, “right here, right now, Minji—cum for me again—show me that you’re mine.”

“I was made for you,” she says, and it’s not just the heat of the moment talking, it’s something else, something deeper. She’s not just saying it to get off, she’s saying it like it’s a revelation, like she’s been waiting for you, for this exact moment.

“Prove it.”

It hits her like a fucking truck, and Minji’s screaming, filth belted from her mouth and into the night, her pussy quaking around your cock, her whole body entering into seizure. You keep going, riding out her orgasm, feeling her cum on your cock, feeling her body go rigid, her muscles tense, it’s those abs, so tight, it’s those absurdly strong contractions that have you falling after her.

“God—fuck, I—can’t believe—can’t believe—”

You’re fucking her through it, not giving her a moment’s reprieve, not letting her come down from that high, because you’re not ready for this to end, not when she’s so helpless. You hold her tight through it, let her shake, rattle against you, let her nails dig into your arms, let her cum drench you.

“Fuuuuuuck!”

It’s too much for her to take, and once the storm has finally subsided, Minji is just a ragdoll in your arms. Her legs are limp, held up by your grip alone, still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her makeup is ruined, a mix of sweat and your kisses, leaving dark streaks on her cheeks. Her hair, plastered to her forehead, her eyes half-closed, and there’s her body—marks of your teeth on her chest, her breasts, the bruises of your fingers around her hips, the mottled red of her ass, a map of your dominance painted on her perfect skin.

It’s not just the physical marks you’ve left on her; it’s the way she’s looking at you now, awe, desperation, realisation that it’s all true, every rumour, everything they’ve said about you—and she’s the latest filthy chapter in your story.

But you’re not done yet, you haven’t finished. You’re pulling out, and she’s whining, making your cock throb with her pleas. You guide her to the floor, to her knees, her dress puddled around her, the cold concrete biting into her skin.

Standing over her, looking down at your prize. “Open your mouth,” you tell her. She does; without hesitation, without question.

Grab your cock, still slick with her, and stroke yourself, watching her tongue dart out to lick her lips, seeing the anticipation build in her eyes.

It’s the sweetest, most erotic sight you’ve ever seen—Minji, the girl that's everyone's type, the girl who could have anything she wants, anyone, on her knees for you—tongue out, mouth wide open, waiting eagerly for your cum.

And then you do it—you let go, shooting ropes of hot cum, painting her face, letting it dribble down onto her chin, onto her chest, onto her toned stomach, covering her until she’s a sticky mess of lust and desire. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—she loves the feeling of it, shivering as your hot cum hits her skin.

She holds position through it all—knees on the ground, eyes closed, a serene smile as if she’s just been blessed. And when you're done, when your cock is finally spent, she looks up at you with a grin that's pure sin.

Minji takes a finger, dips it into the mess on her chin, and tastes you. It's a bold move, it’s messy, it’s wrong, it’s perfect. There’s the glimmer of triumph in her eyes, the knowledge that she's made you do something so raw, that she made you lose all control.

For a second there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the come down from your euphoric high. Minji can barely speak, still shaky, voice in tatters. “That was—” she pauses, fumbling for the right word. “—incredible. Fuck!”

There's a rush of arrogance doing unhealthy things for your ego. “So, do I live up to the legend?”

Minji wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smears your cum across her cheek. Tries to lick it off, but decides to just leave it there. “More than I could have ever imagined. You’re not just a man-whore, you’re a fucking artist.”

You laugh at that, as you tuck yourself back in, smoothing down your shirt, trying to compose yourself, pretending like her words don’t mean anything to you, like you don’t take pride in the validation of every girl you fuck.

“How do I rank?” she asks, the question coming out of nowhere, and you blink down at her, your brain trying to catch up. “I mean, out of all the idols you’ve fucked?”

“Rank?” you repeat. "I don't keep a list, that would be..." You trail off, realising what you're about to say, and now it’s her turn to laugh.

“Crass?” she supplies. “I know, but I’m just curious.”

“You’re fucking fantastic, that’s for sure,” you reassure her, letting her bask in that compliment. “Why—do you keep a list?”

Her smile falters for a moment, but then she’s grinning again, looking even more wicked with the cum pasted across her face, and it makes you want to bend her over and fuck her all over again. “Of course I do. And you’ll be happy to know that you’re number one.”

“That’s good to know.”

But then she says, “Of one.”

And you freeze. The air around you turns to ice, and she’s looking up at you, and the world's getting smaller, and you realise what she’s saying. What she’s just admitted to you. The innocence she's lost, and she’s looking at you like it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened.

“You were…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t,” she says, voice firm. “Don’t make this something it’s not. I wanted this, and I wanted it to be with you. I told you: I can handle it all.”

But that doesn’t stop your mind from racing, trying to process, put all the pieces together. You had your suspicions—she was so tight, so new, so untouched—and now she’s yours, in a way that no one else can claim. You wiped away her virginity, and she’s not running, not crying, not regretful.

The weight of it settles in your stomach. It's a strange cocktail—equal parts pride, guilt. You’ve ruined her, in the best way possible. You’ve claimed something precious and pure, and she’s given it to you willingly, eagerly.

“Fuck, Minji,” you try, but fail to come up with anything of substance. “If you had told me, I would’ve—”

“You would’ve what? I lost my virginity by having filthy, mind-blowing sex in a dark alley with the best cock in all of Korea,” she says, pridefully, with her entire chest, fully believing every word she's saying. “Can you really tell me your story was any better? I bet whoever it was with didn’t scream like I did. Or cum so hard she couldn’t see straight.”

You cast your mind back to the past, and you have to concede the point. “I see what you mean. But still—” You feel like you should say something. But. It’s not like you can apologise, fuck she looks like she wants to thank you so badly. “How does it feel?”

“A-ma-zing,” she draws out, rising to her feet. “Everything I’ve ever heard about, multiplied by a million. You might’ve ruined sex for me completely.”

You watch as she puts herself back together, sliding her panties back on, tugging her dress over her head and down her hips. She’s smoothing her hair back, trying to fix the mess you’ve made of her; wiping at the cum on her chin, her cheek, trying to erase the evidence of your encounter, trying to put the mask of the sweet, innocent idol back on.

But you know better. You know what’s hiding beneath that polished exterior.

“Come home with me,” you find yourself saying before you can think better of it.

Minji turns to you, eyes alight, fire in her veins, and you can feel the challenge coming. “Why?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “You want to cuddle and fall asleep together? Wake up, have breakfast in bed?”

“Yeah,” you nod, honestly. “After I’ve fucked you senseless again, of course. But yeah, come home with me.”

“That would be nice,” Minji says, a soft smile on her face. It's surreal, this moment, so at odds with the grimy alleyway and the smell of sex sticking to her skin. She looks so pure now, in complete contrast to how roughly you were fucking her just moments ago. Her innocence wasn’t lost, it was just painted with a fresh coat of your sin. “But—you know I can’t. They’re waiting.”

“Worth a shot,” you shrug, not bothering to hide your disappointment.

And then she produces your phone, holding it out to you. “You need to be more careful with your things.”

“When did you—”

“Now you’ve got my number,” she says. “You’re welcome to do whatever it is you want with it. But I’m hoping you use it.”

You take it out of her hands, swiping away the string of missed calls and messages, the digital proof of how much trouble you’re going to be in come morning. But for now, it’s irrelevant. For now, there’s only Minji, and the way she’s standing there, looking up at you, smiling like she’s just stepped off the stage.

“You’re going to go back to them?” you ask, gesturing towards the club entrance, to where the rest of her group are probably still gossiping, plotting your downfall.

“Of course,” Minji says. “They’re my friends. They care about me. They’ll want to make sure I’m okay.”

“And when they find out what we just did?”

“Oh, they’re going to want to kill you,” she answers. You’ve had enough of these types of conversations to know she’s not joking. “Except Dani, maybe. She’ll probably want a shot at you too. If I let her.”

"Noted," you say, trying to keep the image of Danielle, splayed against the wall like Minji before her, out of your head. "What exactly are you going to tell them?"

Minji pauses, thinking, before landing on a succinct summary. "I’ll just tell them that you fucked my brains out and then ditched me in an alley.”

You sigh, “sounds brutal.”

“Well, it is what it is,” Minji says, and she’s pressing a kiss to your cheek, her lips still sticky with the residue of your cum, the last traces of what's just happened.

You watch her go, watch as she turns away, walking back towards the club, a little stumble, a little trouble keeping steady. You should be feeling guilty, you should be regretting this, but all you can think is how good it felt, how right it felt. And you know you’ll do it again—you know it deep in your bones.

Minji turns back to you, catching your eye, catching you staring again, and she smiles. “You better go now. You do have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

#kpop smut #minji smut #newjeans smut #male reader

2K notes · View notes

rosierin · 2 months ago

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he said what? | atsumu miya

synopsis; a compilation of atsumu’s stupid innuendos and (y/n)'s unexpected comeback.

a/n; icl this is dumb af, read at your own risk

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

One thing about Atsumu—he loves an innuendo.

Like, really loves one.

It’s not even always on purpose. Sometimes it just slips out—smooth as butter, dumb as hell, and way too confident for someone way past the age of fifteen.

He’s got a sharp tongue and a terrifyingly fast brain. Combine that with the maturity level of a teenage boy and the charisma of someone who’s used to getting away with too many things, and well—that pretty much sums up Atsumu as a person.

(Y/n) has known him since they were fifteen. She thought she’d be used to it by now.

She was wrong.

She could still remember some of his dumbest jokes…

Exhibit A: The Shared Bed Setup

It was a weekend trip, one hotel room, two beds. And unfortunately for (y/n), three overgrown boys with zero regard for personal space.

Osamu and Suna claimed the first bed without hesitation, leaving (y/n) to share with Atsumu—who, in a rare show of self-control, was actually lying still for once.

Until she started shifting.

“Ugh,” she groaned, adjusting the pillow again. “I can’t find a good position.”

Atsumu turned his head, already smirking in the dark.

“I can think of a few.”

From across the room, Osamu’s muffled voice cut in like a disappointed parent.

“No one asked, man.”

(Y/n) smothered him with a pillow.

Exhibit B: The Smoothie Scene

Osamu had just finished making post-workout smoothies—one of those weirdly thick, borderline gloopy protein-packed ones that could double as cement.

He handed hers over proudly. “Strawberry banana. Real fruit. No sugar.”

(Y/n) took a sip. It was good—cold, creamy, but the texture really did throw her off guard.

“Jesus” she said. “It’s so thick.”

She should’ve known better.

“Ya like it that way, huh?” Atsumu grinned from behind his own glass like he’d been waiting all day for that setup.

(Y/n) exhaled slowly, closing her eyes in silent prayer. “Don’t.”

Suna, who was sat on the floor with his back against the couch, bit back a groan.

“It’s 8:17 in the morning.”

Exhibit C: The Baking Scene

Osamu was feeling domestic, so naturally, everyone else was dragged into a cupcake-making session against their will. (Y/n) was reading out the recipe, Atsumu was licking batter off a spoon he wasn’t supposed to be touching, and Suna was there for moral support only and nothing else.

“Okay,” she said, scrolling on her phone. “It says to beat it for five minutes—”

“I’ve gone longer,” Atsumu said smoothly, without an ounce of shame.

There was a long pause.

Osamu sighed, not even surprised. “We’re talkin’ about eggs, for fuck sake.”

(Y/n) put down the bowl, debating walking out the kitchen. “Honestly I'm just not gonna speak."

Exhibit D: The IKEA Furniture Scene

The mission: build a bookshelf.

The reality: two mental breakdowns, splinters, and a tiny Allen key that had no business being this powerful.

Osamu was reading the instructions like it was ancient scripture, Suna was lying on the floor pretending to help, and (y/n) was trying to force a stubborn wooden peg into a misaligned hole.

“This won’t fit in the fuckin' hole,” she huffed, pushing harder.

Atsumu, lounging beside the scattered box of parts, raised an eyebrow and purred,

“Want me to give it a try?”

(Y/n) clenched her teeth. “I swear to god.”

Suna chuckled despite himself.

Osamu sighed. “Ya walked into that one.”

Exhibit E: The Workout Scene

Someone (Atsumu) had declared it “Group Fitness Day.”

Someone else (Osamu) had refused to participate unless there were snacks after. Suna had stretched once and called it a day.

(Y/n) actually tried. She followed a YouTube Pilates video, flailing through positions that felt scientifically designed to break her spine.

By the end, she collapsed onto the floor, groaning, “God, my legs are so sore.”

Atsumu barely missed a beat, flashing his stupid bedroom eyes at her. “Must’ve been a good session.”

(Y/n) glared but was too exhausted to retaliate.

She had surrendered both physically and mentally.

Osamu smacked him for her.

Exhibit F: The Moving Day Scene

Helping a friend move was always a mistake. Doing it with these three? Borderline masochism.

The van was full. The elevator was broken. (Y/n) was carrying a suspiciously heavy box labeled “light stuff :)” in Atsumu’s handwriting.

“This is heavier than I thought,” she huffed, adjusting her grip.

Atsumu who was climbing the stairs behind her, grinned. “That’s what she said.”

Suna smirked. "Classic."

(Y/n) let the box drop on Atsumu’s foot.

Exhibit G: The Jenga Scene

It was supposed to be a peaceful night. Snacks, a movie, maybe a board game.

Emphasis on supposed.

They were five rounds deep into an increasingly vicious game of Jenga. The stakes? Loser had to do the dishes and let the others post one embarrassing photo on their story. And with Suna—serial picture taker, blackmail king—there was no room for failure.

