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randombush3 · 6 months

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you're not sorry to go

ona batlle x reader

summary: ona and you are best friends, but it's a bit more complicated than that

words: 4.5k

notes: this one is based on true events x

also let's ignore the result of my poll because i want the next part to have smut and it wasn't fitting with the vibe of this part

oh and the title is a quote from 'this side of paradise' by f. scott fitzgerald

January, nine years ago.

Nothing about today has been out of the ordinary.

The weekend is starting, winter drags on, and Ona is all set to train later on in the evening, provided you confirm whether or not you are willing to accompany her to the local pitch.

Barcelona B usually allows for Fridays off, but Ona isn’t stupid. No one becomes the greatest footballer of all time by not playing more. School is beginning to bore Ona to death, and she knows that she wants what she always has: to go professional.

“I have a plan,” she tells you confidently, glad you don’t mind sitting on the uneven, grassy sideline as she sets up her cones with determination. You hold the ball between your hands, though Ona is amused by how foreign it looks to you, and you seem to be holding her prized possession hostage so that she spills. “It sounds simple and obvious out loud, but it’s that I am going to play for Barça while you go to the university. You can introduce me to your smart friends so I can meet my wife, and you’ll have all the boys after you anyway so–”

“Ona.” Her monologue has led her eyes to the ground, but your voice makes her head jerk upwards, not needing much authority to get her to look at you. “I’ve actually had a… realisation, of sorts,” you say with a bashful grin, chin jutting out the way it does when you are gearing up to tell her something that no one else will get to know. “Your cousin is really pretty.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” It’s a nice thing to say, and you are partly aware that Ona’s cousin knows who you are because she doesn’t shut up about you ever, but you can’t help the frustration that begins to bubble up inside of you.

“No, Ona,” you try again, “she’s really pretty. Like, I would kiss her.”

Ona frowns, then. “Don’t be one of those.” She means the girls who experiment, who toe the line of liking girls but don’t, not really. She has been warned about them by her older teammates, the ones who go out for drinks and kiss girls in clubs. The budding footballer really admires them, because their advice is always good and she gets to explore her sexuality without feeling like a creep. No one in Vilassar de Mar cares much that Ona does like girls, but it doesn’t stop her from feeling judged all the same.

You are one of her best friends, but Ona isn’t sure she can forgive you if you become someone like that.

“I’m not! I wouldn’t do that.” Your offence is suspicious, and you have been so caught up in destroying her worries that the ball has been dropped and is now rolling towards Ona’s feet, where it is instinctively flicked upwards and caught. “I wouldn’t, Oni, because I know it’s unfair to you guys.”

“But you want to kiss my cousin? That makes you interested in girls in general too, you know.”

You bite your lip.

“Ona, I think I’m gay.”

The ball is dropped, along with her jaw, and you shift uncomfortably in your seated position, not enjoying how big of a deal she is making this out to be.

People realise that they’re gay all the time! Why should it be any different for you?

“Oh,” is all Ona can manage to breathe out, wondering what to do next. Although your friendship cracks the padlocks of most secrets, there is one that hasn’t ever been shared. One that now means substantially more than it did five minutes ago.

“Say something, please,” you groan in mock annoyance, moving aside your textbooks so that you can grab Ona’s hand and pull her down on top of you. She is much stronger – she trains every day – but something about your skin touching hers injects a surge of patheticness into her well-earned muscles, and she falls, of course she does, because she always falls for you.

…

A year passes.

You kiss Ona’s cousin, as intended, and Ona knows the breakup is going to be rough but nothing prepares her for when it comes.

She’s conflicted, and she’s older now. No longer left behind by her teammates, Ona gets to go out with them when they don’t have football; she gets to talk to the girls about their sex lives, she gets to be involved in it all. She has met Alexia Putellas and been treated like an equal, and she made out with her fourth ever girl last week, this time progressing past tongues and confidently letting her hands roam.

Ona would say that she has learnt a lot since you dropped your nuclear missile, and she has managed to forget the initial hope she had felt. The secret had been near-faded.

Until you are calling her, sending her a text when she doesn’t reach her phone quick enough.

‘Ona, I really need you.’

She hears nothing from her cousin – they were closer when they were younger – and that, she reasons, is why she is by your side in an instant, meeting you at the windy beach you go to when you are sad, hair damp from running and eyes a little wide as she tries to wake herself up.

“She said she can’t do it anymore,” you whisper, voice cracking under the strain your sobs had put on it. “She said that she really likes me but that it’s not enough, and she doesn’t want to break my heart but she knows she has to.”

Ona doesn’t get a chance to respond, because you have flung yourself into her chest before she can think of the right words to say.

Your shoulders shake as you cry, devastating howling joining the whistles of the wind and the thrash of the waves. The sand is unsteady beneath your feet and you stumble, but Ona holds you firmly, as though she has only ever trained to hold you up. Though you feel her biceps, hard and significantly larger than the last time she had held you this way, you are too caught up in your first heartbreak to acknowledge the tiny, tiny spark between you.

As you cry and cry and cry, Ona can’t help but feel a little bitter towards her cousin. Clearly, your affection wasn’t false and, though it was working towards the severance of your friendship, you actually cared quite a lot for her.

Ona chooses to abstain from her jealousy because she is embarrassed that it is possible.

She is there for you the next day, ensuring you have eaten and allowing you to sleep, but the sun soon sets and Ona vows one thing to herself: she will not take advantage of it.

“I’m going home,” you mumble when you wake from your restless nap, rolling over into the empty space in your best friend’s bed. The sheets there are cold and unused. Ona must not have moved a muscle since you fell asleep. “My parents must be a little confused, and we have people coming over for dinner. Thank you for looking after me.”

“No problem.” Ona nods and you awkwardly stand up. “I think I’m going out with the team tonight, but don’t hesitate to call me if… Well, if you feel sad again.”

“It’s going to feel shit with or without you.”

You are trying to distance her, to tell her that she can have fun. It might be an issue that your friendship only seems to work when the two of you discuss your recent conquests or latest flings, but it is not one that either of you wants to address for now.

“I’m just making sure you know I’m here,” she defends indignantly, rolling her eyes at the glimpse of your happier self making its return.

“Are you going to be drunk?” Your question is pointed and you should really cross your arms and tap your foot impatiently to match your tone. “Don’t you have training tomorrow?”

“Maybe, and not tomorrow, no. I’ve been asked to join the first team the day after so they’ve given me an alternative rest day.”

“Ona, if you get drunk, you won’t be there for me at all. You’ll have your tongue down some poor, poor girl’s throat and your phone will be dead.” You laugh from experience, having grown accustomed to how she behaves under the influence. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I swear that alcohol is what fuels your hormones. I’m not going to burden you with my fucking pathetic crying, and, well, you know me, I’ll just find a boy to talk to. I am going to be fine.”

No one in the room is convinced.

You swat the air between you two, telling her to get on with getting ready. “Now, enjoy your night, and tell me all about it tomorrow morning!”

Ona wonders if you are over-compensating by insisting to hear about whoever she has gotten off with, but you are practically flying out the door the minute you have said goodbye to her family and she is stumbling around her room trying to find a clean bra. Life goes on.

If time did not tick on its own, one of you would task yourselves with turning the hands of the clock manually.

You try to recover from how much it fucking kills to have a girl break your heart by reminding yourself of your worth in the best way possible: male attention. They hound you, but you enjoy it. You crave it, most of the time, even if the feelings are never quite believably reciprocated.

It annoys Ona to no end, the way you play with the boys chasing after you. She hates the push and pull, fed-up with the constant complaining from your end. Often, because Ona speaks her mind when she can, she tells you that it’s not fair on the ones who hand their hearts to you only to watch you pierce through them with sharp, I-was-never-a-lesbian nails.

You don’t talk about her cousin. At least, not to Ona because you have been informed by some other friend that blood is thicker than water.

Or maybe it’s because Ona begins to avoid you, begins to spend more time with her teammates, who don’t hide their sexuality and who like the things she likes. (Once, in a hateful frenzy, Ona thinks to herself that the only thing the two of you have in common nowadays is that she likes you and you like you too.)

“What happened to your best friend?” Laia Aleixandri asks thoughtfully once after training. Ona is helping her collect the water bottles the other girls had left lying around on the pitch. There have been more injuries than what’s comfortable within the first team, and maybe some of the reserves have forgotten that they are not yet professionals. “You’ve stopped talking about her.”

“We’ve fallen out,” Ona answers, settling on that because she doesn’t know how else to describe the shift in your relationship.

“Over what?” comes Laia’s obvious sequential question, more a due dalliance than genuine interest. Laia is one of those girls who plays to play and can sometimes be too busy to spend time with the team outside of training. Because of this, she is largely unaware of Ona’s growing reputation within the squad. As Ona has grown up, her confidence has increased. Girls like that, and they are in plentiful supply to her. She no longer needs to be drunk, but something almost certainly occurs if she is.

“She dated my cousin and, I don’t know, the way she acted in the fall-out was horrible. She likes girls, I know she likes girls, but I think she has been scarred and her ego has been bruised. No boy has ever made her cry like that, and I think she’s traumatised. And it’s valid! I understand, completely and totally, but she is acting as though she never had a thing with my cousin and it’s annoying. It’s as if being gay is a joke to her.”

Laia senses that Ona’s not done, and she is correct to think so.

The next wave is this: “Laia, I really don’t agree with it, and it is hurting me. It hurts to see my cousin be messed around by a straight girl, it hurts to see my best friend hate part of herself, and it hurts me because, well, it just– it just does! I can’t explain it.” She can; she doesn’t want to. Her secret is still heavily guarded and it is going to take more than Laia asking about you to get her to confess. “I just want peace for everyone involved,” she says after taking a deep, diplomatic breath.