(Y/n) was locked in.

Unfortunately, she’d been paired with Atsumu.

And Atsumu… did not have what one might call a delicate touch.

He was moving way too fast, yanking blocks like he was hurrying to defuse a bomb.

“Stop!” (y/n) snapped. “You’re moving too fast!!”

He glanced up, grin already forming, offering a cocky little shrug. “Heard that before.”

(Y/n) reached for the nearest block.

Atsumu threw both hands up. “Joking! Joking!”

Suna’s grin widened as the tower crumbled before them, securing his sweet, sweet victory.

Osamu gave his twin a long, tired look. “Yer gonna get yerself smacked.”

Exhibit H: The Ice Cream Scene

It was a brutally hot day. The kind that made pavement shimmer and ice cream trucks emerge from the shadows like seasonal beasts.

Naturally, (y/n) sprinted for one as though her life depended on it.

Now she sat on the curb, cone in hand, doing her best to keep the scoop from dripping onto her shorts.

“It’s melting too fast,” she complained, frantically licking at the sides.

Atsumu leaned over her shoulder, smirk detectable in his voice. “Guess ya gotta lick it faster, babe.”

She froze mid-lick.

Slowly, silently, she turned to glare at him.

Suna reached over and gently turned her head back toward the cone. “Don’t make eye contact.”

Final Exhibit (and the exhibit nobody expected): The Head Bump Incident

It happened quickly.

One second (y/n) was standing on the kitchen stool, reaching for a bag of crisps someone had stashed in the top cabinet.

The next—

Thunk.

She misjudged the angle. Her head collided with the cabinet edge. Hard.

“OW—”

The stool wobbled. She stumbled off, clutching the side of her head, blinking stars out of her eyes.

Atsumu was the first on the scene, hands hovering awkwardly like he wasn’t sure whether to help or make fun of her.

“You good?” he asked.

(Y/n) winced. “Fine.”

He squinted. “How’s yer head?”

She paused.

Blink.

Then, slowly, dramatically, she tilted her chin, shot him a lazy smirk, and said—

“Never had any complaints.”

Osamu and Suna whipped their heads toward her thinking they'd misheard.

Atsumu took a minute to process her words.

Then—

His eyes went wide.

And his face split into the biggest, dumbest grin known to man.

He slapped her shoulder with a bark of laughter. “Atta girl!!”

Osamu shook his head but couldn’t hide his chuckle.

Suna closed his eyes and mentally checked out.

(Y/n) beamed, still rubbing her sore head. “I’ve been saving that one.”

“Proud of ya,” Atsumu said, still grinning. “That was good."

Then, after a beat:

“Are ya serious though? ‘Cause I can be the judge—”

She swatted his arm before he could finish his sentence.

"No."

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curiousquill1 · 1 month ago

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How a Certified Financial Planner Navigates Volatility Using Tax-Saving SIP Plans

Market dips. Global tensions. Economic uncertainty. It’s easy to feel like every investment decision is a leap into the unknown. When the ground shifts beneath your financial goals, stability doesn’t come from guesswork — it comes from strategy. This is where a certified financial planner quietly becomes the unsung hero of wealth protection.

Why SIPs Make Sense During Volatility

There’s a reason systematic investment plans continue to be a go-to tool — especially those with tax-saving benefits. But most portfolios miss the mark because they’re driven by reaction, not design. Here’s the truth: not all SIPs are created equal, and without deep financial planning and analysis, what seems like a smart investment can quickly become a misstep.

Design vs. Instinct: A Tale of Two Investors

The Power of Guided Planning

Picture this: two individuals invest the same monthly amount in a tax-saving SIP. One chooses funds based on hearsay. The other works with a certified financial planner who aligns the SIP with long-term goals, risk appetite, and evolving market conditions. Over time, the second portfolio doesn’t just grow — it performs with resilience, even during market dips.

Interpreting Returns Beyond the Numbers

More Than Just Charts and Graphs

Why does that happen? Because understanding systematic investment plan returns isn’t just about numbers on a chart. It’s about interpreting those numbers in the context of life — career changes, family needs, tax implications, even mental peace during downturns. It’s like using GPS versus driving blindfolded through a storm.

What a Certified Financial Planner Really Does

The Doctor for Your Financial Health

A certified financial planner doesn’t just pick funds — they diagnose your financial health like a seasoned physician. They perform detailed financial planning and analysis to stress-test your investments against worst-case scenarios. They account for inflation, interest rate cycles, and legislative changes in taxation. And most importantly, they create a buffer — a strategy that bends but doesn’t break.

Understanding the Dual Edge of Tax-Saving SIPs

ELSS and Section 80C: The Combo That Matters

Tax-saving SIPs, particularly those under ELSS (Equity Linked Savings Scheme), offer a dual benefit — potential market returns and Section 80C tax deductions. But the catch? Lock-in periods, fund volatility, and shifting fund manager styles make them tricky. That’s why matching the right SIP to the right person isn’t luck. It’s planning.

Common Pitfalls for the Unguided Investor

Still, many investors rely on outdated advice or peer recommendations. Without guidance, they miscalculate systematic investment plan returns or jump between funds at the worst possible time.

When Complexity Becomes Clarity

There’s no shame in admitting it — money management can be overwhelming. But it doesn’t have to be. With a certified financial planner in your corner, complexity becomes clarity. The noise of daily market movement fades, and what’s left is a quiet confidence that your plan is working — even when the world feels like it isn’t.

Conclusion

When the stakes are high, guesswork fails. Tax-saving SIPs can be powerful tools, but only when used with insight and intent. A certified financial planner brings more than credentials — they bring foresight. They interpret systematic investment plan returns in the context of real life and apply financial planning and analysis that truly protects what matters. In an uncertain world, that kind of certainty is worth investing in.

FAQs

1. Can I manage my SIP investments without a certified financial planner?

Yes, but expect a steeper learning curve and higher risk of misalignment with your actual financial goals.

2. How often should SIP performance be reviewed?

At least annually — more frequently during volatile market periods or life changes.

3. Are tax-saving SIPs better than traditional SIPs?

They offer tax benefits but come with a lock-in period. Suitability depends on your income and long-term strategy.

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izanacore · 3 months ago

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“after hours” | bonten men x reader

mini-collection 𓂃⋆.˚

synopsis: as a bonten executive, y/n treats hooking up with bonten men after meetings like just another part of the job—routine, effortless, and far too easy to stop.

characters: manjiro “mikey” sano, haruchiyo sanzu, ran haitani, rindou haitani, hajime kokonoi, fem!reader

warnings: smut (18+), explicit sexual content, multiple partners, rough sex, anal sex, semi-public sex, spanking, spitting, cumplay, hair pulling, degradation, choking, dirty talk, objectification, power imbalance, manipulation, possessiveness, markings, orgasm control, overstimulation, light humiliation, drug usage, alcohol usage, smoking, non-consensual image sharing, mean sanzu, reader being a bitch, bonten men being menaces, toxic dynamics, dubious consent (consensual but with coercive undertones), exhibitionism (y/n being watched), implied criminal activity, unsafe situations, minor aftercare but mostly neglect, mild sadism, and very filthy vibe.

notes: wrote this out of nowhere tbh. this is very flithy. i also wanna say that i really think the haitani brothers are sweet when it comes to their girl (sometimes) and not the manipulative womanizer type, but that’s just my hc (is it canon? idk!). and please, i’ve written every content warning i could think of (i’m considerate like that), so please read at your own risk. again, this is flithy. anyway, enjoy! credits to the fanart i used above.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

part 1

the private lounge smelled of expensive liquor, sweat, and sin. dim lights cast shadows over the leather couches, the sound of bass thumping through the floors beneath them. it was routine now—business first, then pleasure. bonten’s little after-meeting tradition. drinking, getting high, and letting loose like they owned the world. because, well, they did.

y/n lounged beside ran, her legs draped over his lap, glass in hand, his arm snug around her waist like she belonged there. and she did—at least for tonight. she took a sip, the burn of alcohol making her hum before her eyes flickered to kakucho, who was already standing.

“c’mon, kakucho, you’ve never joined our after-meeting sessions.” she tilted her head, pouting before smirking. “i’ll let you play with my tits.” then she drank, the ice clinking against the glass.

kakucho exhaled sharply. “fuck off, y/n. i’m going.”

she clicked her tongue. “boo. god, you’re so boring.”

he ignored her completely, turning to mocchi and takeomi. “c’mon, we have to take care of the clients.”

y/n groaned, rolling her eyes as she leaned further into ran. “you too, mocchi? takeomi?” she huffed, fingers tapping against the rim of her glass before she suddenly grinned. “ugh, fine, go ahead. you just missed a chance of getting a free blowjob!” her voice rang through the room, teasing, shameless.

the three of them didn’t even flinch. used to her mouth, to the filth that spilled from it like it was a normal thing to say. kakucho shut the door without looking back, and y/n simply scoffed before taking another sip.

not like she had sex with everyone… well. okay, maybe something did happen between her and the haitani brothers. and sanzu. and even… mikey. but it was casual. nothing that could affect their work at bonten. just a way to blow off steam, to release tension in the most primal way possible. they were just having fun.

“why don’t you blow me instead, y/n?” sanzu’s voice cut through the music, lazy and dripping in amusement. “i’ll fuck that pretty mouth of yours so you’ll finally shut the fuck up.” a smirk played on his lips as ran and rindou chuckled beside him.

y/n turned to glare at sanzu, already flipping him off before she suddenly gasped dramatically.

“mikey!!!” she whined, pushing off ran’s lap and making her way to the man sitting at the head of the lounge. she plopped down onto his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as she buried her face against his shoulder. “they’re ganging up on me again.”

mikey didn’t react. barely spared her a glance as he pulled a cigarette from his pack, tucking it between his lips.

but don’t get it wrong. y/n was his favorite. she got the special princess treatment—more than anyone else in bonten. sure, she was a little unhinged, maybe even on sanzu’s level, but that’s what made mikey keep her around. the smartest of them all. she kills just like sanzu. no remorse.

and without thinking, as if her body had memorized the action, she reached into the pocket of her blazer, flicked her lighter open, and brought the flame to the end of mikey’s cigarette.

mikey inhaled, the tip burning red, before exhaling a slow stream of smoke.

the lounge was drowning in smoke and sin, the bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor. drinks kept pouring, the air thick with the scent of liquor and something dangerously indulgent.

then koko spoke up, tossing a small package onto the table. “here’s the one you wanted, sanzu.”

sanzu’s eyes lit up as he snatched it, tearing it open with practiced ease. “finally. some good fucking shit after dealing with those annoying-ass clients.”

he poured the fine powder onto the glass table, leaning in to take his share. the rush was instant, his pupils dilating as he let out a satisfied sigh. “fuck. that hit nice.” he turned to ran, waving a hand toward the powder. “try this. better than last time.”

ran didn’t need to be told twice. he leaned down, did the same, and so did the rest of them.

glasses clinked, slurred cheers filled the air. everyone was too high, too drunk, too far gone.

y/n swayed with the music, lost in the haze, her body moving on instinct. she pressed back against ran, rolling her hips as his hands found her waist, his breath hot against her neck.

she should slow down.

she was too high for this.

but fuck it.

pushing off ran, she stumbled toward the table, dropping to her knees as she reached for another line of powder—

only to have her head yanked back by a fist in her hair.

“enough of that, princess. try this instead.”

sanzu’s voice was a slow drawl, and before she could react, he slipped a pill between her lips, fingers pressing against her tongue.

y/n didn’t even flinch. she held his gaze as she sucked on them, slow and teasing, letting her tongue drag along his fingers before finally swallowing. then she stuck her tongue out, showing him the evidence, eyes dark with amusement.

“did you just get hard from me kneeling in front of you?” she taunted, lips curling into a smirk.

his grip on her hair tightened in an instant.

“fuckin’ brat.”

before she could blink, he yanked her up, shoving her backward—straight into rindou.

“shit.” rindou caught her with ease, her back pressed against his chest, his hands settling low on her hips. she could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers twitched against the fabric of her dress.

sanzu’s grin was sharp, eyes blown wide. “and so what if i’m hard just looking at you?” his voice was low, edged with something dark. “you’re practically a walking sex toy.”

his fingers traced the inside of her thigh, slow, deliberate—

but y/n slapped his hand away without hesitation, shooting him a glare.

then she raised her middle finger at him, smirking. “get out of my sight, haru.”

sanzu just chuckled, dropping onto the couch with his legs spread wide, licking his teeth.

the heat in the room was suffocating, a mix of smoke, alcohol, and the lingering haze of ecstasy.

“fuck, it’s getting hot,” y/n muttered, slipping off her blazer, revealing the curve-hugging dress beneath.

rindou was quick to help, fingers grazing her bare shoulders as he pressed lazy kisses along her skin. his hands moved lower, squeezing her tits without hesitation. she barely reacted—she was used to this by now. at least with them. the haitani brothers and sanzu had a habit of touching her whenever they pleased. during meetings, in passing, anywhere they wanted.

ran grabbed a bottle of whiskey, his grin sharp as he gripped her jaw. without warning, he tilted the bottle, pouring the liquor past her lips. she swallowed what she could, but the excess spilled, running down her chin, soaking into her dress.

he chuckled, taking a swig himself before leaning in to lick the trail of whiskey from her neck, down to the exposed curve of her cleavage.

“fuck, ran…” the sensation sent a shiver down her spine, a moan slipping out before she could stop it.

her hands found his face, pulling him inches from hers, eyes dark with something dangerous. “you ruined my dress.”

ran’s tongue flicked over his lips, gaze burning. “if i get to fuck this body, i’d gladly ruin all your clothes.” his fingers trailed up her thighs, teasing, promising.

rindou’s grip tightened on her chest, his other hand slipping lower, brushing over the damp fabric between her legs. “shit, y/n, you’re already so fucking wet.”

before she could respond, ran hooked his fingers around the waistband of her panties, dragging them down her thighs. with a smirk, he tucked the flimsy fabric into his pocket, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

her breath hitched as rindou’s fingers pressed against her, rubbing slow circles over her core before one slipped inside, stretching her with ease.

“ugh… rindou…” her hips moved on instinct, grinding against his touch, her fingers tangling in his hair. rindou groaned against her neck, rutting against her from behind.

ran pushed her dress higher, his eyes darkening at the sight.

“rin, more, please…” her voice was a breathy whimper.

but before rindou could give her what she wanted, sanzu shoved ran aside took his place.

“move over, greedy fucks.” his grin was wicked as his fingers plunged inside her without warning, matching rindou’s pace.

they weren’t in sync. they didn’t care. her pleasure wasn’t the point—just the filth of it all, the way they could have her, touch her, ruin her. they were already fucked in the head. what was a little more filth?

ran, scowling from the side, ran a hand through his hair. “fuck you, man. we’re all horny here. at least share the fucking pussy.”

sanzu ignored him, curling his fingers deeper, faster, rindou doing the same.

ran had enough. he knelt between y/n’s legs, tongue flicking over her clit, adding another layer of sensation that had her gasping.

“fuck… slow down… ugh… m-mikey… want you too…” her grip tightened—one hand fisting ran’s hair, the other clutching sanzu’s wrist.

rindou’s hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her dizzy. his tongue dragged over her cheek, hot and possessive, while sanzu spit onto her chest, watching it glisten against her skin.

koko, who had been uninterested up until now, finally scoffed, shaking his head. “damn, y/n. didn’t know you were this much of a slut.”

he stood, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and took a slow swig, his sharp eyes lingering on the filthy sight before him. with a dark chuckle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, exhaling a satisfied sigh—like he was merely indulging in a show put on for his amusement.

she barely heard him. the pleasure was too much, too consuming. her body tensed, and with one last sharp cry, she came, soaking the hands still working her open.

ran didn’t hesitate. he shoved sanzu, grabbing her thighs and pulling her to his mouth, licking up every drop of her release.

“ran, fuck…” she whined, tugging at his hair.

he groaned against her, the vibrations making her jolt. he gave her one last slow lick before pulling back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“shit, this will always be the best pussy i’ve ever tasted.”

y/n grinned, pulling him close again, cupping his jaw before pressing her lips to his.

out of all the men in bonten, it was different with the haitani brothers. whether it was ran or rindou, their touch always felt possessive. they weren’t just fucking her. they were claiming her. and they didn’t do that with just anyone.

ran pulled back, smirking. “gonna take a break for a bit, y/n. need some good shit first.” he gestured toward the drugs. “i’ll fuck you later.”

y/n bit her lip, grinning. “i’ll be waiting for your cock deep inside me.”

y/n leaned back against rindou’s chest, hiding her face against his neck, breath still uneven. rindou didn’t react much—just took a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it up while letting her rest against him. the room was still thick with heat, the air buzzing with something filthy, something intoxicating.

“boss, you just gonna sit there and watch?” sanzu suddenly asked, his voice dripping with amusement. he turned his head toward mikey, who had been silent the entire time, observing from his seat. “wanna fuck her first?”

mikey exhaled slowly, picking up his cigarette from the ashtray. “make her a mess for me.”

sanzu’s grin was wicked. “you heard him, y/n. i’m gonna make a mess out of you. that means i’m gonna fuck this pretty little pussy until my cum is oozing out of your fucking cunt.”

y/n shot him a glare. “can’t you just fuck someone else downstairs? you always go hard on me.”

sanzu leaned in, his nose brushing against hers, his voice dropping. “but you like it when i’m rough, right?”

her lips curled into a smirk. “right.”

the next second, their mouths crashed together, the kiss deep, hungry, desperate. sanzu groaned into her mouth, gripping the back of her neck to pull her closer, tongues tangling in a fight for dominance.

rindou, still smoking behind her, didn’t even flinch. he didn’t care—just let her grind against him as he exhaled a slow cloud of smoke.

between kisses, sanzu muttered, “wanna feel your mouth, but i’m already too fucking hard to wait.”

with that, he unbuckled his belt, freeing his cock, and y/n wrapped her fingers around him, sliding his length along her soaked slit, teasing.

“bitch, you really like to tease, huh?” sanzu growled.

before she could respond, he thrust inside her without warning, pulling a sharp, loud moan from her throat.

“haru—!”

but before the sound could echo, rindou clamped a hand over her mouth, his lips brushing against her ear as he muttered lazily, “shhh… i’m trying to remember something, y/n. don’t be too loud.”

as if sanzu wasn’t already fucking her into oblivion, as if he wasn’t buried to the hilt inside her, stretching her open like he owned her.

“haru, god—right there, right there!” y/n gasped, nails digging into sanzu’s arms as he fucked into her, relentless and precise. sometimes, sanzu was considerate. sometimes.

rindou, who had been watching behind her, finally leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “you can take another one, right?” his voice was low, taunting. “just like how you were when ran and i fucked you?”

her head lolled back against his shoulder, body already trembling. “gonna be too much, rin,” she mumbled, barely able to form the words.

rindou wasn’t having it. “i don’t care.”

before she could even process it, he was lifting her up slightly, adjusting her onto his lap. the sound of his belt unbuckling was the only warning she got before he spit into his palm, lazily coating his cock before pressing it against her.

“riiiiiin!!” her voice broke into a sob as he pushed inside, stretching her open with no real prep. she wasn’t ready for it, not after how deep sanzu had already been, but rindou wasn’t in the mood to wait.

he snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.

a tear slipped down her cheek. sanzu caught it before it could fall completely, gripping her jaw and pressing her cheeks together. “not so tough now, are we?”

her only response was to clench down around him, intentionally squeezing sanzu’s cock.

“fuck, y/n…” sanzu groaned, eyes rolling back for a second before he fucked into her harder.

rindou, ever so casual, took a long drag from his cigarette, lazily exhaling smoke into the air. when he finally finished, ran—who had been watching the whole time—wordlessly reached over, taking the cigarette from his brother like it was second nature.

rindou’s now free hands slid over y/n’s chest, groping her as he thrusted up into her. sanzu, on the verge of cumming, pulled out just in time, stroking himself over her skin.

“wanna paint you with my cum,” he muttered, and then, with a few jerks, he spilled over her tits, the warm mess dripping down her body as rindou continued fucking her.

“ew, man, fuck you. your cum got on my hand,” rindou complained, though he didn’t slow down in the slightest.

sanzu only chuckled, licking his lips as he admired the sight in front of him—y/n, covered in his cum, still getting wrecked on rindou’s cock.

he was already getting hard again, tempted to go another round, but before he could even open his mouth, ran stretched out from where he was sitting and drawled, “oi, it’s my turn.”

sanzu clicked his tongue but didn’t argue, adjusting his pants before plopping down on the couch beside rindou, who was still fucking into y/n like he had all the time in the world. sanzu grabbed himself a drink, smirking as he watched.

rindou’s fingers, still slick with sanzu’s release, smeared the mess onto y/n’s dress. “clean it up,” he murmured, bringing his fingers to her lips. obediently, she parted them, tongue gliding over his digits, licking up the filth.

ran watched with a smirk, his gaze dark. “rin, want her on all fours.”

without hesitation, rindou pulled out of y/n, leaving her empty and whimpering. a strong but measured push sent her toward ran, who caught her with ease.

rindou kneeled on the couch beside them, while ran—ever the gentleman, at least to her—helped y/n into position. with slow, teasing fingers, he unzipped her dress, grazing her bare skin before peeling the fabric off her trembling body. soft kisses trailed down her spine, sending shivers through her.

“mmm, ran…” y/n whimpered, her voice breathy.

he chuckled, the sound dark, as he unbuckled his belt and freed his cock. the teasing didn’t last long—ran lined himself up and rubbed his tip against her slick folds. behind her, rindou’s voice cut through the haze. “stick out your tongue.”

she obeyed instantly, lips parting, and rindou tapped his cock against her tongue, smearing precum along her lips.

ran, usually so composed, wasn’t gentle when he finally sank into her. his control shattered the moment her tight heat clenched around him, and he slammed into her with a force that had her crying out. he wasn’t sweet now. he was fucking her like a man starved, like she was something to ruin.

“fuck, you’re squeezing me so good,” he groaned, punctuating his words with sharp thrusts.

the rhythm of his movements rocked her forward, and rindou was quick to take advantage. fingers twisting in her hair, he yanked her head back just enough to keep her still. “keep your head still, y/n.”

then he shoved his cock past her lips.

rindou was rough, using her mouth like a toy, fucking her throat with no regard for how she choked and gagged around him. “wanna go all the way in,” he muttered, shoving deeper, groaning as she struggled to breathe. drool spilled from her lips, dripping down her chin in messy, glistening strings.

“look at you,” rindou taunted, his grip tightening in her hair. “so fucking messy and pathetic for us.”

y/n whimpered around him, and rindou groaned at the vibrations against her throat. ran’s hand snaked between her legs, fingers finding her clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles. the added pleasure had her legs shaking beneath him.

rindou, already on edge, cursed under his breath. “shit, y/n—gonna cum.”

with a few more thrusts, he spilled into her mouth, the warm, bitter taste coating her tongue. some dripped past her lips, but rindou wasn’t having that. with his thumb, he scooped up the mess, pressing it back against her lips.

“swallow it for me, baby.”

her lips wrapped around his thumb, sucking obediently as she swallowed every drop.

rindou’s expression softened slightly, fingers brushing over her cheek. when she instinctively leaned into his touch, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head before pulling away to fix himself.

but ran wasn’t done yet.

ran, the only one still fucking her, suddenly grabbed her arm, pulling her flush against his chest. his other hand slipped between her legs, fingers rubbing slow circles against her swollen clit. his arm caged around her neck, keeping her in place as he buried his face against her heated skin, groaning into the curve of her shoulder.

“fuck, y/n. you’re so wet, you feel how i’m sliding easily in you right now?” he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure. ran was drunk on her—on the way her body swallowed him up, on the way she clenched around him like she never wanted to let go. “you’re sucking me in so good. like your pussy doesn’t wanna let me go.”

y/n arched her back, head falling onto ran’s shoulder as her mind clouded with nothing but pleasure. he fucked her so good—better than anyone. he knew exactly how to make her fall apart, how to tease, how to make her melt. unlike sanzu, who only cared about chasing his own high, ran knew how to take his time. how to ruin her just right.

his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic, his pace faltering as he neared his end. y/n could feel it. she was close, too.

chasing her own release, she turned her head, lips brushing against his neck. her tongue darted out, licking, kissing, sucking at the sensitive skin, and ran groaned deep from his chest. neither of them cared that the others were still in the room, too lost in the moment, too caught up in the pleasure of it all.

y/n’s moans came louder, sharper, and ran cursed under his breath, snapping his hips harder, faster.

without warning, pleasure surged through her, and she came, her walls pulsing tight around ran’s cock. the sensation dragged him under with her, his grip on her waist tightening as he gritted out, “shit, y/n… wanna fill you up. fuck—ugh, fuck—”

his hips stuttered, cock twitching, before he finally spilled inside her, warmth flooding deep. he rocked into her a few more times, slower now, riding out the pleasure.

y/n gasped for breath, body slumping against ran as exhaustion settled over her. he carefully pulled out, hands steadying her as he helped her plop onto the couch, her body spent. she laid there, stomach flat against the cushions, trying to pull herself together.

ran tucked himself back into his pants, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket. he lit it, exhaling smoke as he sat beside her. she barely stirred, too exhausted to move. instead, she lazily turned her head, resting it on his lap. still naked. still messy.

sanzu, the crazy bastard he was, grinned. he crouched beside y/n, pulling out a small packet of powder and pouring it down the curve of her back. then, with no warning, he leaned in and licked it off.

no one reacted. they were used to sanzu’s antics by now. y/n barely flinched, too tired to care.

but sanzu wasn’t done. he grabbed his phone, angling it just right. the screen flashed.

he smirked down at the picture—y/n, naked, messy, cum still dripping from her thighs. with a few taps, he sent it to their group chat.

his next message tagged the three who left earlier.

sanzu: what y’all missed out on.

the replies were instant.

takeomi: man, should’ve stayed there. kakucho, this is your fault.

kakucho: 👍

mocchi: fuck??

sanzu laughed, tossing his phone aside. he plopped down on the floor, resting his head against y/n’s ass like she was nothing more than a pillow.

he sighed in content, then turned to koko. “aren’t you gonna try her?”

koko scoffed. “i’m good, man. don’t wanna stick my dick where all your dicks just went.”

sanzu only shrugged. “your loss. this is literally the best pussy i’ve ever had. heaven.”

the room settled into a lazy silence. some were high, some were drunk, and some were simply too tired to move.

then sanzu broke the quiet again. “boss, your turn now?”

mikey had been there the whole time, watching from the shadows, unreadable as always. he finally stood, eyes cold.