“Peace,” Laia repeats with a giggle. “Ona, the things I have heard about you are the opposite of ‘peace’. Aita’s been keeping me in the loop, and she says that–”

“Okay, Laia, I don’t need a lecture.”

What probably would have been very helpful for Ona to know is lost to the devastating final blow of her eye-roll as she jogs to the water cooler to return the bottles and head home.

…

The reconciliation of a decade-old friendship is fast and natural. Things do not quite go back to normal, and the two of you are not as close as before, but your group of friends at school breathe out a collective sigh of relief when the ice thaws and Ona starts to turn up to their gatherings instead of the ones held by her beloved blaugranas.

It’s a camping trip.

Their first year of bach has ended, and someone – Ona doesn’t know who – has suggested a camping trip because her grandfather’s brother owns a farm and the farm has a field and the field is far-removed enough for the smell of cigarettes and red-label whiskey to dissolve before reaching the house.

“Are we really going?” Ona asks, making you all laugh as you haul your bags and tents along the tractor path.

“I do think we should’ve gotten in the tractor,” you agree. Ona nods at you, thanking you for your support.

Everyone else says it’s good fitness, and then hurls insults at Ona for the remainder of the trek because she should be the last to complain if she is going to become a professional athlete.

It’s not as far as it seems, and the tents are set up quickly, along with some chairs, a foldable table, and a hefty stash of various bottles of alcohol.

You start smoking the minute someone flashes their lighter, and Ona uses that as a reason to stay on the other side of the small campsite for a good hour or so.

She stays away from you no matter how much you stare, but you watch her all the same.

The boys you talk to are not satisfying. Some may have innocent intentions but the majority don’t, and you know that you are pretty but you are not shallow like that. You don’t even meet the boys half the time unless they corner you at school and demand a slot of your in-person attention.

The boys you talk to explain football and the gym and why they have to play FIFA until the sun rises because it will definitely help Barcelona win on the weekend. They take you for an idiot, and they hardly acknowledge that your best friend (sort of) plays for their darling club so of course you know the rules and the positions. You know that Ona is a defender, and that she is good at it. You don’t want to be patronised and you don’t care about this kind of thing unless it involves Ona.

Therein lies the issue, actually.

You don’t care about much unless it involves Ona. Ona, who sways to the music bursting out from the speakers just as stiffly as she always has, not exactly blessed with dancing talent but not for lack of trying. Ona, who declines alcohol tonight because she is following a summer strength and conditioning programme with the hopes of playing in the first team’s preseason matches. Ona, who looks beautiful. Always.

Smoke billows from your cigarette, right towards the point of your focus, and, suddenly, doe-like eyes are staring back at you with a small, small smirk. She waves, as if to say that she has caught you, and you lean back on the camping chair you are slouched in, pretending to laugh at whatever your friend has just said beside you.

Later, when everyone else is knocked out from the bad quality of the whiskey, snoring comfortably in the other tents, Ona and you kiss. And once you start kissing, you don’t stop.

Ona is good at this, you assume, because she knows exactly what to do. Contrary to popular belief, you are far more active in theory than in practice, and she surprises you a little bit. Or maybe she doesn’t, because it’s Ona and Ona is good at everything.

You strive to match her, and you do by the time you finish school.

Sporadic, non-committal, and in complete disregard for your friendship, the arrangement of hooking up when you feel like it sees you out of Catalonia, with Ona naturally in tow.

Madrid CFF is happy to have her, and you quite enjoy the challenge of the Spanish capital. It’s not Barcelona, it’s not ideal, but change is good and you need space to explore who you are without watchful eyes and nosy gossipers.

Homophobia isn’t quite a thing in your family. Your parents are not radically against gay people. In fact, you’d say they are relatively supportive. However, that doesn’t stop you from feeling some discomfort. You lived through Ona’s struggle to come out, and her parents are ever more care-free than yours.

Madrid is a brand-new place, and word about how you are doing is easily controlled. Updates come from either you or Ona, and that means there is a filter easily applied to all anecdotes.

Your friends know about the sex, more or less. They know, they don’t approve, but they let you guys sort it out yourselves because everyone agrees that that is just how you and Ona are. They won’t understand it and they have given up on trying to.

Both of you make half-hearted efforts to separate the arrangement from your friendship. You don’t talk much afterwards until the other has left the realm of I-am-in-love-with-you. It’s nice to be in Madrid together, but you find different social circles soon enough and then you are reaching out more for sex than friendly activities and… You stop sleeping with each other upon the footballer’s request. She wants to focus on her career, on her success. She tells you over the phone because she cannot bring herself to end whatever occurred over the last two years in person, knowing that she’d take back her decision in a heartbeat. Ona really, really likes football, and she knows that she has to become obsessed with it to get to the top; more obsessed than she is now. How can she do that if you are distracting her?

You’re disappointed, but you respect her wishes.

Girls in Madrid stop seeming as shiny. The world is a bit duller, because although there had been no exclusivity between you and your best friend, there had always been that guarantee that the other would be ready and waiting. Your growing misery makes studying boring, and you find answers for your emotions in a science textbook, desperately running away from the obvious truth. Less sex means that you are unhappier. It’s biology.

It’s not a crush.

Not on Ona.

No.

And it’s certainly not this not-realisation that flies you to Milan the minute a modelling agency inquires about whether you have ever thought of, well, modelling. They scout you someplace random, and your mother claims that she could have helped you start your career earlier if only you’d have been interested.

When you explain to your best friend what you are moving for, she is oddly unsurprised and uncaring. Her reaction is sickening, because you’d have rathered her get an ego boost from having slept with a model than be so fucking apathetic.

“I’m going to Milan, Ona,” you repeat, just in case she has not heard you. “I’m moving. We did the trial shoots last week, and they loved me. They want me to update my social media and work on building up a following, and they said that I should start learning English because I might end up in New York.”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you.” She doesn’t sound like she means it, and you grow annoyed about how she is not even trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Can’t you be happy for me? Or is it only acceptable for you to have dreams?”

“I am happy for you, I just said that.”

“The words left your mouth, but they definitely did not come from your heart.”

“You’re being dramatic.” Ona rolls her eyes and the pent-up sexual tension builds and builds until the bottle it has been shoved into can no longer withstand the pressure. You haven’t argued since you moved to Madrid, which makes no sense considering you literally broke up – even if it absolutely wasn’t dating. Neither of you has processed your broken heart, and you’re pretty sure you are still too traumatised from the first girl you fell in love with to be capable of revisiting those kinds of emotions.

Ona hasn’t had sex in weeks, and it is affecting her performance. She can’t sleep if she has the energy she does, and she can’t get through her workouts because not sleeping makes her lose her appetite and then she does not have the energy to complete them. Her coaches are worried, but they know that she is young and though almost idiotic, they mostly assume that she is repulsed by the idea of playing for a club in Madrid. They get that a lot with the Catalans that come over from La Masia, whose dreams have been delayed because the first team had thought it necessary that they gained more experience elsewhere.

Ona has wanted to shout and scream every minute of every day, and so have you. Therefore, everything explodes.

…

You inhale deeply, exhaling when it feels as though some of the stress has dissipated. This casting is one of the more important ones of the week. It’s odd to be judged on your appearance, to be paid for it, but it has been almost a year since you moved to Milan and you are enjoying yourself.

You don’t miss university, and you don’t miss your parents. Your friends visit you lots, loving the idea of your career, loving the excuse to escape their dreary weekends in where they have always been.

Milan is great. You make friends with a few other models, though they come and go depending on work, and the more experience you get, the more your following count goes up. Brands send you things, nice things, and events start extending invites to lure you into the glamour of the industry.

Milan is great, you tell yourself on repeat.

Milan is great, but it would be better if Ona were here.

Milan is great, but you regret the way you left things and want to take it all back.

Milan is great but–

“Your fitting is tomorrow,” says the assistant, reading off her iPad. You suppress your wandering thoughts, nodding. You need this job, you need the money to pay for a flight. The agency has given you some advancements – an impressive thing, apparently – but not enough to cover the cost of the ticket to New York for the start of Fashion Week. This show will fluff out your experience, and increase your chances of walking at one of the bigger shows.

You’ve been told that you are quite a good model; attractive, funny, with just the right amount of personality to be both a mannequin and an interesting figure.

The lifestyle is different but good, and you realise that you’d never wanted the mundanity of studying and then working and selling your soul to some kind of tall office building. Not everyone gets the concept of living away from home, especially not those from your tight-knit community who think the city is stretching the distance slightly (the train works, you can live with your parents and have a good job – you’ve been told that a few times), but you don’t mind. You can explain it as much as you want and they would still be confused.

You stay in touch, but you don’t stay present.

As your career snowballs over the next two years, you pull away from your home, always on a flight, always busy. You go to LA and Paris and London, and you rent your flat in Milan out as an Airbnb whenever you’re not there. You love the city, you start to think of it as yours, and slowly but surely, everything else fades into the background.

Apart from Ona, of course. Your friends still visit, or you meet up with them if you ever find yourself in Barcelona, and they continue to affirm just how proud they are of you. They talk about her a lot, too; about where she’s playing now, about injuries and fame and representing Spain. They know you are too stubborn to search it up for yourself, but these are the people who have grown up with you: they know you would like to be informed.

When you hear that Ona has moved to Manchester, you don’t quite think your actions through.

You have had enough. You miss her terribly.

Her number has changed, but someone passes it onto you.