“dress her up,” he ordered. “we’re going home.”

sanzu smirked. “you guys heard the boss.”

y/n whined, face still buried in ran’s lap. “but mikey… i’m too tired.” her pout was audible. “this is the first time you guys all went at me together. that’s not fair.”

sanzu rolled his eyes, already tired of her bratty attitude. “who do you think you are, not following boss’ orders? get up.”

he grabbed her, yanking her away from ran. their faces were inches apart now.

“i should’ve fucked mikey instead of you,” she huffed, eyes narrowing.

sanzu’s grip tightened on her ass, pulling her closer. “don’t act like you weren’t moaning like a bitch in heat earlier for me.”

before y/n could snap back, mikey’s voice cut through the tension.

“enough.”

sanzu let go.

rindou, quieter than the rest, grabbed her dress, helping her slip it back on. his fingers brushed over her shoulders, lips pressing soft kisses against her skin. a rare moment of tenderness.

y/n sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips.

mikey didn’t say another word. he turned on his heel, walking out without a goodbye.

y/n barely managed to stand, legs shaking, but she pushed herself to the door. “bye, boys!”

no one answered.

she followed mikey outside, slipping into the passenger seat of his car.

oh, she was in for a long night.

start | part 2

1K notes · View notes

muletia · 2 months ago

Text

✧˖° 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

mer!optimus x human!reader

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

summary: optimus waited for his mate for a very long time. but just when he was starting to lose hope, you decide to save him from loneliness. after so many years you finally heard his song. his mate. you.

word count: 5200

optimus is barely in this chapter btw. but don't worry, he will get more desperate later ^^

oh, and I couldn't resist throwing two polish easter eggs somewhere in the middle hehe

The first thing you hear upon waking is the rhythmic murmur of waves gently striking the shore. The soft sound soothes the initial flickers of disorientation, cooing deceitfully so your body doesn’t sound the alarm just yet. Unfortunately, you fall right into the trap.

Your eyelids seem to weigh several tons as you try to lift them, alarmed by the cocktail of not knowing where you are, why you’re here, and how you got here. With great effort and after several attempts, you finally manage to do it, but the blinding white light sabotages your success, forcing you to shut them again.

Each blink seems to shake off a few more kilograms from your eyelids, and eventually you manage to regain some control. Just enough to squint them into a narrow slit, a poor defense against the light, but enough not to go blind within seconds.

The view before you says little. Grains of sand, losing detail with every further centimeter, form a bleached-yellow stripe that stretches all the way to the horizon, the only part of the landscape you recognize. Just above the sand, a luscious blue sky announces fair weather, interrupted only on one side by faint streaks of green. Palm leaves, you conclude, as your brain sluggishly processes the gathered information.

Did we already land on the beach? you wonder, because you really do feel like you're on vacation. The pleasantly warm sand heats your torso, while the ocean mercifully cools your legs up to the knees, whispering with the sound of the waves that you don’t have to do anything anymore. No worries about corporate work. No stress about endless traffic jams right when you’re rushing to the office, or hot water getting turned off on a chilly day, or another cockroach infestation in your kitchen.

Hmm. This is nice. Wrapped in comfort, you close your eyes again, wanting to enjoy your vacation for as long as you can. You wonder why you chose to lie flat on the sand instead of using a beach chair, but you blame it on being tired. You didn’t really miss the chair all that much. The sand was nice, warm. And so clean, almost impossibly so. You wouldn’t mind lying here for your entire vacation. All five days of it.

Probably couldn’t be bothered, you think. It was a long trip, and you don’t have many days to rest. You have to make the most of every second of doing nothing before you’re dragged back into the chaos, chronic stress, and confined spaces. It’s nice here. Wonderful. You just hope someone wakes you in time for the return flight. You wouldn’t want to waste your already-paid tickets, and the plane definitely won’t wait for latecomers.

The plane.

You furrow your brow, not understanding why the mere memory of a flying machine caused a sharp jolt of pain in your head. Perfect. Just what you needed on vacation, a completely unnecessary pounding in your skull, disrupting your lazy lounging on tropical beaches and sipping coconut drinks surrounded by handsome men and beautiful women practically begging for a quick, steamy vacation fling.

But wait… if you were lying on the beach at your resort, why weren’t you hearing the usual mix of foreign languages and broken English? Why aren’t you hearing anything at all besides the waves and your own racing heartbeat?

Something’s not right. Something is ver much not fucking right. You would never venture alone onto an unmarked beach because why would you? Why take the risk and ruin your vacation?

Where are the people? Where’s the laughter of children and the occasional drone of small plane engines?

Where… are you?

With a speed worthy of light, you lift your head, and then your torso, supporting your weight with your arms. Only now do you realize something is pressing into your neck. You’re choking, some unknown object is tightening around your chest more and more with every second, like a constrictor snake robbing you of precious oxygen.

You have to get rid of it. You have to claw it off, throw it away. With clumsy, chaotic movements, your hands fumble around your neck, fighting the strangler, digging in your nails just to make it let go. Just so you can breathe again.

The enemy relents after a few desperate attempts, when you finally decide to pull it over your head, a task far from easy, considering how tightly it clings to your body. You throw the snake with all your might, and it lands in the sand several meters in front of you. At least now you can breathe again, celebrating the return of this rather useful skill with several deep breaths.

But the sense of freedom and relief doesn’t last long. It abandons you once more when you finally dare to look at what was robbing you of air.

And your entire world stops. Your heart ceases to beat, your lungs freeze mid-motion. Every microscopic process down to the atomic level defies the passage of time.

What you threw off was a life jacket.

And suddenly, everything comes back to you, like a high-speed train, knocking all the air out of your lungs.

Looking out the window and seeing the plane’s engine on fire.

Screaming, chaos.

“We ask that you remain calm and put on your life jackets.”

Getting slammed into the hard walls and something sharp grazing the front of your shin.

And then being swallowed by the ocean. How easily you disappeared into its depths, fighting helplessly against gallons and gallons of water until the jacket pulled you up to the surface, where the situation was just as tragic. The burning plane slowly sinking into the sea, bags floating around you.

And bodies. So many bodies.

You tried to swim to one of the floating bags when a stronger wave dragged you underwater again.

The memories come alive all at once. They catch up to you, enveloping you in a storm of sensations. Falling from the plane, crashing into the cold, churning ocean.

Swallowing water. You must have involuntarily gulped down quite a bit. Eventually, even your lungs remember the uninvited guest, now coughing up traces of nonexistent water in a rattling wheeze, still recalling the vile, wrong feeling of salty water washing through the inside of the organ.

Trying to piece the story together, you come to the conclusion that you lost consciousness just below the surface, already preparing to extinguish your lungs that burned from lack of air.

And then you woke up here. The life jacket was kind enough not to let you drown, and the ocean merciful enough to spit you out onto some island, though you don’t feel particularly grateful, not when your odds of survival still hover dangerously close to zero.

You feel like you're about to explode.

“Oh no, no, no. Please,” you sob. “I want to go home.”

You consider curling into a ball and crying the stress away right here, but when a particularly strong wave soaks your already-wet shorts, bringing a new wave of discomfort, you find the last bits of strength in you to crawl further inland, tail tucked between your legs.

Your thoroughly soaked sneakers, one with its shoelace untied, leave marks on the wet sand before sinking into the dry stretch, where you decide to stay for your meltdown. You drop onto your butt, pulling your knees close to your chest, and break into sobs, finally letting go of all the nightmares haunting you.

You have no idea how long it takes for you to pull yourself together. How much time you needed to cry before your mind began analyzing the situation? Half an hour? Five hours? Ah, if only your watch had stayed loyal instead of falling to the bottom of the ocean. And you can forget about your phone, once glued to your pocket.It divorced you the moment the fight for survival began on that plane. That’s exactly how your luck plays out.

“Well, I just had to fucking go on vacation.”

You say aloud, though the only recipient is the endless horizon of the now-calm ocean. You envy its peace, its ability to tame rage. If only it had used that power during your flight, maybe you wouldn’t feel the urge now to charge the largest organism on Earth with your bare fists. Maybe you wouldn’t be throwing handfuls of the cleanest sand you’ve ever seen just a few feet in front of you, your bare feet digging into it, skin still wrinkled like a raisin. Your sneakers and socks are drying nearby, but you bitterly suspect they won’t be fully dry by the time you need to wear them again.

Even the wind dares not show its face, as if sensing your grief, your fury, your despair, and all the other emotions that should never have appear during vacation. The sun doesn’t scorch; it hides shyly behind a few thin clouds, looking for an excuse not to show up today.

Perfect weather. Too perfect not to mock you.

Hey, see how beautiful your vacation could have been? Too bad, you get to rot on a deserted island instead.

You’re barely holding yourself back from screaming, crying, curling up into a ball, and kicking sand with your feet. All at once.

Just the thought of moving makes you want to cry. Actually, any thought does. You tried to get a grip and focus on what matters most, survival, but it’s still too soon to muster any resolve. Or maybe you’re just too weak? Too used to comfort, to the ease of city life, you’re not ready to let it go.

The truth is, you’re scared. No, you’re terrified. Fleeting sparks of reason urge you to release your primal instinct, to return to the wild animal within, struggling to survive in untouched nature.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want to be an animal, not yet, clinging desperately to the remnants of your old life, warding off thoughts like fire against wolves snarling for food, drinkable water, shelter, warmth. Things so trivial and easy to come by before, you never even imagined you’d need to fight for them, with your steady job and uncomfortable apartment, but at least four safe walls.

You lower your head onto your knees and pull them closer. You want to remain modern, not primal, so you chase the wolves away again. This time they retreat into the dark as you close your eyes for a moment, but you know they’ll return. And soon.

Despite your still-swollen eyes and nose clogged from crying, another sob shakes your chest, drawing out a deep, ancient human stress, long forgotten by many.

More precious minutes burn away doing nothing, but even in your hazy state, you notice the shift of the palm shadows on the beach. Your quiet alarm bell. You need to move, you tell yourself. Now.

Just get up. That’s all. That will be your first success.

Desperation flickers to life again as you consciously swallow, your saliva sluggishly dragging down your throat that now feels like sandpaper. Suddenly you realize how badly you need water. When was the last time you had anything in your mouth that wasn’t saltwater?

It’s not enough to make you embrace your current predicament, but it is enough to get your pampered city ass off the ground. Which your long-unused legs do not appreciate. Forced into bending, then suddenly straightened, they refuse to cooperate, stiff and tingling from inactivity. Thankfully, after a few wobbly steps, you regain control of your body, grab your sneakers and socks, and begin walking along the shore, where the waves gently devour the sand, tracing a path and border for your feet to follow.

You’re a long way from being a survival expert, but you try to follow logic. Or at least what’s left of it.

First, you check for injuries. Something you really should’ve done immediately, but upon waking up... well, you were a little preoccupied. You extend your arms, turning them slowly, bracing for the worst, broken or dislocated bones, but feel relief seeing only a few bruises on your forearms and a dull ache in your shoulder, likely from the chaos on the plane. Nothing alarming, nothing to worry about yet.

Your legs seem to be fine, too. Also peppered with bruises of all sizes, but your joints haven’t been swallowed by swelling. The only new feature is a long but shallow wound down your shin, already sealed with a black scab.

Great, you think. You can now focus mainly on finding water.

You briefly lift your gaze from the shoreline littered with shells and tiny scuttling crabs fleeing from the two-legged intruder, and peer into the island’s thick jungle.

You know you’ll have to go in there eventually. Face nature head-on. Face the wild. You’ve been putting it off for too long. Curling into yourself was just an excuse, a way to nurture the hope that this is all just a cliché nightmare you’ll wake up from any minute now. But deep down, you know it’s not a nightmare, not a dream. It’s something far worse because it’s real.

The wolf of thirst bites at your throat again. You push it away one last time, continuing your slow walk along the shore.

Soon, you tell yourself. Soon you’ll head in there, find water, find something to eat. You start laying out a plan, praying it’ll be as simple in practice as it seems in your mind. Surely, there must be some exotic fruit here, right? The island looked far too big not to grow anything edible.

Ugh. You just want to go home already.

You turn your head toward your new nemesis — the ocean — scanning the waves for familiar shapes of suitcases, bags, or backpacks, proof of civilization, but the ocean senses your hatred and hides its treasures from you. You see nothing. The water has swallowed your hopes.

Your expression drops, sours. You promise yourself that you’ll never set foot on a beach again. Yeah, next vacation, you’re going to the mountains. So many choices. The Alps, maybe the Tatras? You’ve heard the Bieszczady Mountains are beautiful this time of year. Just you, trails stretching for miles, a cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere, and zero sand.

But first, you have to get off this island. If I even make it off, you think bitterly.

You will, you convince yourself. You definitely will.

Someone will start looking for you eventually, someone will notice that an entire plane disappeared in the middle of the ocean. Mhm, just a few days of survival. Once you’ve figured out a source of drinkable water, found some food and a safe place to shelter, you’ll draw huge SOS signs across every beach. Yes, you’ll get out. It won’t be easy, but you will.

Your auto-pep talk fills you with new determination. It’s just a few days. You’ll manage, definitely. By the end of the week, you’ll be asleep in your comfy bed again, you think with enthusiasm. With that boost, you keep walking another dozen meters along the shoreline, scanning for any loot among the waves but quickly give up, as the rhythmic crashing of water only sharpens your thirst.

Drinking water. Now.

You glance toward the green mass of vegetation swallowing most of the island. It makes it hard to gauge the island’s shape or size, but you can tell it’s not small. The beach stretches endlessly like a runway, paralleled by a line of coconut palms heavy with their armored fruit. You make a mental note to return to them later with an exceptionally sharp rock.

You slide on your still-damp socks and sneakers, wincing at the unpleasant wetness enveloping your feet, then take a cautious, tentative step into the wild, into the unknown and the primal, and the green of exotic flora swallows you whole.

At first, navigating the sparse greenery is easy. You just have to occasionally push a leaf aside or duck under a branch. The problems start later, as the vegetation thickens and spiderwebs begin appearing everywhere, always with eight-legged residents at their centers, along with a variety of beetles and ants. The last two don’t make you want to catapult out of your own skin in fear, at least.

Finding your bearings doesn’t come naturally. Large and small leaves blur into one endless shade of green, but now and then you manage to spot a landmark to guide you back. An odd-shaped tree, a big rock. To be extra sure you won’t get lost in this breathing green labyrinth, you find a dry stick and start scratching an X into every third tree, marking the path in both directions.

You’re just about to give up hope of finding anything useful when suddenly the thicket begins to thin, tempting you with open space and pumping new energy into your legs, urging you to speed up. The dryness in your throat is unbearable now. You’ve soothed it a few times by forcing yourself to lick drops of water off leaves, but honestly, you’d rather never do that again.

You know survival on a deserted island means doing weird things. But still, you feel… humiliated, french kissing leaves for a single droplet of water. This is not how you imagined your exclusive vacation.

“It’s no longer vacation, you idiot.” you hiss.

You part a leaf blocking your view and can’t help the smile forming on your face.

“Or maybe... it kind of still is?”

A large lagoon greets you with open arms, framed by a beach of pristinely clean sand. The pool in the middle glistens with dark, but clear water, surprisingly deep for a lagoon.

You let out a quiet, appreciative whistle.

“Wow. It’s beautiful” you say aloud, only to purse your lips into a thin line.

Really? You’re already talking to yourself? Bit early to be going mad.

You scan the length of the lagoon with your eyes, wishing you could be here under completely different circumstances, when your gaze locks onto something... familiar. You squint, slowly moving toward one corner, where sand fades into solid ground, and with each step it becomes clearer. The mass of green you took for ivy and bushes is actually shaped like something man-made.

That “something” turns out to be the crumbling remnants of a stone house. Cracked and neglected, finally caught by the passage of time, merciless even to the strongest of materials.

The house has no roof and is missing one wall, but the remaining three offer tempting shelter from wind and potential rain, should you plan to (which you definitely don’t) stay here more than three days.

The problem is, if you want to get off this island, you’ll need a clear view of the ocean, something the narrow lagoon outlet doesn’t provide. But surely there’s no harm in spending one night here, right? You can already picture a fire in the center of the ruins, the warmth, grilled fish over the flames...

And you’re not sure if you’re successfully gaslighting yourself or if some ancient force is now in charge, but suddenly the cracked walls, floor overgrown with moss and weeds, and a massive branch sneaking in through what might have once been a window seem... cozy.

Honestly, your apartment back in the city wasn’t much better.

That thought convinces you to settle here for at least one night. And when you look toward the corner where a tree has also sought refuge, you spot several large papayas growing near its trunk, and you know: this is your camp. Your lips curl into a smile as you realize the fruits are ripe and hanging low enough to grab. Just a little jump and you are now clutching two plump fruits to your chest. You even kiss one in joy, unable to believe how fucking lucky you are.

You won't die of hunger! And you'll quench your thirst a little while you're at it. Really, it couldn't be better.

But, alas, you’ve just never had good timing.

The sound of water breaking pulls you out of your bliss. Before you even have time to process what’s happening, you press yourself tightly against the cracked wall, right beside a rectangular cutout that probably once served as a door, and you cover your mouth with your hand, forced to hold the large fruits with just one arm, which, practically speaking, is no easy task.

You hear dripping water and loud splashing sounds, the kind you associate with a large body leaving the water, but it’s the volume of those sounds that worries you the most. You have no doubt that whatever just crawled out of the water is big. Huge, even.

A whale? An orca? You try to guess, unconvinced that it's worth risking your life just to satisfy your curiosity. But you instantly disprove every guess with what you already know about those animals.

Still, you want to look. You know it’s stupid and it could end in disaster, but you want to. Just for a moment, for a second. You’ll peek out gently, careful not to make yourself an easy snack or target, and you’ll slip back to your beach silently.

Mhm, you’ll even let that thing have your (when did it start being yours anyway?) little corner, you won’t hold a grudge.

But you have to peek. Just for a second.

Undecided, you gently bite your lip.

You’ll look. But just for a millisecond.

But the very moment you stick out even a millimeter of your head and eye, you know you’re a liar. The millisecond is gone. Then a full second. Then a second more. Then a third. And you can’t move.

He’s beautiful, unearthly. Not belonging to your world, ripped straight from fairytales and legends, teasing your brain just enough that it no longer knows whether what you glimpse from the corner of your eye is even real. Or maybe such a drastic relocation into entirely unfamiliar conditions was enough to start seeing things?

A merman. A real merman.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor, but you shut your mouth just in time before a startled squeak can betray you.

The creature is enormous, roughly the size of an orca, though you know that the tail hidden beneath the lagoon’s surface could easily stretch your estimation by another meter or two. What draws your eye is the exotic palette of colors decorating his smooth skin. Muscular arms sunken into the clean, wheat-colored sand blaze red, though the crimson is interrupted by streaks of grey that trail down his forearms to his neck, where they fan out toward a white underbelly. His head, adorned with a crest rising from the center of his forehead and extending into a long dorsal fin, suddenly bursts into a pastel navy blue that flows down his back to the massive tail — a mishmash of the entire color wheel.

Humanoid. Too humanoid. Toying with your understanding of human beauty’s uniqueness. And yet here it is, just a safe dozen or so meters ahead of you, breathing. If you squinted, he really could pass for a person.

To keep yourself from going insane and to chase off intrusive thoughts, you pinch your forearm. Ouch. You’re real. But that also means he is too, giving you one more reason to go crazy.

Unable to tear your eyes from the siren monster, you decide to examine him more closely. You focus on his face, bizarrely human, yet ancient. Nothing like the stony mugs of instinct-driven animals. You feel like deep thoughts are swirling behind that blue skin, thoughts that also brim in those enormous, azure eyes. The distance between you is small enough that you can even make out the emotions running through him.

He looks sad. Pitiful, even, if you could compare the size and glint in his eyes to a sorrowful puppy, which your brain tries and fails to reconcile with the scarred body, head, and a face bearing the marks of a long life. You know instinctively this creature has years of survival behind him, every second of existence spent fighting for access to basic needs.

Which might also mean he's well-versed in the art of hunting humans, you realize with dread. You can only guess what makes up his diet, but judging by the sharp claws on his long webbed fingers, you suspect he’s not a peaceful herbivore.

Not that you’d risk an interaction with him just to test your theories. No, you'd really like to get back home in one piece.

Great. So now you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. There’s no way you’re getting out of here without catching the siren’s attention. In fact, no matter where you go from here, there's a chance of encountering him again, and you really, really didn’t want to find out if he’s a man-eater.

Or worse — a hungry man-eater.

You glance around, looking for a wide enough gap in the foliage for a silent escape, but you're not even given the chance to take a single step. Your shoes are nailed to the earth by...

Singing.

A siren's song.

Mournful, pleading, and so raw that you hold your breath, afraid of it interrupting his piece.

It reminds you of the whalesong you’ve heard in documentaries, but each chirp, whine, and groan is loaded with sorrow and bitterness, bombarding your heart, even if you don’t understand the lyrics. You don’t need words to grasp the melancholic message, one that cuts through interspecies barriers.

The siren doesn’t stop singing, feeding his hidden audience new verses, each as depressing as the last. Like a newly discovered song, you can’t stop listening. All your senses retreat to make room for sharper hearing. You inhale his song, fill yourself with sad sounds, experiencing his suffering as if it were your own. Even if it’s just a trick to lure a tasty human snack out of hiding.

That slightly tempers your emotional response.

Right. Of course.

Maybe he knows you’re here. Feels you. Smells your tasty human flesh and is trying to coax you into the open like you were some kind of takeout.

You blink a few times, shaking off the last traces of compassion, proud of yourself for seeing through the sad facade of those puppy-blue eyes and the angsty concert. In the blink of an eye, you remember you need to get back to the beach, your only chance of spotting a ship or a plane in the patch of sky not covered by trees, because he already won the fight for the cozy shelter.

You return to searching for an escape route when suddenly, you freeze.

Your entire body blue-screens, and it must have rearranged every organ inside you too, because now you can feel your heartbeat in your ass. Because to your left, right by your head, a giant brown tarantula is slowly crawling along a cracked wall. So close you can see every hair on its abdomen.So close you can hear the soft tippy taps of all eight legs.

Oh, fuck.

“AHHHH!”

Your body reacts faster than common sense can remind you that the real predator, the one that could actually kill you, probably shouldn’t know it has company. You leap right, springing through the remains of a door straight onto the warm sand surrounding the lagoon.

Still clutching two papayas tightly to your chest, you try to stay upright on your wobbling, jelly-like legs, but it’s no use. You drop to your knees, the soft sand cushioning the pain. You know you should be running, right now, immediately. You urge your legs into action, begging silently but desperately for your own body to cooperate, but your rapid, ragged breathing drowns out your pleas.

When you realize that an immediate escape is no longer an option, all you can do is curl into the fetal position, forehead kissing the warm sand.

Hmm. Nice feeling, you think. You wouldn’t mind dying surrounded by the softness of this tropical, clean beach.

You hear nothing but the whistle of air sucked through your lips.

Nothing else.

Nothing...

You freeze.

You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes are now the size of dinner plates.

For a moment, you wonder how the hell you’re still alive. How come you don’t feel claws and teeth ripping through your flesh like a piece of paper? The agonizing pain of muscles tearing and bones shattering while you’re eaten alive, disappearing into the siren’s jaws. Bite by bite, until the last memory of your existence belongs to him.

But nothing like that happens. All your tissues are intact. You are neither bitten, nor scratched, nor swallowed alive.

Why the hell are you still alive?

Out of stupidity or curiosity, though you suspect it's more the former, you decide to make eye contact with the predator.

Slowly, you lift your head, gradually rediscovering his form. Milky white belly, swirls of red and grey skin on his chest, and finally, his head, flanked by small, bristling navy fins.

Still beautiful. Majestic. Enormous.

But as potential prey, can you allow yourself the pleasure of such hidden compliments? You wonder if deer also think like this before being devoured by wolves. Do they finally recognize the predator’s beauty only moments before death?

The humanoid face is turned toward you, expression frozen in comforting, familiar shock. The enormous eyes, adorned with remarkable white pupils, have doubled in size, and his mouth has fallen open, giving you a limited glimpse inside.

Teeth. Sharp teeth, undeniably those of a meat-eater.

For the second time that day, you feel some incomprehensible force rearranging your organs.

A flicker in the blue eye. A twitch in the human-like torso. A subtle lean in your direction pulls your heart from your ass back into place, and with it, apparently, the feeling in your legs, because suddenly, you’re ready to care about your own survival again.

You never believed those myths about time slowing down in the face of mortal danger. You thought that was a tired trope from action movies, overused to the point where you physically rolled your eyes whenever you saw it on screen.

But apparently, it’s very real.

Because there’s no other way to explain how slowly the creature’s expression morphs a few meters in front of you. His brow furrows, jaw opens and closes again and again, chewing, analyzing.

As if wondering what to do with you. If this pitiful, miniature oddity before him was even worth using as a toothpick?

To eat or not to eat? That is the question but you don’t want to know his answer.

Your body gambles on the oldest bet known to humankind.

You go all in on running.

Faster than you've ever moved in your entire life, you bolt toward the green thicket.

You could swear that the pathetic, almost pleading howl behind you and the shifting sound of something slithering across the sand belong to the siren, but you don’t have the courage to turn your head and confirm it.

You disappear behind massive leaves, blindly trying to make your way back to the familiar beach.

And ever after a long while, you can still hear the lamenting wail creeping up behind you.

#muletia writes #optimus x reader #optimus prime x reader #transformers x reader #merformers #merformers x reader #obsessed!optimus #mer optimus #for the singing and dreaming

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angelplummie · 1 year ago

Note

ur art baby trapping fic is all i can think abt btw

but but but. what if after the first time it becomes a regular occurrence, and after the first few times, when he buries himself as deep as his long cock can go inside you and cums so hard he loses vision, you think maybe it’s time to be safe again. you’ve taken a few pregnancy tests, and it’s seeming like you’re getting away with the risky sex, but the risk is not worth the reward.

you saunter into the kitchen one morning, were art reads the news on his laptop, sipping a black tea. what a serious man you were dating. your arms snake around his neck loosely, and you kiss this top of his blonde head.

“i’m gonna order some more birth control. what’s that gynos number again? i know i wrote it down somewhere but i can’t remember.”

art stilled. he placed the mug squarely on a coaster.

“you don’t need that.”

he reached up to hold your forearm gently, to ghost the pad of his thumb against your soft skin.

“well, i do a little bit. we’ve been lucky, but if we keep going raw we might be in trouble. then you’ll be stuck with me forever.”

he hummed, stomach flipping. you were so close to figuring him out.

“that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

“what?”

he kissed the peach fuzz of your arm.

“i’d like being stuck with you.”

you didn’t let go, but you didn’t move either.