You: I saw that you’re playing Arsenal next week. I’ll be in London then. Do you want to get a coffee?

Ona takes her time replying, but that is only because she wants to delay the inevitable.

Her eyes shine and her hair is damp, but the kick-off had been early and you don’t have anything to do today. You meet her in the carpark, picking her up in a black BMW that’s sleek and shiny and 100% not yours. Her laugh is light and free as she knocks on the driver’s window and juts her thumb out, instructing you to swap.

“I’m not getting in a car that you’re driving,” she declares seriously, though you know she has forgiven you because she would not have agreed to meet if she hadn’t. “Come on, I checked on Maps and there’s a place not too far from here that looks nice. And it’s empty, so don’t worry about the paparazzi.”

“The paparazzi are not after me,” you shut down quickly, not wanting her to think you are a bigger deal than what you are. Successful, yes. Famous? Not so much. “One day it’ll be you worrying about them, when you’re all grown up.”

“I’m twenty-one!”

It comes out so whiny and childish that you burst into a fit of giggles. Ona is proud to have made you laugh.

You don’t kiss her, but you’d like to. Then again, maybe it’s better to just be friends.

#woso x reader #woso #woso imagines #ona batlle x reader #ona batlle #barca femeni #randombush3 #pretend it's not all build up #but it is

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whereforarthur · 1 month

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You’re The Only Man I Want to Kiss

Request: hello!! i saw you were taking requests and im just wondering if you’re able to write an Italian Bach fic, were him and the reader are together and they make a youtube videos on his channel and they’re like reacting to some video? like could you place the character into one of his videos???

Pairing: ItalianBach x gf!reader

Rating: PG-13

Category: Fluff with some light smut

Word Count: 2.2k

*****

Hard to sit here and be close to you, and not kiss you.

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

One evening, after a particularly successful day of filming, y/n and Isaac decide to react to "Women Rank Men by Kissing." The video was a montage of women giving their honest opinions on men's kissing abilities, which ranged from toe-curling passion to awkward pecks. Isaac looked at Y/N with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, suggesting they should make their own reaction to the video, having already made several similar videos, he finally wanted to feel a reaction with his girlfriend.

Y/N was a bit hesitant at first, but the more they discussed it, the more she warmed up to the idea. They set up the camera and hit record, their laughter echoing through the room as they watched the first few clips. As they reacted to each kiss, they couldn't help but lean into each other, their own connection growing stronger with every shared giggle and eye roll. The tension in the air grew thicker as they reached the part of the video where the women began to praise the men's skills, and Y/N couldn't help but blush at the thought of what they might say about Isaac's own kisses.

One particularly awkward kiss had them both cringing, their hands shooting up to cover their faces. "Oh my gosh, what even was that?" Y/N exclaimed, peeking through her fingers. Isaac chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I promise you, I've never kissed anyone like that," he reassured her, gently placing a hand on her arm. The next kiss was even worse, a sloppy mess that had them both writhing in their seats. "Ew, no, no, no," they both said in unison, shaking their heads vigorously. Their bond grew stronger as they shared in the embarrassment and second-hand awkwardness of the strangers on the screen.

The room filled with their laughter as they watched the reactions of the women, who were equally appalled by some of the kisses. It was like they were in a club of shared experience, nodding along with the strangers' pained expressions. "How do people even do that?" Y/N whispered to him, her eyes wide with disbelief. Isaac just shrugged, smiling warmly. "Some people are just… special," he replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. They continued to watch, their shoulders touching, their knees bumping together under the table.

As the montage went on, the kisses began to improve, and their reactions grew more playful. Y/N leaned in closer to the screen, scrutinizing each one, while Isaac playfully poked fun at the overly dramatic ones. "Look at that guy," he said, pointing at a man who was practically devouring his partner's face. "I bet he thinks he's in a romance novel." Y/N giggled, slapping his hand away. "At least he's enthusiastic," she quipped back. The tension between them had shifted from awkwardness to something more electric, their teasing banter charged with a hint of flirtation.

Isaac took advantage of the moment, leaning in closer to whisper in her ear, "I bet you're wondering if I'd rank high in this video, aren't you?" His teasing tone sent a shiver down her spine, and she playfully swatted his arm, trying to hide her smile. He knew just how to get under her skin, and it was part of the reason she loved him so much. She shot him a playful glare, her heart racing with anticipation and a hint of nervousness.

They watched as the women on screen gushed over one particularly steamy kiss, and Isaac couldn't resist the urge to lean in and press a gentle kiss to her cheek. "How was that?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. Y/N rolled her eyes, feigning indifference, but her cheeks betrayed her. She felt the heat spread across her face as she replied, "It'll do, I guess."

Their banter continued, each trying to one-up the other with their sarcastic comments and exaggerated facial expressions. The room was filled with the comforting sounds of their laughter and the occasional clinking of their glasses as they took sips of their drinks, the perfect pairing for a light-hearted evening in. As they delved deeper into the video, the kisses grew more intense, and so did their teasing.

The video took a turn when a particularly passionate kiss came on screen. The woman's eyes fluttered shut, and the man's hand was tenderly cradling her cheek. It was clear from their expressions that this was not just a peck for the camera, but something real and intimate. Y/N's cheeks grew rosy as she watched, and she felt Isaac's gaze on her. She looked over to find him staring at her, his eyes dark and intense. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned in and kissed her, mimicking the tender moment they had just seen. The kiss was soft and lingering, a stark contrast to the ones they had been mocking.

"Look at that," Isaac said, pointing at the screen with mock seriousness. "That guy's got nothing on me." Y/N couldn't help but laugh, knowing that he was just trying to get a rise out of her. She took a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving his as she responded, "Mm, maybe you're right. But you'll have to remind me later." Her voice was light and playful, but the underlying flirtation was clear.

Isaac leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers as he took a deep breath. "Alright, I'll take that as a challenge," he said, setting his glass down with a thud. "We'll have to do some… research after this, make sure I'm up to par."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, playing along with his game. "Oh, really?" she quipped. "Well, I suppose someone has to keep you in check."

Isaac chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Someone has to, otherwise, I might just become unbearable." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin as he whispered, "But you love me that way, don't you?"

Y/N couldn't help but laugh, feeling the heat of his proximity. "Unbearable is your middle name," she replied, her voice barely above a murmur. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the laughter in the room faded away, replaced by a silent understanding that spoke louder than any words could.

They both knew where this was heading, and the excitement grew. They turned their attention back to the video, but it was clear that their hearts weren't fully in it anymore. With a dramatic sigh, Isaac leaned into the camera and addressed his viewers, "Alright, bachlings, we're taking a quick break from our scholarly analysis of the art of kissing. We've got some… personal research to conduct." He winked, and Y/N's cheeks burned even hotter.

The screen went black for a moment before flickering back to life. Isaac cleared his throat, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "We're back," he announced, his voice a little deeper than before. Y/N sat next to him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Before we dive back in, I just wanted to apologize to all the single folks out there," he began, "For flaunting our love so shamelessly."

Y/N playfully elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't you dare," she whispered, her voice low enough that the camera wouldn't pick it up.

Isaac's smile grew wider, and he took her hand in his. "But, my love," he said, his voice dripping with faux innocence, "We can't keep our adoring fans in the dark. They need to know what true bachelor perfection looks like."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks deepened. "Fine," she conceded, her voice a mix of amusement and affection. "But only because you're irresistible."

Isaac leaned in closer, his gaze locking onto hers, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. "I'm sorry, bachlings," he said, his voice smoother than the wine they'd been sipping. "But true love knows no bounds, and we just couldn't resist the urge to… compare notes."

Y/N couldn't hold back her giggles any longer, the tension between them breaking like a dam. "You're terrible," she said, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Isaac leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But you love me anyway." He paused, his eyes searching hers. "Don't you?"

Y/N couldn't help but smile at his antics. "Always," she murmured, her heart fluttering in her chest. They shared a soft, lingering kiss, the kind that made the rest of the world fade away. The camera captured it all, the intimacy of the moment unfiltered and raw.

When they finally pulled away, their eyes remained locked, the love between them palpable. "Well, I think we've found our new favorite video genre," Isaac said, his voice thick with emotion. Y/N nodded, her cheeks still flushed from their shared moment.

They decided to keep the camera rolling, their authenticity being a key component of their channel's charm. They turned their focus back to the screen, watching as the women continued to rank the kisses. Each time a particularly passionate kiss played, they'd exchange glances, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air. They laughed and joked, but there was an underlying current of something more profound, something that only they understood.

As the video progressed, the kisses grew more sensual, and their playful banter evolved into gentle touches and lingering gazes. Y/N leaned into Isaac's side, her head resting on his shoulder as they watched, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. It was a dance they had perfected over time, a silent conversation that needed no words.

The final kiss played on the screen, and the women on the video erupted into a chorus of approval. Y/N looked up at Isaac, her eyes filled with a mischievous glint. "Alright," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "Your turn to be judged."

Isaac grinned, leaning in for a kiss that was anything but a mere peck. It was a kiss that spoke of love and desire, a kiss that held all the promise of a thousand more. The camera kept rolling, capturing the intimate moment, but they were too lost in each other to care.

When they finally broke away, they were both breathless, their eyes shining with excitement. "Well," Y/N said, her voice a little shaky, "I think we've set the bar pretty high."

Isaac nodded, his hand still resting on her cheek. "We've got to end this before it gets too steamy for our innocent audience." He leaned back in his chair, and with a dramatic flourish, wiped his brow. "Phew, that was intense."