“are you saying you hope i get pregnant?”

“no,” he lied softly,”but if you did, that would also make me happy. wouldn’t it make you happy?”

you inhaled, shocked.

“i guess. i don’t- i don’t know how i would feel. i haven’t given it much thought. have you?”

he moved to get up, and you stepped back, unfurling yourself from him.

the chair scraped against the floor, and you watched arts feet as he moved around it to get back to you. he turned to face you, beautiful face set in a knowing, subtle smile. he took your face in his long hands, one on either side of your jaw.

“i’ve thought about a future with you and being with you forever, and about having a baby with you.”

your lips parted slightly, that rosy feeling cresting your cheeks and nose.

“i love you very much. i want you very much. is it that strange to think i might want to start a family with you?”

a cloudy feeling, humid and twinkly, filled your head. you drew in breath, but before you could make any kind of reply he kissed gently on your forehead, which nullified the part of your brain that might have any problem with what art was saying ever.

“why is that strange baby?”

“it’s not strange.”

“that’s right.”

and he pulls you into his chest. your arms remain tucked to you, and he wraps himself around you. tenderly his chin rests on your hair, and your breath in his smell. art was so clean, and so smart and kind. and he loved you. he wanted to be with you. you were so lucky.

“i love you.”

“i love you too.”

and that night, when he got you on top of him, cock buried deep in your tiny cunt, he made you feel even luckier. you were so wet it spilled down his shaft that split you open, down to his round full balls. his hands were clamped like shackles around your hips, preventing you from moving.

your hands splayed on his perky chest, you frowned in an effort to not fall apart, and he watched you with unbridled glee. you try to bounce, and your tits shake, but he holds you in place, all your leg muscles no match for the few at work in his arms. he watches as your titties settle still, his soft little angel.

“art please,” you dig your nails into his pillowy chest, but he doesn’t even flinch as you turn his pale skin pink.

“yes please,” you whisper. he smiles, thinly veiling his glee.

“you wanna ride me?”

your pussy clenches. even bellow you, he’s so far above. so much wiser and calmer.

“i’ll let you. on one condition.”

his fingers dug into your love handles, leaving white marks on your side. he readjusted himself, burying his cock inside your further, making you huff.

“tell me,” your cunt was so tight he had to pause as it squeezed him,” that you want me to get you pregnant. say the words.”

you blinked, trying to direct any of your attention away from the pseudo-pain of having him inside you still. his demanding tone alone makes your cunt throb, and wet his fat cock even more.

“what?”

“tell me you want me to cum inside you raw.”

your head tips back, and you swallow.

“i want you,” you say, thoughtless, desperate, so cock hungry it makes arts chest heave under your talons,” to cum inside me raw. get me pregnant please. please art, just fuck me.”

art grunted, and squeezed your hips even harder.

“yeah? you want that?”

and he drew you up on his dick, biting his lip hard enough to leave indents, to split skin.

he guided you up, so that only his pink tip stayed hooked inside your tight pussy hole.

yeah was the only word you could form, and you said it over and over like it was his name, like it was a prayer.

“ok baby. whatever you want.”

and he drove himself into you, holding you above him like an oversized fleshlight. you sounded like a fleshlight too, wet and soft and malleable to him. a wet schlick permeated the room with every thrust as he held you, suspended in the air, and fucked you like you weighed nothing.

your grip dragged up to his forearm, leaving a pink trail in your wake, jaw tipping open.

“art, art, art.”

as he moves sharply in and out, pounding your pussy, you legs turn to jelly, and you feel the distinct urge to writhe. you resist, and instead jerk with his every movement, moaning pathetically.

“you’re so tight. god,” he spits through gritted teeth. it’s like he’s angry at you, and he bullies your little cunt like he hates you. but he doesn’t hate you, he loves you very much. he can’t believe your his, he can’t believe you want to be his forever. he will make you happy. he will. you just have to give him a child.

his v-line and his hips crash into the softness of your thighs and make loud slaps. he grunts as he feels the tip split you open time and time again. you feel it, a deep thud inside you every time he presses down, and you whine absently.

“art, hold me.”

“what?”

“hold me.”

immediately, he rises from his lying position and props himself up on his head board, yanking you to him again. and then you were face to face, with his tousled blonde hair and blue, honest eyes, and his beautiful face. just as you asked, he held you. two strong arms encircled you waist, pushing your tits up on his chest.

digging his heels into the bed, he began pumping, buried so deep that he could only work the last increments of his cock into you. your eyes are misty, are big and desperate. your open mouth

"you ok?"

"yeah. I love you."

"mm."

and he kissed you again, tongue pawing at the inside of your mouth, like a kitten at a ball of yarn. he moaned rhymically, with every beat of your little heart. every moment you lived as his was total pleasure. you inched your hips forwards and back, against the force of his thrusts and kissed the side of his mouth, his cheek, his neck.

“you’re so beautiful,” he huffs,”you’re so pretty. i’m gonna get you pregnant.”

“please.”

“yeah, i know you want that.”

“yeah, i want it.”

you fuck yourself on him, and he kisses you again, harder, messier, noses smushing and tongues moving against each other.

“oh,” he says, and you know he’s close. so you say him what he wants to hear. what you know he’s wanted to hear this whole time. your clit presses against his pelvis, and as you tip over the edge you give him what he needs, like a good girl. friend. a good girlfriend.

“daddy, daddy.”

and it’s over. his grip tightens, pressing you harder against him so you can’t move at all in his lap. his hips stutter, and he lets out a grunting, groaning whine into your cheek, into your ear.

his balls tighten and twitch, and a fat load spurts inside you, clinging to your cervix and dribbling out of your spasming hole.

“fuck, god.”

one arms stays around your back, the other reaches up to your neck, to caress the skin and reach up into your hair. to stroke your jaw with his thumb as you both pant, slack jawed and satisfied.

“fuck.”

“art?”

“yeah?”

“i bet that did it. i bet i’m pregnant.”

“i bet you are. are you scared?”

you looked at each other and smiled, wide and goofy, forehead to forehead.

“no. are you? i really mean it, you’re never getting rid of me now.”

“darn.”

#challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers x reader #art donaldson x reader #30s art donaldson smut #older art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader smut #challengers x reader smut #tw:creampie #tw: baby trapping #not proofread #fuck it we ball #tennis ball!

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zepskies · 2 months ago

Text

TASTE

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Vampire!Reader

Summary: It’s a devastating hunger. He finds you, at his own risk.

AN: Surprise! Here’s a short drabble for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! (Moodboard created by Liane!) 💜🖤❤️

Word Count: 900

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, spiciness, set circa season 6, little twist ending…

A tease, a whisper of heated breath, a soft streak of cherry red lipstick drawing a lazy path to his ear; your lips brush against his jawline.

“Dean.”

His breath hitches. Perhaps it’s a reaction to the way you say his name, a sultry beckoning and a plea all at once, like a heady sip of Merlot somehow scarring down the throat.

Perhaps it’s the way you’ve caught him. He clears his throat.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart,” he intones.

You can hear every uptick beat of his heart while his big hands find an achingly familiar stronghold on your parted thighs. You’ve always admired the strength in his hands, and the way he can move you even without their talents—with just his lips, his voice, his eyes.

He’s found you in this hovel. Deep down, you knew he would eventually. You have him trapped beneath you on this dingy couch, your long nails biting into chipped leather instead of his skin. You’re the one who’s stronger now. And no matter how many warnings blare like a fiery lashing in your mind, you can’t help yourself. You want him more than ever.

It’s a devastating hunger.

For every cell that no longer bleeds red inside you, there’s a demand for more. You crave his taste, now in more ways than one. It scares you. This scares you, more than you’ve ever been scared of anything—even though you’re the one who’s in control, grabbing his face with a slender hand. Your fingertips press into his jaw, digging firmly enough into his stubble-covered cheeks to have the jade of his eyes solely on you.

Your eyes are different now. Darker, sharper, a phantom haze of violet and crushed roses. You see the way he takes in your face, trying to find something recognizable in you besides your body.

“You shouldn’t have,” you finally reply, though there’s hesitation in your voice. Conflict. Pain. Need. A small vulnerability, slight tremble. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And yet, that deep pit of empty, vicious craving deep in your core compels you to move, to take what you need.

“I think we both know I can handle it,” Dean says. His grin is cocky and familiar in its teasing, but his eyes hold the weight of more. He can’t just let you go. His grip tightens on your thighs to deliberately shift you against him, guiding your clothed pussy against the generous, straining bulge in his jeans. You feel the warmth of him already. You utter a soft moan, your brows knitting together.

Fuck. It’s only been days, but you’ve missed him.

Just a taste.

A threat of a kiss against his lips devolves into hungry devouring. A grunt and a groan loosen from the back of his throat. His fingers delve into your hair and slip around the strands, the same way you suck his tongue into your mouth.

Your hand slips around his back to pull him closer. Your nails rake down his spine, gripping the red flannel of his shirt. He hisses at the red lines likely carving across his skin, but his eyes open to you. They’re wild, alive in a way you can’t be.

The scent of his blood is earthy, rich, tantalizing—too much to set aside. What your flesh wants is secondary to the kind of lust that courses through you, black ink of nightshade in your veins.

Your fangs descend on reflex.

Your head moves fast, but your heart manages to win out the slightest bit; your sharp teeth nearly break the skin of his shoulder instead of tearing at his jugular, the way your instincts demand. A visceral cry for blood is trapped painfully in your throat. Your heart tears even more when you realize that you’ve failed. You couldn’t keep yourself away. You couldn’t stop yourself from—

Dean’s grip tightens in your hair, but he doesn’t bother to try and pull you back.

He just jabs the needle into your neck.

A full dose of dark crimson liquid seeps into your sluggish veins, making you gasp in pure shock. Though, you really should’ve known. Dead Man’s Blood.

Your limbs quickly fall beyond your control, and you slump against his shoulder. Your eyes begin to close, no matter how hard you fight to flutter them open. You can still hear his heart beating wildly, even as he holds you.

“Thought you were gonna take a chunk outta me, huh?” he remarks, with a flash of his wry smile. “Well, it’s been tried.”

Still, there’s more tenderness in his calloused hand when he sweeps your hair away from your cheek. He looks down at you with a note of devastation, apology, regret…but also determination. It furrows his brows and presses his lips into a line.

He sits up with you gathered in his arms, and he swiftly carries you out of this terrible old shed. It was the only place you could find in the city to hide yourself, to keep you away from living, breathing, movable feasts.

“It’s okay, baby. We found the cure,” he says. His voice is firm, reassuring, if holding the remnants of grit. “We’re gonna fix this. Just hold on…”

Your eyes have closed against your will, but his voice manages to move your heart that one inch. Hope.

Just hold on…

AN: Finally something short from me, right? 😂 Though it's actually the first time I've written a vampire reader. Felt like that's where the moodboard was leading me. 👌🏽

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lanawinterscigarettes · 6 months ago

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Eager Transaction (Chuck Bass x gn reader)

Summary: you give Chuck a blowjob in order to get him to buy you something

Warnings: SMUT, blowjob (Chuck receiving), light praise kink, swearing, cum swallowing, could be seen as sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics if you look at it in a certain light

A/N: I feel like Chuck would adore lavishing his partner with all kinds of gifts in general but there are probably certain things you can do to guarantee you'll get what you want quicker if you catch my drift 👀

You were lounging on your bed in the penthouse you shared with your boyfriend, spending the evening by doing some last minute holiday shopping (for both your friends and yourself). Every time you found the perfect gift for them, you looked at getting another for you as a job well done. Who said the season of giving couldn't involve giving a few things to yourself?

Clicking out of your previous tab after another successful order, you scrolled through site after site until your eyes caught onto it. There it was. You'd finally found the one thing you'd been searching for all week.

It had unfortunately been out of stock every time you'd previously checked, but now it was back in. You didn't want to risk waiting to purchase it, but you also couldn't afford to buy something else on top of all the other stuff you'd bought so far, which left you with only one choice left: you'd have to ask Chuck to get it for you.

Picking up your laptop, you left the bedroom and headed into the lounging area of the penthouse where he was looking over some forms for one of the hotels he owned. He didn't even look up when you entered, already suspecting that you wanted something from him. "Yes?"

"Buy this for me," you demanded while placing your laptop down in front of him so he could see the website you had pulled up, not even bothering to say hello first.

The thing that you wanted wasn't really expensive compared to the outrageous amount of wealth he had, but you knew if you made an order and not a request it was a lot more likely he'd comply. You'd learned that the hard way after the last time he strung you along for two weeks straight because you wouldn't stop begging for him to buy you something (hearing you beg was one of his favorite past times so naturally he couldn't resist).

He didn't seem fazed in the slightest by your tone, though you knew if anyone else spoke to him that way they'd be on thin ice immediately. "What for?" He questioned just to mess with you and not out of any real interest, an amused smirk toying with his lips as he glanced up at you.

Not in the mood for his teasing, you blurted out the very first thing you could think of that would definitely sway him in your favor. "Buy this for me and I'll give you head."

When you spoke, it was at the exact same time he'd chosen to take a sip from his glass of whiskey, causing him to nearly choke as he allowed your words to fully sink in. His eyes were wide with shock, but the second it registered in his mind exactly what you'd just said they narrowed with a look of oncoming lust. "Get on your knees," he practically growled.

You didn't need to be told twice, dropping down to the floor on your knees as soon as he told you to. Your hands moved out to unbuckle his belt, but he lightly smacked them away, needing to be in full control of the situation.