Y/N giggled, her eyes sparkling. "You know they're going to love this," she said, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Isaac nodded, his own smile mirroring hers. "Let's wrap this up before we get carried away," he suggested, his voice a low murmur. He reached for the camera, his thumb hovering over the stop button. "Thank you all for tuning in," he began, his tone playfully formal, "We hope you enjoyed our… thorough analysis of the art of kissing. Remember, folks, practice makes perfect."

Y/N giggled, her cheeks still flushed from their private interlude. "We'll see you all next time," she chimed in, her voice light and airy. "And don't forget to hit that subscribe button if you want more exclusive content like this."

Isaac gave the camera one last charming smile before hitting the stop button. The red light faded to black, and the room was filled with the sudden silence of their reality, no longer amplified by the digital world. He turned to Y/N, his eyes searching hers. "How was that?" he asked, his voice now devoid of the playful bravado he'd had moments ago.

Y/N's smile was soft, her eyes filled with warmth. "Perfect," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She leaned in, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek, and they shared another kiss, this one slower, more tender than the last. It was a promise, a secret shared only between them.

When they pulled away, the energy in the room had shifted. The playful banter was gone, replaced by a simmering tension that was undeniable. "I think we should save the rest of our… research for later," she suggested, her voice a sultry purr.

Isaac nodded, his eyes dark with desire. "Mm, I like the way you think," he murmured, tracing his thumb along her jawline. They both knew that the chemistry they shared on camera was only a fraction of what they had in private. The thought of exploring that connection further sent a thrill down his spine.

They turned off the lights, leaving only the soft glow of the computer screen to illuminate the room. The air was thick with desire, and their eyes were locked on each other as they moved closer, the anticipation building with every shared breath. The playfulness of their earlier banter had evolved into something much more intimate, a dance of passion that only the two of them knew the steps to.

#italianbach x reader #italianbach #Isaac smith #british youtubers #fluff #italian bach x reader #smut

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starrierknight · 1 year

Text

𝟎𝟏𝟎. 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 ❛𝐧❜ 𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐲

“Here's to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

MASTERLIST | KINKTOBER 23' | AO3

wc— 8.8k

pairing— dom!gn!reader x lightweight!sub!gojo

cws/tags— dubcon, sex under the influence, drinking, humiliation, mild dumbification, friends to lovers (with a healthy dose of mutual pining), in vino veritas, frottage/dry humping, cum & spit as lube, handjob, reader has boobs/AFAB reader, tit-fucking, overstimulation, edging, multiple orgasms, cum eating, dacryphilia, mix of praise & degradation, petnames: “slut” + “needy” + “cutie”, major spoilers for the horror film ‘Saw’ (2004), netflix n chill type beat

As the warm, sunset hues gradually dimmed and dusk settled in, you found yourself lounging on the plush couch, accompanied by your cat. With the Netflix menu at your fingertips, you eagerly searched for the perfect film with the perfect plot twist to heighten the evening's atmosphere.

It’s October, after all. The perfect time to embrace the unexpected.

From the distant corner of the room, the familiar click of the front door echoed, signalling Satoru's arrival for your movie night. Satoru stepped in, shedding his jacket and slipping off his shoes, the weariness of his day evident in his movements. He lifted his blindfold off and tossed it over his shoulder. After placing his travel bag and jacket down, he made his way to the couch, collapsing beside you without a word, his attention fixated on the television.

The sudden movement caused your cat to startle and gracefully leap off the couch, retreating to a safer distance. A soft chuckle escaped you, breaking the tranquil ambiance, and you turned your focus to Satoru.

"Long day?"

He hummed in affirmation, the day's fatigue evident in the lines of his face, though his gaze remained fixed on the Netflix options. A beat passed before he let out a sigh, a note of weariness accompanying his words.

"A very long day," he confessed, his exhaustion palpable. He made a vague gesture towards the television, groaning playfully. "Do we have to watch another horror movie?"

You couldn't help but smile at his weary demeanour. "It's October. It's, like, a crime to not watch horror during October." You sighed and stretched out on the couch, a touch of playful reproach in your tone. "Don't tell me you're getting bored of them," you teased, giving him a gentle nudge.

He made an exasperated noise, although it carried a half-hearted quality.

"Okay, fine. But if I have nightmares tonight, I'm blaming you. I don't sleep well enough as it is," he joked, crossing his arms and allowing himself to relax on the couch.

The weariness of the day seemed to lift a little as the familiar comfort of your home surrounded him. He closed his eyes, finding solace in the quiet and the purring warmth of the cat that had rejoined him on the couch. The cat settled on his lap, seeking both company and warmth against the encroaching evening chill.

Amused, you couldn't help but snicker. "A sorcerer afraid of horror movies? Now that's a plot twist. Aren't you used to much scarier things in your line of work?"

"And I would have thought someone with free time would pick up a hobby or two," he retorted with a playful grin, absently stroking the cat's head as she purred contentedly. "Besides, most movies are a pale comparison to what I have to face day to day."

You snorted. "Was that a jab? It better not have been a jab." Your grin widened as you continued flicking through the various options Netflix had to offer. "Trust you to get bored of horror films."

"Can you blame me? I deal with curses and evil spirits all day long. I'm allowed to want to watch something light and fluffy from time to time, like a real man," he retorted, a hint of mock defensiveness in his voice.

His gaze remained shut, as if he were still savouring a mental escape into a different world. "Don't laugh, I'm serious," he added, pretending to be stern.

You chuckled and quickly stifled it with your hand, grinning. "Oh, I'm not laughing. Promise."

His head tilted, and he finally opened his eyes, turning in your direction to gauge your playful expression. "You know I can hear you, right?"

You continued to laugh, attempting to stifle it unsuccessfully. "I’m your friend! I'd never laugh at you."

A very mild, almost imperceptible scowl settled on Satoru's otherwise handsome features. He continued to stroke the cat on his lap, muttering under his breath, "Oh, sure, you wouldn't. I believe you. Absolutely."

You couldn't help but smile at his mock irritation and stood up, tossing Satoru the remote. "Pick a horror film we've not seen before. I'll be back in a second, I need to get some... supplies to make this more entertaining for you."

Satoru looked up with a bemused expression as your words sank in, his eyes tracking your movements as you made your way out of the living room, still cradling the cat on his lap.

"Supplies?" he asked blankly.

"Just pick out something!" you called over your shoulder, a mischievous hint in your voice, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Satoru did as you asked, perusing Netflix's selection of movies before eventually settling on a particular one. When you returned from the kitchen, he looked up from the screen, holding the remote out. However, instead of handing it over, he pulled it away before you could even attempt to retrieve it from him.

"I'll give it to you if you tell me what these supplies are," he challenged, an amused glint in his eyes.

You smirked, taking your hands out from behind your back to reveal a large bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. "The best kind of supplies, of course."

Satoru raised his eyebrows, visibly intrigued. With his head tilted forward once more, he gazed at you with a wide grin. "No way in hell am I touching that crap."

Your smile only grew wider as you plopped down beside him on the couch, placing the vodka bottle and shot glasses on the coffee table. You reached over and snatched the remote from him, determined to make the night more exciting.

"We are playing a drinking game, since horror apparently bores you so much. So, yes, actually—you are touching 'that crap'," you declared.

A touch of liquid courage couldn’t hurt, right?

Satoru let out a dry chuckle and pushed a stray lock of hair out of his face before speaking, his voice tinged with a hint of self-assuredness.

"There's not a single horror movie in existence that could hold a candle to the kind of nightmares I experience on a regular basis. But playing a drinking game is fine too, I suppose."

The cat on his lap meowed and nuzzled his leg, leaving a trail of white, fluffy cat hairs on his sweatpants. You reached over to scratch the cat under her chin, and she responded by nuzzling your hand and purring contentedly.

"Aw, you scared? You a scaredy cat?" you teased affectionately.

Her purring grew louder at your attention, and she rolled over on her stomach, presenting her fluffy belly to you, begging for more scratches. Satoru watched the interaction with a slight smirk, his reservations waning. He was always weak when it came to you, after all.

"So what are the rules of this drinking game?" he asked, shifting his attention from the cat to the impending movie night.

You hummed thoughtfully and glanced at the TV, noting that he had chosen 'Saw' (2004) for your viewing pleasure.

"Oh, excellent choice. I haven't seen this one. Let's see... There's a creepy doll, right?" You paused to think. "We drink when someone dies, when we see the doll, when there's a flashback, and... when someone begs for their life. How's that sound?"

Satoru hummed in agreement and nodded as he regarded your game proposal. "Fine by me."

He reached for the vodka bottle and poured you both a shot glass, raising his glass in a teasing toast. "To your health."

With a grin, he knocked back his shot, though his facial expression morhphed to betray his distaste for the vodka. You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, well aware of his aversion to alcohol. As 'Saw' began playing, you followed suit, knocking back your own shot and settling in next to Satoru, continuing to pet the contented cat on his lap.

The cat purred in response to your attention, adding a soothing background to the tension-filled movie. As the film progressed, you both quickly downed shots within the first half-hour, and while you were still relatively sober, a gentle fuzziness began to envelop the edges of your thoughts.

"Your rules are killing me," Satoru whined. "Ugh, I'll be shitfaced by the time the film ends."

In an attempt to keep up, he downed another shot, grimacing at the familiar burn in his throat. Despite his initial reservations, Satoru found himself enjoying the game more than he had anticipated.

You couldn't help but grin smugly, your fingers affectionately ruffling his fluffy, white hair. "Aw, you're such a lightweight. Don't pass out. That's no fun."

Satoru chuckled, leaning into your touch, savouring the sensation. He downed yet another shot—to drown out his nerves, though he wouldn’t admit it—and his laughter quickly devolved into a fit of amused coughs.

"Hey, you're the one trying to get me drunk off my ass," he accused with a lazy smirk.

You leaned closer, your tone conspiratorial. "I'm not trying—I'm succeeding, thanks."

As the movie continued to unfold, you both found yourselves inching closer to each other on the couch, stealing glances when you thought the other wasn't looking. The cat, purring contently, basked in the attention as you pet her, and occasionally, your fingers would gently brush against Satoru's, almost by accident.

Almost.

Satoru leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours as he downed another shot of vodka, the effects of the alcohol becoming more noticeable for him. You both sank deeper into the couch, the cat purring even louder as she wiggled her way into your arms, cradled by you. The euphoria of the moment began to envelop you—how could it not, with Satoru by your side?

Satoru, on the other hand, seemed to be feeling the effects of the vodka more profoundly. He made a show of yawning casually and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, his actions less coordinated than usual as he accidentally knocked the throw blanket of the back of the sofa.

"Smooth," you mumbled, a soft laugh escaping you.

Satoru hummed in agreement, the alcohol altering his inhibitions. His arm shifted, fingers now gently tracing patterns on your collarbone, sending delightful shivers down your spine. You could feel your body reacting to his touch, a combination of warmth, shivers, and a tingle of pleasure that made your senses dance.

He leaned in even closer, the proximity causing a playful struggle for space on your lap with the cat, who mewled in complaint. His breath brushed against your ear, and he whispered, "You say somethin’?"

Your lazy grin persisted as you whispered into his ear, "You can hold my hand if you're scared, y'know... No need to be strong for my sake."

The sound of your whisper ignited a fiery rush of heat through Satoru's body. The intimacy of the moment hung heavy in the air, and he didn't say a word or make a move, allowing the sensation of being so close to you to wash over him. If you were listening closely, you might have been able to hear the rapid rhythm of his heart hammering away behind his ribs.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice husky and low, his lips dangerously close. "I'm not scared," he purred, "I just wanna hold your hand."

Your teasing continued as you cooed to the cat, playfully chanting, "Scaredy cat, scaredy cat, scaredy cat," while showering her with drunken kisses to her fluffy head.

"Shut up," Satoru retorted, a hint of a grin on his face as he lightly tickled your neck with the tip of his finger.

The cat meowed contentedly in your arms as you continued to lavish her with attention. Satoru, not one to be left out, reached out to stroke her fur with his other hand. He pressed himself even closer to you, his cheek resting against your chest, and let out a contented sigh. The world around you seemed to blur as you sank deeper into the intimate cocoon you had created together on the couch.

You rested your cheek against Satoru's soft, white hair, the movie playing in the background mostly forgotten as you both enjoyed this newfound closeness. The effects of alcohol were evident in his lowered inhibitions, causing him to startle at violent scenes in the film, jolting against you. He did, in fact, grab your hand at one point.

"Aw, 'toru... You're so scared," you teased, a grin tugging at your lips.

Satoru pressed even closer to you, his body intimately connected to yours. His soft hair tickled your skin, and his fingers gently traced patterns against your flesh, creating a dance of touch and warmth.

He hummed in amusement and leaned his head back, his gaze fixed on the screen though distant and glazed. It was clear he relished being close to you, his words carrying a slur that reflected the relaxed state he was in. "’S true. I'm a scaredy cat…"

"Say it again... I dare ya," you encouraged, poking his cheek.

The alcohol was affecting his thought processes, his words coming out sweet and slurred. "I'm... ‘M a scaredy cat," he whispered, his voice barely audible, his gaze half-lidded and dreamy.

He reached up and gently placed a hand on your cheek, his fingers tenderly trailing over your skin. "You... You're so pretty," he murmured, the words filled with sincerity and a touch of awe.

The alcohol had loosened his tongue, allowing him to share a sentiment that perhaps he wouldn't have expressed otherwise. He had plenty of experience thinking of you as pretty, as gorgeous, as stunning—but saying it out loud? Now, that was uncharted territory. Acting on it? Only in his dreams, or those late nights he spent thinking about you when he couldn’t sleep.

"You're so drunk," you whispered, a smile playing on your lips as you looked down at him, his head resting against your chest.

Satoru emitted a grumbling noise in response, clearly feeling the effects of the alcohol, but then leaned in closer to your ear, his words laden with desire. "And you're so soft ‘n’ warm ‘n’ pretty. Wanna do more than just hold your hand..."

His words trailed off, a frown forming on his face as he struggled to find the right words. The alcohol had muddled his brain, his mind racing with lust-fueled fantasies that he found difficult to separate from his tamer conversation he typically had with you.

You were about to respond when a gunshot sounded from the TV, causing the cat on your lap to startle and scamper away in fear. The abrupt interruption made you burst into laughter, and you reached over to the coffee table, attempting to pour yourself another shot, albeit missing the glass.

"Oops," you giggled as you tried to regain your composure.

You lifted the shot glass to your lips and knocked it back, the burn of the vodka a welcome distraction from the rising tension in the room. You made a playful show of sipping it, and he noticed the few drops of vodka dribbling down your chin.

"Oh, I'll take care of that," he offered, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Leaning forward, he lapped up the remaining vodka off your mouth. His lips were soft against your skin, but the sensation sent shivers down your back, the feelings of lust growing stronger with each passing minute.

You blinked in surprise, caught off guard by his unexpected action, and gently batted him away. "Mm... 'toru, you're drunk,'' you mumbled in a half-hearted protest.

"So are you," he purred, brushing his fingertips down the column of your neck. "'M getting so, so tired of just holding your hand..."

His words were slow and deliberate, the effects of the alcohol manifesting in both his speech and movements. He reached forward and traced his fingers along your jawline, subtly urging you to lift your chin, as if he wanted to kiss you. His words were slurring together and he was practically glued to you now, doing poorly at hiding the raw desire in his gaze.

You let out an exasperated groan. "But the game... I wanna finish the drinking game," you whined, attempting to steer the focus back to the film.

"I wanna finish, too... But not in the way you're thinking of," Satoru replied, his words carrying a seductive tone, his gaze fixated on your lips. The alcohol had clouded his judgement, blurring the lines between desire and restraint.

He leaned in even closer, not fully registering your discomfort with the proximity. His primal instincts were taking over, fueled by the alcohol. He wanted to bite, to taste, to make you his.

You groaned again and prodded his chest, attempting to gently redirect his attention. "I wanna know who Jigsaw is, though," you grumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the television as the film continued to play.

Satoru's actions were fueled by desire and amplified by the effects of alcohol. He snickered and wrapped both of his arms around your body, his movements slow and deliberate. His touch was both tender and electric, each caress sending waves of heat through your body.

"He’s John Kramer," he whispered against your neck, his voice laced with desire that sent shivers down your spine. "Jigsaw’s name he took up after he was… Ah, what’s the word? Um… Oh, diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer."

A satisfied hum escaped Satoru, and his hands began tracing a pattern on your body, teasingly close to the hem of your t-shirt. The sensation left you feeling hot and yearning for more.

You turned your head toward him, a drunkenly exasperated look on your face. "How the hell d'you know that?" you muttered. "You've not seen this before..."

"I’m a genius," he quipped, his confidence bolstered by the alcohol.

He placed another kiss on your neck, this time closer to your jaw, and you could feel his lips tugging and nibbling at your skin, igniting a rush of pleasure. His half-lidded gaze was fixated on your mouth, a silent plea to indulge in the desire that had been building between you.

You couldn't help but sigh, your exasperation giving way to a soft laugh. "Prick... You worked it out," you admitted. “You always spoil the twists.”

Satoru chuckled quietly under his breath, his hand still resting on your cheek, his fingers continuing their sensual trail along your jawline. It was as though he couldn't make a simple movement without infusing it with an enticing quality.

His gaze remained fixated on your lips, their perfection and inviting allure captivating his attention. The alcohol-induced haze seemed to have amplified his desires, leaving him irresistibly drawn to the intimacy that lingered between you.

Satoru leaned in, his warm breath tickling your ear, and he posed a question that sent a shiver down your spine. "You wanna finish this game?"

"What, are you John Kramer now?"

But Satoru appeared to be paying little attention to your words, his chest rising and falling against yours as his breath grew heavier. He moved in closer, brushing his lips tantalisingly against your own, teasingly slow and maddeningly tempting, but not a real kiss.

Once more, he whispered against your ear, his voice filled with longing. "You're so beautiful," he groaned, his words sending a jolt of desire coursing through your body.

"You spoiled the film for me, 'toru," you grumbled, a playful frown on your face. "Make it up to me."

Satoru's breath still lingered against your ear as he responded with a husky murmur, "I can think of a few ways." His tongue began to tease your jawline, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Fuckin’ tease. So soft ‘n’ perfect, and I want you..." he muttered, his words a seductive melody that continued to set your senses ablaze.

Frustrated by the teasing and unable to resist any longer, you rolled your eyes and lunged towards Satoru, overshooting slightly and accidentally bumping his nose. In the first few seconds, he seemed stunned, caught off guard by the sudden embrace. But as realisation dawned, he responded fiercely and passionately, wrapping his arms around you and pressing himself into you, the connection intensifying with each passing moment.

Your hand fumbled in an attempt to caress Satoru's face but ended up getting tangled in his hair. Satoru, equally tipsy, giggled and attempted to steady you by grabbing your shoulder but nearly lost balance himself, tipping into the sofa cushions.

Your mouths meshed together, a flurry of enthusiastic, sloppy kisses—wrestling match of lips and tongues, each trying to find a rhythm but failing gloriously. You broke apart momentarily, wiping your mouths and laughing at yourselves and the mess you had made.