"Wait a second first."

A pout formed on your face at his words, but you knew better than to act bratty. He set the laptop off to the side, balancing it on the armrest of his chair before moving his hands to undo his pants and push them down far enough to pull out his length. You could feel yourself already beginning to salivate at the sight of it.

"You know what to do," he lazily drawled before turning his attention back to the laptop so he could view the other things you currently had in your cart. Maybe if you were good he'd decide to get them all at once.

Licking your lips, you leaned forward until your head was level with his crotch and slowly took his cock into your mouth, letting out an eager moan for good measure. Your hands moved to rest on his knees as you began to bob your head up and down, growing a little smug at the groans he was already starting to let out at your current actions.

"Fuck, sweetheart-" he swore under his breath as his legs spread a little further apart, giving you the space to move in closer as your hands traveled from his knees up to his thighs.

You could already taste the salty precum in your mouth, which caused you to moan again, taking him in a bit deeper. One of his hands moved to rest on top of your head, gently guiding your movements.

"That's it, baby, there you go, just like that-" he muttered in a slightly breathless voice, clearly affected by the way your mouth was moving around him.

That wasn't enough for you, though, as you noticed him still glancing at the laptop every now and then. Call you an attention whore, but you wanted him to be focused on you and you alone, so you gripped onto his thighs and dug your fingers into the sides of them to get his attention.

A soft grunt escaped him at the action from you, and he looked down with a stern gaze. "Behave, or I'm not getting you anything at all," he lightly warned, evidently not too fond of what you did.

You whined around his length, the vibrations coming from your mouth causing his head to tilt back some. Once he was distracted again, you took the opportunity to suck a bit harder, your hands gently rubbing his thighs where you'd dug your fingers in as a form of an apology.

"God, baby- Don't stop-" His voice was a bit lower than usual, his hand moving from your head to clutch onto the chair's armrest as he tried to contain himself. You knew from that he was getting close, so you took him in a bit deeper and teased his cock with your tongue, trying to get him to finish.

Your plan worked, because he came not long after that, his hot seed erupting into the back of your throat without any warning other than him letting out a quiet string of swears. Not wanting to waste a single bit of it, you greedily swallowed down every single drop before pulling your mouth off him with a pop.

"Open and let me see," he commanded while reaching his hand down to hold onto your chin so you couldn't move away just yet. You obediently opened your mouth in response to his words and stuck your tongue out, proudly displaying that you'd swallowed it all. He let out a hum in acknowledgement. "Good job."

Beaming at his praise, you simply observed as he tucked his now softening cock back into his pants and zipped them back up. You turned your head and pressed your face into his thigh, giving it an affectionate nuzzle.

"It'll be here sometime next week," he suddenly spoke while helping you up from off the floor and handing you the laptop back, referring to the thing you'd wanted him to buy for you. Somehow he'd managed to purchase it even while you were giving him a blowjob.

You leaned down and gave him a tender kiss, smirking somewhat as you were certain he'd be able to taste himself on your tongue. "Thank you for the gift," you purred out in appreciation before taking the laptop and turning to head back into the bedroom.

His eyes wandered down to your ass as he watched you go, letting out a low whistle that caused your face to heat up slightly. There was definitely going to be a round two later once he was done looking over the hotel forms, he was sure of it.

End notes: this was written purely because I'm a whore for chuck and that's it lmao

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harryspet · 10 months ago

Text

well kept [4] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, emotional/mental manipulation, DUBCON/NONCON, corporal punishment, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: longest chapter yayyyy :):)

word count: 4.9k

In which Rafe's control pushes you to the brink of ecstasy and beyond.

well kept masterlist

Rafe Cameron could handle his liquor, you learned that quickly. After accompanying him to a few dinner parties and watching him down several shots of whiskey before finishing an entire pitcher of beer, you wondered how he maintained his physique. He never slurred his words or stumbled, he seemed entirely happier when he was drinking, a completely different person.

He’d forced you to drink a cocktail and that quickly made you feel wobbly. The nights were a blur of conversations and you were tethered to reality by the feeling of Rafe’s hand on your lower back. He never introduced you as his assistant to his rich friends. You were just Y/N. “She’s cute, yeah?” He would say to people. Usually your dress was way too short or your cleavage was spilling from your top. Unfortunately, you sipped your drink when you were nervous.

You were exhausted by the end of the night and a little tipsy though you hadn’t dared to drink nearly as much as he did.

“C’mon, I’ll take you home,” He’d said, hand on your waist as he guided you out of the restaurant. Sometimes it made you feel protected. Like Rafe could hurt you, sure, but at least no one else could.

“Should you be driving?” You’d mistakenly asked, words slipping out before you could stop them. He took it as a challenge to his manhood and the look on his face made you regret it.

“I’m fine,” He’d looked at you sharply before he commanded, “Get in the fucking car.”

You didn’t hesitate any longer and let him him help you into the passenger side of his truck. He kept his eyes focused on the road, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel, and you hoped he wasn’t angry, maybe just deep in thought.

When he pulled up to your apartment complex, you fumbled for the door handle, eager to escape the tension. But before you could step out, Rafe’s hand was on your arm.

“I’m coming up,” he stated firmly.

“It’s a weeknight,” you said, trying to find a reason that would convince him otherwise. “My roommates are probably asleep by now.”

He gave you an unimpressed look. “I’ll be quiet,” a hint of his boozed up charm returned to his voice. Reluctantly, you led him upstairs.

When you opened the door, you were surprised to find your roommates, Imani and Angel, still awake, standing in the kitchen with a bottle of wine between them. Their laughter filled the small apartment. Their expressions shifted to complete shock at the sight of Rafe behind you. You smiled, trying to give the impression that all was well, that it was completely normal to be returning to your apartment with your drunk, billionaire boss.

Imani, with her flawless olive complexion and neatly styled curls, scrutinized the scene with furrowed brows. Beside her, Angel stood tall and vibrant, her unruly tight curls escaping their single hair tie, her mouth agape in astonished silence as she stared at you. Both much more beautiful than you, a sad thought crossed your mind, and you worried for a short millisecond that Rafe would realize he’d made a mistake in picking you.

“Hey,” You did you best to sound casual, “Rafe, this is Imani and Angel. Imani, Angel, this is Rafe.”

“Your boss, Rafe?” Imani asked incredulousy, her arms crossing over her faded band tee. “I don’t understand-”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Cameron,” Angel blurted out, practically bouncing on her bare feet, “Can I offer you a drink? We both had a shitty day so we whipped out the strawberry moscato.”

“It’s nice to meet you guys. And thanks, tempting offer but I’m quite satisfied at the moment,” His voice was smooth and effortlessly disarming. He placed a hand on your waist, pulling you into him, and your eyes widened, “I’m just here to make sure Y/N gets a good night’s rest.”

Both Imani and Angel looked at you with a mixture of shock and curiosity. Imani’s eyes, in particular, were sharp and disapproving, clearly questioning how you had kept this from her. Her gaze was heavy with the unspoken question: How could you be involved with Rafe and not have told her?

“Make yourself at home,” Angel said, clearly more excited than angry, and Imani’s intense gaze snapped to her, “I’m about to make popcorn and we’re about to watch a movie if you guys-”

“Angel,” Imani whispered harshly, “Leave them alone.”

“I’m j-j-just gonna, uhm, goodnight, guys,” You took Rafe’s arm and led him away from the tension filled kitchen to the narrow hallway that led to your bedroom. You felt he weight of Imani’s disapproval lingering in the air.

Your small apartment that you shared with two other people was a stark contrast to the luxurious settings you’d been in over the last few weeks. As Rafe’s eyes wandered over your tiny room, the awkwardness of the situation continued to build.

“This is …cozy,” He said after you shut the door. He was already taking off his suit jacket and undoing his cuff links. Was Rafe Cameron really going to spend the night here with you? Maybe he was drunker than you thought. “So this is where you unwind after a long day of dealing with me?”

Was that humor you heard in his voice? Dealing with him. You more than dealt with Rafe Cameron. You practically let him walk you around on a leash.

“Do you feel bad for me yet?” You tried to joke but there was too much animosity in your tone.

He chuckled before starting to undo his belt, “I try not to feel bad for other people. Life’s easier that way. Sides’, this won’t be your life for much longer.”

As he stripped down to his underwear, he started to settle into your bed, the lines between your professional and personal worlds now blurrier than ever.

“I wasn’t expecting t-t-t-t … to have company tonight,” You said, gathering his pile of clothes from your carpet and doing your best to fold them and place them neatly on top of your dresser.

“I’m full of surprises, sweetheart,” He winked as he folded his arms behind his head, and you had to avert your eyes from his statue-esque physique. Broad shoulders, thick arms and chest, and abs that acted like an arrow that pointed down to his … “Plus, I wanted to see where you lived.”

“Now you see I d-d-don’t have sss-space for all my new work outfits,” You started to undress now, realizing there was no way out of this long night except by sleeping. You kicked off your heels, placing them neatly at the bottom of your closet. You put an oversized t-shirt on and used it to cover your body as you slipped off your mini-dress.

“Yeah, I see that now. It’s like a shoebox in here,” You shot him an offended look and he smiled stupidly, “It’s cute.”

“You sss-say that word a lot,” You mumbled before finding a pair of fuzzy socks and taking a seat at the very edge of your bed, bending over to slip them on.

“C’mere,” he patted the spot next to him and you hesitated.

He wouldn’t, you thought, not while your roommates were on the other side of a paper thin wall. But he would, you remember, Rafe Cameron would do that. He already had the gall to walk into your apartment with his hand on your waist despite being the one who paid your salary. He would do it and you’d let him because you had no spine.

“Y/N?” You pinched your eyes shut for a brief moment before you inevitable crawled into the spot next to him. You’d never really laid next to him in bed and it wasn’t what you were expecting. Even on his side, laying down, his presence enveloped you. You felt small like you usually did. He easily pressed himself to you, impossibly strong arms pulling your fronts together.

“You hhh-have to be quiet,” You whispered.

“I’m not the loud one,” He chuckled, warm breath tickling your shoulder and making you shiver. He placed a kiss there, one arm wrapped around your back and pulling you closer while the other tickled over the skin on your bare thigh, “I could fuck you so slow, so gentle, and I’m sure you’d be screaming.”

“No,” You argued though you weren’t sure why.

“No? You think you could stay quiet?” A excruciatingly soft and wet kiss was placed on your collarbone.

Your breath hitched in your throat, “I’m sss-sserious, Rafe.”

“So informal,” He shook his head, the hand that was on your thigh started to peel up your shirt. To your surprise, Rafe ducked inside the fabric of your shirt, beginning to burrow his head into your breast, “My fucking favorite place on your cute, little body.”

He seemed to groan, something animalistic, placing kisses along your skin. His breath tickled your nipples and you tried to pull away. He flips you fully onto your back, pinning you with his weight, his mouth threatening to take one of your nipples into his mouth. You couldn’t take it, “Okay, okay, y-yess,” You rushed out, “I c-couldn’t stay quiet. You’re right.”

You look down to watch him pop his head out from under your shirt, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” You nodded, “I-I admit it. Please.”

“Please stop? Please fuck you quietly?” Rafe teased you, “You’re not adding sir to the end of your sentences so it gets kinda hard to understand–”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” You pleaded with him through your eyes, “Please …fuck me quietly, Sir.”

“That’s better,” He pulled your shirt over your breasts before he completely devoured them.

The next time Rafe decided to have sex with you was two weeks later, right as he walked into his office. You should’ve known by the outfit he had chosen for you. The white blouse had an air of professionalism, but the plaid, pleated skirt barely reached mid-thigh, making you certain the entire elevator caught a glimpse of your underwear when you dropped your notebook that morning.

It felt like he’d been teasing you up until that point. You'd lost track of how many times he made you orgasm in front of him during those two weeks. He had an insatiable fascination with watching you pleasure yourself, wanting you completely vulnerable, often in compromising positions, with your eyes locked on his the moment it happened. Whether it was on top of his desk, against the office window, or bent over a coffee table, you were starting to grow comfortable with being uncomfortable.

He couldn’t resist touching you, making you grind against him, or rapidly moving his fingers in and out of you until you were shaking. However, he had managed up until that point to not actually fuck you. It was getting to the point you found yourself pouting at him from your desk as you watched him complete his daily meetings.

You didn’t have a chance to get out your usual spiel about his meetings for the day because his briefcase was already on the ground, and his arms were wrapped around your backside as he carried you over to his desk, “Take off your panties,” He commanded after setting you on his desk. He stepped back, fumbling with his belt and zipper, “Now, sweetheart. C’mon.” He said and you realized you clearly weren’t moving fast enough for him.

Your panties weren’t even around your knees before he was lifting up your legs and pulling them off the rest of the way. He parted your legs, immediately dipping his fingers into you, “You’re already wet,” It was just an observance. No smile or smirk or evidence that he was at all pleased with the revelation, “Desperate little girl. You been thinking about me, yeah?”

You stared up at his lips, pink and parted and imagined them on yours, his soft stubble tickling the skin of your mouth. Why wasn’t he kissing you? Everything with him was a ritual. You couldn’t get what you wanted until you felt utterly humiliated and vulnerable. He couldn’t get what he wanted until you had tears in your eyes. You nodded, “Yes.”

“Fucking say it,” He barked and you winced.

“I’ve b-b-been th-thhhinking about you,” You admitted although he already knew it. Your own well being seemed to rely on being obsessed with him. If you wanted any sexual satisfaction, he was the one who brought it. He was the entire reason you had a good income now. He was everything.