He struggled to catch his breath, panting heavily. "Wow..." he murmured, his voice husky and strained. "Where’d that come from?"

You laced your fingers into his hair, tugging slightly, and kissed up the column of his neck, whispering into his ear, "You spoiled all the fun. Make it up to me."

Satoru's body responded almost immediately to your touch, a guttural sound escaping him as desire surged through him. He was at the mercy of your presence, and the intensity of his longing for you only grew by the second.

"Mm..." he managed, his voice thick with desire. "You're so demanding. I like that." His grip on your chin was firm but gentle as he pulled you closer, your faces inches apart. "Kiss me again," he requested, his desire palpable in his voice.

Satoru shuddered and let out a low, primal sound as you kissed him, the electricity between you electrifying the very air. He attempted to say something, but you drowned his words with your passionate kisses, losing yourselves in the intoxicating connection. Your tongues danced and intertwined, the taste of vodka on his lips adding to the fervour of the moment. He trembled, unable to contain his reaction to your touch, surrendering to the sensations that coursed through him.

The feel of your fingers running through his hair and the sensation of your tongue against his neck drove him wild. He wrapped one arm securely around your body, pulling you closer, fitting together like two puzzle pieces that belonged perfectly—exclusively—to each other. The world around you faded into the background, leaving only the two of you, consumed by the intensity of your desire and the magnetic pull you shared.

You shifted on the couch, straddling Satoru, the chemistry between you undeniable as you continued your passionate kiss. Satoru gasped and let out a low moan, his eyes closing as he surrendered to the desire that surged within him. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers flexing and exploring the curves of your body, desperate and hungry.

Your mouths danced in a wild frenzy, tongues intertwining. Every touch, every movement, sent electricity through both of you. Satoru struggled to contain himself, your presence rendering him powerless in the most enticing way. His hands roamed up your thighs, teasing and tempting, the sensation leaving you both breathless.

Slowly, you ground against each other, the pleasure intensifying with each movement. Satoru groaned softly, his head rolling to the side as he fought to maintain a semblance of control. But the intimate contact and suggestive position made it nearly impossible for him to hold back completely.

Whispering again, his voice husky and strained with lust, he let out a breathless, "Oh, my God..."

Satoru's deep groans filled the room, his pretty blue eyes now nearly rolled back into his head, completely consumed by the intense desire coursing through him. His grip on you tightened, almost painfully so, as he clung to you desperately, unable to get enough.

You continued to grind against him, kissing, biting, and sucking his neck in a frenzied display of passion. Satoru's control was slipping away rapidly. His fingers flexed around your hips, exerting a pressure that bordered on pain, but he was powerless to stop himself. Lust had transformed him into an unbridled animal.

"No... No, no, no..." he groaned under his breath, his voice strained and filled with desperation. "This is... Too much... I can't take much more of this..."

His movements against you grew more urgent, the veneer of control slipping away as he allowed his desires to guide him. Satoru's movements grew more uncoordinated, and he seemed to have lost all concern for your comfort. His focus was solely on his own pleasure, his desire pushing him to the brink of abandon.

He pressed himself against you, moaning deeply as he buried his face in your neck, his grip on your hips unrelenting. His tongue and lips moved sloppily across your skin, and he seemed to have surrendered to the overwhelming sensations that were coursing through his body. His movements were fueled by a deep lust that made it seem like no one but you could satisfy him.

He pressed his body against yours with an urgent pace, each movement dictated by an insatiable craving. You could feel the pressure of his teeth against your skin as he sucked hard, his whispered words barely audible in the midst of his lust-fueled frenzy.

"S-stop…! I-I... Need to... Need to..." he stammered, his struggle for coherence evident as he fought against the consuming desire.

But you felt his rhythmic movements, a desperate rocking that reflected the depth of his longing, and you knew better. He was painfully hard, and he needed you too badly to stop now. He could feel the pre-cum dripping down the length of his aching cock, confined by his boxers and layers of clothing. The warm, wet stickiness coated the cotton of his underwear, but he wished more than anything that it was your skin.

His legs twitched, and his grip on your hips remained tight, a lifeline as if he feared you might slip away. His forehead glistened with sweat, his heavy breaths filling the air, passion that holding him captive. He had become a vessel, lost in the overwhelming storm of desire, struggling to regain control even as he knew he was slipping further away.

The desperation in Satoru's voice was palpable, a clear indication of the battle raging within him. You were on the edge of concern for his well-being, but the potent mix of desire and alcohol clouded your judgement. He was slipping further into the abyss of lust, his once coherent thoughts succumbing to the overpowering need.

His hips moved up and down against you, his body aching for release, his muscles flexing and tensing in his struggle to maintain a semblance of control. "Stop... Just... Can't..." he groaned in frustration. "Oh, please, God I need to..."

"C'mon, 'toru. Take what m'giving you and make it up to me," you whispered into his ear.

Satoru's face flushed, and he choked on his breath, trying to comprehend your words amidst the chaos of his senses. After a moment, the meaning of your demand seemed to register, and his voice faltered as he attempted to respond. But words failed him, and all that escaped were incomprehensible babblings of pleasure and need.

"P-please... I... Can't... It's too g-good. Oh, fuck..." he struggled to articulate, the intensity of the moment rendering him nearly incoherent.

A loud, primal moan escaped Satoru as he reached his orgasm, the intensity of the pleasure overwhelming him as he gasped and shuddered. You pulled back, drunkenly giggling as you teased him. Your fingers ran through his sweaty hair, pushing the damp strands away from his eyes.

"Aw... You came already?" you taunted.

Satoru's body trembled with the aftermath of pleasure. Your touch was almost too much for him to bear as he rested his head on your chest, his eyes wide open, his mind temporarily blank as he grappled with the enormity of what had just transpired. He was so lost in his own satisfaction that he failed to fully grasp your teasing.

"Mm... Yeah," he mumbled, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "Sorry... I... Lost control."

Still shaking, Satoru looked at you, his flushed face and trembling body bearing witness to the intense release he had experienced. He attempted to speak again, but only a low groan escaped his lips.

"So needy," you remarked.

Satoru appeared completely exhausted, as if he had just completed a gruelling marathon rather than experiencing the intense pleasure that had overcome him during your passionate encounter. The intensity of the moment had left its mark, and he remained lost in the aftermath, struggling to regain his composure and find the right words to express himself.

Satoru continued to tremble, his body still awash in waves of pleasure and clouded by the effects of the vodka. Your teasing and taunting in these vulnerable moments made his heart race, and he responded with a lack of shame.

"Fuck, I am... And I'll admit it, too… God, I really am pathetic. I got off in... In so little time," he confessed, his words carrying a sense of unabashed satisfaction.

You smiled and tenderly caressed his flushed cheeks, cupping them in your hands and feeling the warmth of his skin against your palms. His proximity, your words, and the sensuality of the moment had his heart racing, and he couldn't help but respond to your every move.

"It's cute... So cute, so slutty," you whispered, your voice filled with affection.

Experimentally, you rolled your hips against him, biting your lip provocatively. Satoru's body reacted immediately, his breath quickening as he tilted his head, his eyes filled with desire. His hands instinctively gripped your hips once more, and a cute squeak escaped his lips as you continued to caress him, your hips moving in a slow and sensual rhythm.

You giggled and rolled your hips again, squishing his cheeks in your hands. "Mmm, you're so cute when you're drunk..."

Satoru was still sensitive, and your movements sent shivers of pleasure coursing through him. His own desire remained unabated, and he couldn't help but respond to your playful advances, the intensity of the moment making it impossible for him to resist.

"Mm... Mmm... God..."

Satoru's body responded yet again, his breaths growing heavy and laboured. His heart raced, each beat echoing loudly in his ears, his trembling hands betraying the intensity of his desire.

"N-no... Not like this... S-stop..." he mumbled, his words slurring together, unable to distinguish between his body's reaction to lust and the effects of alcohol. "It's... T-too much..."

"Needy, needy slut," you continued to taunt.

Your kisses on his neck and the sensation of your fingers through his hair sent electric shocks of pleasure through his body. He was losing himself completely in his response to your touch, the boundaries between pleasure and the haze of intoxication blurring.

"Mm... Mmm... No... No, stop..." he begged, his words transforming into a plea. Your lips on his neck were driving him wild, eliciting loud moans and gasps from deep within him.

Satoru let out a low-pitched moan as you teased and whispered sinful words into his ear. You overwhelmed him, and even though he knew it was all a game, he found himself playing into it more than he let on. His body was completely at your mercy, and he felt his muscles tensing and contracting as he tried to hold back from cumming again, still so sensitive from the last time.

"Stop…! Too much... I-I know what you're doing... I-I... Can't take it..." he gasped. "’S too much... You're killing me..." he moaned.

Satoru's control over his body had vanished entirely at this moment. Lost in the whirlpool of lust, he was begging for more. His voice shook as he protested, his whole body trembling as he struggled to maintain some semblance of restraint. Unable to stop himself, he leaned into you, his head tilting as you kissed, licked, and caressed his neck.

"Needy, pathetic slut," you murmured into his ear.

"Too... Fuck... Mmmm...." he mumbled, his voice hoarse and his body writhing. "Please..." he begged. "Don't... Do that... I can't stop... Not like this... Please..."

He heard every taunt you said, but the overpowering rush of euphoria had him gasping and moaning, unable to hold back any longer. He gave in.

Satoru's body trembled as he came again, his moans escaping his lips incoherently. His eyes were rolled back in sheer ecstasy, his face contorted in pleasure. Afterward, he remained still and silent for a moment, basking in the afterglow of his release. His breathing slowly calmed, and he stared blankly into space, lost in the post-orgasmic haze.

As the credits of the film rolled on the television, you continued to stroke his hair and affectionately kissed his cheek. "Cutie, so blissed out," you murmured.

Satoru's heart beat slowly and gently, his body relaxed and content. He seemed to be in a state of pure satisfaction.

"Mm... Mmm... H-hm...?" he mumbled in response.

Satoru smiled and brought his fingers up to his cheek, where you had kissed him. He ran them softly across his face, savouring the lingering sensation. He was gradually regaining his sense of self, but a look of contentment still lingered. He rested his head back on the sofa and wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

"You… You know how to make a guy's legs go weak," he murmured, smiling lazily.

You smirked and rocked your hips against him slowly, watching him hiss through gritted teeth. "Seems like it, yeah."

Satoru let out a low growl of desire and tightened his grip on your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he asked, his voice laced with a mix of playfulness and desire.

You tilted your head coyly, running your fingers along his jawline. "Maybe. Is that a problem?"

He chuckled softly, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. "Not at all. In fact, I think it's only fair. You’re having fun teasing me, driving me nuts."

You let out a laugh. "Teasing is an art form. I think I’ve mastered it."

Satoru grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Consider me your willing canvas."

You playfully leaned in closer, brushing your lips against his ear. "Oh, I have many more colours to paint with."

His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. "I look forward to the masterpiece."

With a playful wink, you moved away, giving him a moment to catch his breath.

"Mmm.... God, you're insufferable..." Satoru murmured. His cheeks burned a rosy pink as he squirmed a bit under your rocking against him, but he did nothing to fight or stop it. "Too much..."

He seems close to losing himself to you again. He turned his head away from you and pressed his forehead against the sofa. He scrunched his eyes shut and just groaned.

"You can take some more, Satoru," you drawled.

His expression hinted at both pleasure and annoyance. Satoru grimaced and squirmed against the sofa. His eyes opened and he looked up at you, his face flushed and his body shaking a bit.

"No I... I can't... I'm too weak for this..." he mumbled, his words slurred with a mix of pleasure and annoyance. He was completely overwhelmed by your tease, but his body couldn't really help but respond to you.

"N-no... Too much... I... I c-can't..." he gasped. “Not again, not again…”

You leaned in closer, your voice low and tempting. "Are you sure, Satoru? You're enjoying this."

Satoru's resolve was weakening rapidly, and he bit his lower lip, struggling to maintain some semblance of self-control. "I... I really should... I should stop you," he stammered, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You should," you teased, brushing your lips against his ear. "But will you?"

He let out a frustrated groan, torn between the intense pleasure you were offering and his own desire to exercise restraint. "Fuck me," he muttered, his voice a mixture of desire and frustration.

You continued to move against him slowly, your lips tracing a delicate path along his jawline. Satoru's grip on your shoulders tightened, his breath hitching as he struggled with the sensations overwhelming his body.

"Come on, Satoru," you purred. "Just a little more... Give in to me."

He hesitated, his willpower waning, and you could see the internal struggle playing out in his expressive eyes. Finally, with a shuddering sigh, he gave in, his resistance crumbling.

"Alright... A little more," he whispered, surrendering to the intoxicating pleasure you offered.

You snickered and kept rocking your hips against him. "Look at me."

"Mmm... What?" Satoru murmured.

He was slowly getting more and more worked up again. His words were getting harder to understand. He seems to be losing his ability to think straight. His head rested gently against the couch cushions, his eyes half-closed, his furrowed eyebrows a testament to his focus on every exquisite sensation you offered—your words, your voice, your touch—all conspiring to drive him to the brink of ecstasy. He was far too busy focusing on the pleasure of your body against his to hear your words.

"I... I can't focus... Can't stop it…!" he whimpered, his words barely reaching your ears.

You laughed and stripped your t-shirt off. "Keep your eyes on me, yeah?"

Satoru's eyes flickered at the sight of your chest, his jaw going slack, but he tried desperately to keep them focused as he groaned and squirmed against the sofa.

"Yes... Y-yes... Oh, fuck me… Too much... Mm... Mmm."

Satoru's self-control was hanging by a thread, the tempting display before him driving him wild with desire. He tried to hold your gaze, but it was a challenge as the pleasure intensified.

"Just a little more," you coaxed, knowing exactly how to push his buttons.

Satoru's breathing grew ragged as he struggled to maintain focus. He reached up and cupped your face, his fingers trembling with the effort to stay composed.

"I... I can't hold back," he gasped, his voice thick with desire and frustration.

You leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss, intensifying the sensations coursing through his body. His mouth, warm and soft and eager, tasted like the vodka you had indulged in, but that wasn’t what made you feel so drunk. Satoru's grip on you tightened.

He struggled to maintain focus as you leaned in closer, your voice a sultry whisper against his ear. "Let go, Satoru. Just for a little while..."

He gasped, feeling the temptation building in the pit of his stomach. "I... I can't..."

"You can," you encouraged, your breath warm against his skin. "You deserve this, ‘toru."

His body trembled, torn between his desire to hold on and the allure of surrendering to pleasure. "Just... A little more," he whispered, his resistance crumbling as he gave in to the mounting ecstasy.

You bit your lip and guided his hands to your tits, still grinding against him. There was a look of shock on his face but he seemed to be doing his best to keep his eyes on you. The intensity of your connection continued to build as Satoru's touch grew bolder. His moans and whimpers filled the room, mingling with your own sighs of pleasure. You maintained eye contact with him, a sultry smile dancing on your lips as you revelled in his desperation that we wore so brazenly.

Satoru's fingers explored every curve and contour of your chest, his grip growing tighter as his need intensified. He couldn't tear his gaze away from your eyes, from your body.

"Mm.... Oh, fuck-fuck-fuck," he murmured as your hips continued rocking against him. He whimpered and let out a few soft moans as the sensation built. "God..."

"Yeah? How's that, hm? Needy boy," you teased.

"Mmm…! Oh, God... So much..." Satoru murmurs as his hands continued fondle your chest.

His body was so sensitive that constantly squirmed and his breath hitched and trembled. His grip on you tightened as he continued moving his hands across your tits and squeezing the soft, supple flesh. His words had almost become completely incoherent, reduced to just desperate moans and half-sentence fragments.

"Oh, God... Need you…! Please… Mmmm..."

But just before he could fall into bliss, you caught him, pulling yourself away.

Satoru gasped and squirmed, disoriented by the sudden change. Confusion and fear laced his voice as he whimpered, desperately seeking understanding. "What's... What's wrong? Did I do something wrong?" he whined, his vulnerability on full display. "Do I... Do I need to beg more?"

His eyes, wide and imploring, pleaded for reassurance and guidance. Meanwhile, you grinned mischievously and knelt down in front of him, leaning on his knees.

"You've made quite a mess, ‘toru," you cooed, a musical edge to your voice.

His eyes widened, his gaze dropping to his sweatpants. Horror washed over his features as he noticed the conspicuous wet patch where his cum had soaked through, his face now a canvas of embarrassment.

"Oh.... Oh, fuck..." he whimpered, mortification taking over. Frantically, he shifted and tried to hide himself, begging you to avert your gaze. "Oh god... Don't look... Please, please..."

As he tried to cover himself with his hands and turn away, but you wrenched his wrists away and pinned them to the sofa beside him.

"Look at me."

"Mmm... No! No, please…!" Satoru protested.

He squirmed and fought you, trying desperately to move away and trying to pull his wrists away from you. He seemed terrified at the thought of you seeing him like this, all soiled and ruined and dripping.

"Don't look at it... Please..." he begged, tears welling up in his eyes, his cheeks flushing a brilliant cherry-red that you could see clearly, even in the low-light.

You smiled sweetly and teasingly pressed a quick kiss to the wet patch. "So needy."

You maintained your hold on Satoru's wrists, preventing him from averting his gaze or escaping your teasing advances. His body jerked and he lets out a moan. His face contorted with a mix of shame, pleasure, and fear. He writhed beneath you, caught between wanting to escape the situation and being unable to deny the arousal he felt. His protests were weak, his resolve crumbling in the face of you. He grew more desperate, his tear-filled eyes reflecting a mix of pleasure and distress.

"Don't look at it…! Please..."

Ignoring his pleas, you pressed another teasing kiss to the wet patch, causing him to whimper and moan in response.

"Please... No... Stop it…! It feels good, but... Please..." he mumbled, his body trembling beneath your touch.

Your snickers filled the air as you continued your playful assault, leaving a trail of kisses along the fabric of his inner thighs. Your fingers maintained their firm grip on his wrists, ensuring he remained under your control, his vulnerability and desire laid bare before you.

Satoru whimpered and struggled to control the mounting pleasure surging through his body. He gasped and moaned, his hips involuntarily bucking into the air, seeking more stimulation.

"Ahhh…! Ahhh... Please... Oh, fuck! Mmmm..." he continued to whimper, lost in the throes of desire.

Your teasing words only fueled his need further, his desperation evident in every breathy plea and every quiver of his body. "Aw, you're so cute, ‘toru."

As you skillfully removed his sweatpants, leaving him in only his boxers, his eyes widened and his gaze turned even more intense.

"Ple... Please... Please, more..." he begged, his voice a husky mix of need and yearning.

You pressed your hand to the soaked patch on his boxers, feeling the heat and dampness, relishing in his vulnerability. Your fingers curved around his throbbing erection, and you palmed him through the material with just the barest pressure. His pleas for more were music to your ears.