“You haven’t touched yourself though, not without my permission?”

You nodded, “Nnn-not without your permission.”

“Cause you need me,” He finally placed his lips on yours and you nodded against them.

“I nnn-need you,” You mewled between kisses as he pressed his crotch into yours. The two of you both tilted back towards his desk, “Please, Sir.”

You had consented, despite not being fully prepared. It didn’t feel like the first or second time. The first time had been overwhelming, your orgasms crashing over you like a storm, while the second time had been so gentle that the pleasure left you feeling like you were vibrating with ecstasy. You wanted him, undeniably, but nothing had prepared you for the intensity of him filling you completely. This was what you had desirel, feeling full, but now you were overwhelmed, as though he was consuming every part of you.

With his hands braced on either side of your head, he looked down at you, his gaze intense and focused. He moved inside you with a relentless, unyielding rhythm, driving into you with an insatiable need.

The room faded away around you. You couldn’t feel yourself breathing nor could you hear the sounds leaving your mind. You just stared back, your face a mix of anguish and pleasure, and accepted your fate. You didn’t fight your orgasm this time, your body moved instinctively, squeezing around him, your hips grinding up for more friction.

When he was close, he pulled out of you. Your energy was already gone, your orgasm having taken almost everything from you, but he moved your body effortlessly. He pulled you off the desk before placing you on your knees in front of you. Your legs folded easily, weakly, “Fuck,” He cursed, pantting, and you watched him take his cock in his own hand.

You reached out to take ahold of him but he pushed your hand away. His hands moved, determined, rhythmic, “Ask me to cum on your face.”

His breaths were heavy, desperate, and he clung to that control that had slipped away when he was inside you.

“Will y-you cum on my face, Sir?”

The question hung in the air, tension thickening, until he was finally gritting his teeth. He broke eye contact only as his orgasm ripped through him. The room filled with his moans and you did your best not overreact to that warm, sticky feeling that was now violating your senses.

“Good girl, look at you,” He said and you squeezed your eyes tightly as it began to drip onto your eyelid.

You breathed deeply, the intensity of the moment deciding to peak, and tears started to spill over. You became a crumpled pile of pleasure, shame and exhaustion. It seemed like the only way to release your emotions. Unexpectedly, you didn’t sit their alone. Rafe was the one to wipe your face with a tissue. He cooed, “Hey, you did good, kid. You’re a good girl,” He whispered sweet nothings to you.

“C-C-Can you hold me?” You asked, voice trembling, so embarrassed that you didn’t meet his eyes. You didn’t want to see how he was feeling or know what he was thinking. It was all too much.

Without a word, Rafe lifted you effortlessly into his arms. His strength was both reassuring and overwhelming as he carried you behind his desk, his body warm and solid against yours. He settled into his chair, drawing you onto his lap with a sense of protective intimacy. For the rest of the morning, he worked with you nestled against him, your face buried into his neck.

Rafe Cameron’s Appalachian cabin was one of the twelve properties he owned personally. You got to it by passing though a quaint and charming town. Despite the fact that he normally spends only three weekends of the entire year there, all the locals know him.

The four of you; Rafe, you, Eleanor and Topper, made your way down main street which was lined with old-fashioned storefronts. In the middle was the town square which featured an old, courthouse building and a gazebo where you see a few locals gathering. The four of you enjoy a diner meal at the Blue Ridge Breakfast Bar before you walk through a few shops. It almost feels .. normal. You were surprised the three of them were even willing to walk through the antique buildings, let alone find the shops interesting.

You didn’t know people like them even ate at diners or were interested in antique trinkets that cost less then five dollars. It was surreal. In another life, the three of them were normal people, and maybe you and Rafe could have been a normal couple.

You often found yourself glancing at Rafe, marveling at the contrast between his usual, impeccably dressed self and the more relaxed look he wore today. Seeing him in jeans and a baseball cap, casually strolling through the town, was almost disorienting.

It was a similar feeling you got when Rafe suddenly flipped a switch after being cruel to you and decided to comfort you.

Despite the fact that he was technically on vacation, you were still his personal assistant, and yet he hadn’t asked you about anything related to assisting him since he picked you up that morning from your apartment.

You wouldn’t say it to him, partially out of fear that he would deny it, but it felt like he wanted you appear like a couple. Topper and Eleanor undoubtedly new the truth so why was he acting like this? You never held hands like them but his hand would find your knee when you sat next to each other and sometimes he wrapped around your shoulder when you were standing close by.

Sometimes, your body didn’t want to relax around him, and the intimacy brought you anxiety. Soemtimes he was easier to read when he was drunk, or inside of you, or yelling at you. You weren’t familiar with this version of him. But you were stuck with the three of them for the next three nights.

Surrounded by towering pines and the soft hush of nature, the cabin was more of fortress nestled into the natural beauty of the mountains. You followed Rafe across a gravel path towards a large front porch which was framed by sturdy wooden columns. You stared up at large windows that endorned the front of the house, undoubtedly letting in a large amount of natural light, as you walked through the entrance.

The house was a complete reflection of his taste and the extent of his success. As Topper and Rafe left for the bedroom to drop off luggage, you and Eleanor made your way to the kitchen with the bags of groceries you’d acquired from the local mini-mart. Surprisingly, this place didn’t come with it’s own personal chef.

Like with everything else, you followed Eleanor’s lead when it came to cooking that weekend. She encouraged you to get ingredients for a dish you knew you could make on your own and you chose spaghetti despite the idea of feeding billionaire Rafe Cameron your homemade spaghetti making you feel stupid.

“I’ll show you how to arrange a charcuterie board,” She said as she poured you a glass of red wine, “You’ll be the perfect housewife when I’m done with you, Y/N.”

The afternoon actually ended up being fun. You and Eleanor laughed in the kitchen while Rafe and Topper watched a football game in the living room, nursing cans of beer. The wine relaxed you and soon you were giggling over unevenly cut salami and spilled strawberry jam. The two of you ended up eating half the ingredients meant for the board, much to Eleanor’s amusement.

Eleanor loosened up even more, even getting comfortable enough to tell you a story about Topper, “You know, one time back when we lived in Kildare, he tried to make me pancakes for my birthday. From the box, not even from scratch, and he burnt every one. Literally every single one. The kitchen looked like it had been through a tornado. I don’t know how he even managed that.”

You covered your mouth, shaking your head, “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“He went through the whole box! He had to serve them to me like that. No amount of syrup and whip cream can mask that taste.”

“I didn’t realize we were telling personal stories,” You whipped your head around as you heard Topper’s voice. Your heart raced for a second, worried, but he made his way around the kitchen island and hugged his wife from behind. Rafe was following behind him but made his way over to you. You composed yourself as much as possible.

“I was telling Y/N about how good of a cook you are,” She joked and he playfully tickled her sides and soon they were laughing together.

The two male’s casual demeanors seemed to complement the laid-back energy of the afternoon. You watched Rafe’s lips pull into a smirk as he surveyed your work and your empty glass of wine.

Dinner rolled around a few hours later, a relaxed atmosphere continuing to permeate through the air. You’d set the table in the dining room, the ten-person table sat next to a large window overlooking an expansive lake, and aided Eleanor in preparing her beef stir-fry.

“It’s really good, Eleanor,” You complimented her once all of you were seated and digging into your food.

“Thanks,” She grinned, “You’re a good sous chef, Y/N.”

A smile tugged at your lips, “Not better than me though, right, honey?” Topper asked.

“Of course not, honey,” Eleanor winked at him.

Small talk ensued and despite the fact that Eleanor warned the two men that business talk would bring down the room, they spent a good ten minutes talking about something called “tax increment financing”.

Eleanor interrupted after it became too much, “So, Rafe, are you going to do any more renovations on this place?”

“After they finish the pool next summer, no. Did the home theatre, renovated the master bathroom and expanded the garage this summer. It’ll probably be move-in-ready next year.”

“Oh, are you selling it?” you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

Rafe’s gaze flickered away, an unusual reaction for him. He usually had a quip or a witty retort ready. “No, I plan to spend more time away from Charlotte after New Year's. I’ll be living here at least five days a week.”

“Oh,” You nodded though you really hadn’t comprehended his words. You looked back down at your plate, and as you took another bite, his words started to set in. It was an inappropriate time to delve further but your mind started to race. He’d never mentioned that he wouldn’t even be living in Charlotte after the next few months. Shouldn’t he have mentioned this by now? “I-I thought …”

“We can talk about it later, Y/N,” Rafe dismissed you, bringing a piece of meat to his mouth, and looking away.

He spoke as if you were annoying him now. Eleanor opened her mouth again to change the subject but you interrupted her, “I-I’m sorry … w-will you still need me then? If I’m in Chhhh-Charlotte and you’re here.”

“Did you hear me the first time, Y/N?” Rafe’s jaw set as he dropped his silverware. The clang made you jump but your mind was spinning. It was a simple question, wasn’t it? Was he stringing you a long? Would you be out of a job next year?

“I-It p-p-p-pertains to me,” You continued, your heart racing as Rafe grimaced, “Can’t y-you just say if I’ll have a job or not?”

“You’ll have a job,” Getting confirmation made your shoulders drop from relief. It was almost worth whatever seed of rage you’d planted within him, “But you’ll relocate with me.”

“What?” You pushed your plate away, leaning back in your chair.

Topper and Eleanor exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the escalating tension. It felt like you’d already poked the bull, you felt like you had to see it through, “I’ll need you to move here. Won’t make sense to juggle from two places.”

“Mmm-my life is i-in Chhh-Charlotte. You n-never said this before,” You tried to keep your voice steady, to express your genuine disappointment despite your frustration.

“It’s not my fault you haven’t caught on, Y/N,” He spoke sharply, “You know how this works. I manage my properties and business. My plans change. You’re a part of that. You’re making it an issue when it’s not. You’re acting like you have a million options.”

“I-I know I don’t–”

You looked at Topper and then Eleanor. Now, the two of them were looking anywhere but the two of you.

“Then act like it.”

“Rafe–”

“I fucking own you, you don’t even understand that.”

“Rafe!”

“One more word, Y/N, and I swear to God.”

Your lips parted and your voice started to tremble as you felt the sting of his words, “This is so … shitty,” Perhaps it was the distance, the wood table that sat between you that made you feel so bold.

Rafe’s anger erupted, his face reddening as he slammed his hands on the table. “Boo-fucking-hoo, sweetheart! I’ve given you everything, the clothes on your back, keeping the lights on in your crappy apartment, and you’re still ungrateful?”

Your frustration reached its breaking point. “Fuck you, Rafe!” you shouted, your voice cracking with emotion. “I don’t want it anymore!”

You pushed your chair back abruptly, no goal in mind for where you’d stomp off to but you felt your blood boiling. Was his entire goal to completely ruin your life?

“Y/N!” He called after you and you turned your head to realize how close he was on your tail. Adrenaline surged through you, the thought that you might never have control of your life left you close to completely spiraling. Determined to get away, you picked up your pace, practically running through the million-dollar home, over shiny waxed floors, moonlight shining through tall windows.

He barked your name again and before you could reach the front door, his hand shot out and seized your upper arm. You screamed, his fingers squeezing your flesh so hard that you thought your skin might break. Swinging your body around, your feet lifted off the ground as he through you over his strong shoulder.

Kicking, struggling, screaming and crying, Rafe carried you up a grand staircase, “Please,” You were begging but adrenaline was pumping though him too, making him moved with his own determination. He kicked open door and your head whipped as he stepped inside, slamming it closed. You couldn’t focus on any detail in the room but as he through you onto an expansive bed, you assumed it was the master bedroom. For a moment, you played a game of cat and mouse. You gained your balance, and tried to crawl off the bed. Every direction you went, he moved faster, until you were sitting on your knees in the middle of the bed.

“You need to understand your place,” You watched as he started to loose the brown belt looped into his blue jeans.

You shook your head frantically, “I don’t w-want this.”

“It will be easier if you just apologize,” Rafe let out a breath of air, a weary sigh, his face frustrated, “I promise, I’ll make it easier for you.”

“If I-I …w-will you use the belt?”

“I have to use the belt, sweetheart, you’ve been so bad. Tell you what, if you apologize, I won’t tie you down to the bed. How’s that sound?”

The offer was as chilling as it was manipulative. You shook your head. You couldn’t bring yourself to apologize.

The process of what followed was both brutal and dehumanizing. You were left feeling exposed and vulnerable, your body laid bare and handcuffed to one of the posts of the canopy bed. The sting of the belt on your skin was relentless, each strike leaving a deep, aching mark that quickly turned to a disturbing shade of purple. Your apologies came out in frantic, broken pleas, but they seemed to come too late.

You even managed to ask him to hold you but he didn’t grant your wish that time. He left you to go back downstairs. You slid down to your knees when you couldn’t stand any longer, falling asleep in that position, head resting at a strange angle against the mattress.

When you next awoke, the light of morning was gently filtering through the curtains. Rafe’s arms were wrapped around you, his steady breathing and soft snoring a stark contrast to the harshness of the previous night. His nose pressed into your hair, a reminder of his physical presence.

You cried softly against him, the tears slipping down your cheeks as you clung to him. The sounds were muffled against his chest as you hugged him tighter.

hope you enjoyed!!

#rafe cameron #well kept #dark fic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x black!reader #rafe cameron smut #obx fic #rafe obx #topper thornton #dark!rafe cameron

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