"More? Yeah, you want more?" you teased, your tone laced with innocence that belied the intensity of the situation.

"Mmm... Ahh…! No, no, no please... Please… C-can’t take more…" he stammered, torn between desire and the overwhelming sensations he was experiencing.

"But you just said you wanted more," you teased with a pout.

Satoru's pleas had reached a feverish pitch, his desperation palpable in his voice and movements.

"Oh, fuck... Please... More, more, more..." he begged, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks.

You maintained a playful demeanour, revelling in his heightened desire. As you tugged his boxers down, exposing him completely, he gasped audibly. His cock sprung free, slapping his stomach. Your jaw dropped at the sheer volume of cum and pre that had accumulated. You couldn't help but be drawn to the way his hips responded eagerly, pushing into the air with an instinctive urgency. His pretty cock—flushed, dripping, hard and aching—twitched as precum drooled from his slit.

"That's what I thought," you said smugly, trailing your fingers trough his mess and then spitting into your hand.

Your actions only intensified his yearning, and as you used your saliva-slicked hand to tease and pump him, the sounds of wet friction filled the room. With each and every drag of your hand down the shaft of his hard, aching shaft there was a loud, satisfying ‘schlick’ sound that accompanied his whimpers.

"Yeah? Is that enough or do you still need more?" you taunted, a smirk curving your lips.

Netflix's 'Are you still watching?' message went unnoticed, as you were both thoroughly engrossed in your homemade entertainment.

Satoru could hardly form words, the pleasure now overwhelming any ability to express himself coherently. He let out a strangled moan, his hips involuntarily frotting into your hand as he gasped for air, unable to respond beyond the primal sounds escaping him. His body shook and his hips bucked desperately, more precum drooling from the cutely flushed pink tip.

"H-hnnn... Ahhh... More..." he managed to stammer, his voice barely coherent, lost in the sea of sensation.

You couldn't help but tease, watching him struggle with his need. "Yeah? You gonna be a good slut and keep begging for more?"

His wide, desperate eyes locked onto yours as you continued, each movement sending shockwaves through his trembling body. "P-p-please... Please... God, fuck..." he begged, the words strained and barely forming.

He struggled to communicate his desires amidst the overwhelming pleasure. "I... I n-need... Ahhh…!" he whined loudly, his body convulsing with the effort.

Teasingly, you challenged him and retracted your hand. "Oh? What d'you need, hm? Better use your words and tell me.”

He whimpered and shook his head, desperate for the sensation to return. "G-God... I... I need… Oh... God..." he panted, his desperation palpable. "I need... You need to..."

Teasingly, you prodded him further. "You need me to...?"

But he was beyond the ability to respond with anything more than monosyllabic pleas for more, lost in the overwhelming pleasure. You laughed, toying with him further, adjusting your position and enveloping his slicked cock between your tits, squeezing gently with your hands on either side of them as you began a tantalising movement.

"Isn't this fun?" you teased, taking note of the tremors that coursed through his body. "You're such a cutie."

His features, typically so composed and captivating, were now a canvas of raw emotions. The pleasure surged through him, leaving him helpless in its wake, his body reacting to the intense sensations. Tears streamed down his face in torrents, leaving streaks on his typically flawless skin. His eyes, usually vibrant and full of life, were now swollen and red, the brilliance dimmed by the weight of his desire. Uncontrolled sobs wracked his body, causing his normally steady breaths to hitch and break in heartbreaking cadence.

In that moment, all pretense of strength was lost. His shoulders, usually squared and proud, hunched forward under the weight of his surrender. The weight of the world seemed to bear down on him, crushing the bravado and exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his ache.

His hands, usually so steady and assured in their movements, trembled uncontrollably. Fingers clenched tightly, seeking desperately for something to hold on to, to anchor him amidst the storm of his anguish. Each sob escaped his lips with a wrenching ache, echoing the depths of his desperation.

His eyes rolled back into his head just as his dick bucked against your chest, and your eyes were struggling to find a place to rest on: his flexing abdomen, trembling thighs, quivering lips, shaking hands, twitching cock—a total buffet of expression.

"Almost there, aren't you?"

Satoru let out the loudest groan he could manage and shuddered against your chest. His mouth curled into a tiny, smug smile before his jaw went completely slack. A few seconds later, he came. Your tits were coated in thick spurts of his hot, sticky cum—flooding your skin and dripping down your abdomen.

"Aw, you've done so, so well... So good for me," you said sweetly.

You could feel him shaking as he writhed and twitched, and it seems he was still caught in the aftershocks. Satoru lay there, his body still trembling. His chest heaved with each labored breath, his mind swimming in the euphoria that engulfed him. You gently stroked his thighs, grounding him and bringing him back to reality, his breathing immediately calming. He couldn't believe what had just happened, how every touch, every sensation, had left him in such a state of blissful exhaustion.

"G... God..." he whispered shakily. His whole body shivered and he continued to breath heavy and hard. "Fuck..."

Satoru breathed heavy and hard, panting as he slowly came back to reality. He was so exhausted and worn out that he could barely form any coherent thoughts, and his eyes were already closing.

"Oh... God..." he stammered and took a deep breath. "That was amazing..." he said softly, looking down at you with a weak smile. He mumbled, still struggling to put a sentence together. "I didn't know—I didn't know it could be like that..."

You smiled and got up off your knees, sitting next to him on the couch. You kissed his cheek. He seemed so vulnerable now that his defenses were gone, and he let out a small sigh before he leaned his head on your shoulder. His hair was still covering his eyes, but you could see the blue glow through the strands.

He lets out a small yawn and blinked slowly as he glanced around, his expression soft but still so very tired. Satoru's smile grew as he looked at you, his eyes filled with a newfound warmth and affection.

You gently brushed a few strands of hair away from his face, your fingers tracing a soothing path across his cheek. "It can be pretty amazing when you're with the right person," you whispered tenderly.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice soft and sincere. "With the right person… I... I'm so..." he said hoarsely. He sighed and shook his head slightly. "Ah... I'm so tired..." he whimpered, his arms still wrapped around you.

“You still need to clean me up.”

Satoru groaned and pouted, sticking his tongue out at you.

"Oh c'mon... You like it..." he said, trying to sound annoyed but in reality he was still in a dazed, delirious state. His eyes flickered and he blinked slowly.

You raised a brow. "But you made a mess."

He whined again as he continued to cling to you. He seemed so tired that he could fall asleep like this, but not before giving you one last look of annoyance.

You pushed his face into the mess he left on you. "Yeah? See how you like it."

"Ew…! It's all sticky and warm..." he complained as he squirmed and tried to get away from you. He attempted to sound like he was annoyed, but his grin gave him away. He looked very proud of himself. "I'm so tired, just give me a break..." he whined, laughing.

"Clean it up and I'll be your pillow," you teased.

He gave up his attempt of being mad and he smirked a little bit, and his head bobbed as he tried to nod. "Ahhh... Fine, deal," he said with a grin.

His tongue darted out and he sleepily started to lap up the cum he left splattered across your chest. His tongue trailed across you, and he still had it in him to whine against you even as he complied. You cooed at him teasingly and kissed his forehead.

"Aw, there you go."

Satoru chuckled weakly, managing to gather enough energy to clean up the mess he had made. His movements were slow and lethargic, and his eyelids drooped as he worked on the task.

You watched him, a fond smile on your lips. "You're such a dork," you remarked.

"Mmm..." Satoru mumbled in agreement, finally finishing his task. He flopped back against you, a contented look on his face. "Pillow now?" he asked, a hopeful glint in his half-closed eyes.

You chuckled and shifted, allowing him to rest his head against your chest. He sighed in contentment, snuggling closer.

"There you go, sleepyhead. Rest up," you whispered, gently stroking his hair.

He mumbled something incoherent, already drifting off into slumber. You smiled down at him, feeling a warmth in your chest. The night had been a welcome plot twist, to say the very least.

a/n: listen- *grabs your face* listen to me: if you ever, for some godforsaken reason, see gojo satoru walking around, you better send him my way!!!! *shakes vigorously* OKAY????? okay. also, it lives rent free in my head that it is in fact canon that satoru is a lightweight + hates drinking. i will be taking advantage of this knowledge until my dying breath. P.S. I'm from the UK and drinking culture is wayyy diff here, and i have a high tolerance, so apologies if my descriptions of drinking do not match your experiences.

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

#꒰ ✎ ꒱ — tongues in trees #꒰ ✑ ꒱ — they kiss consume #꒰ 🝮 ꒱ — kt 23 #sub gojo satoru #sub gojo x reader #sub gojo satoru x reader #sub gojo smut #sub gojo satoru x reader smut #sub gojo x y/n #sub gojo x you #gojo x reader smut #gojo satoru x reader smut

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sundaycentric · 2 months

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ᵋᵌ are words enough? 𓈒　　 ◟ 　sunday x reader　 ♡

content — romantic quotes from other media that i think fit you two. ✦ no tws, sfw. :3 up to interpretation whether these quotes are from him to you or you to him (or both !)

❝ I'll do it over, no matter how many times it takes. ( homura akemi

❝ You are, and always have been, my dream. ( fautrisdemi

❝ Did I live with you in a past life? Was I your lifelong partner? Is that why the idea of losing you torments me so much? How long have I been without you? ( gabriela mistral

❝ I'm not going far. I'll always be here: just an inch away. I promise. ( rachael lippincott

❝ I'd commit the worst sins for one more chance. Even if it turned me into a monster, it wouldn't matter. As long as I could have you back. ( homura akemi

❝ I fell in love with you like you would fall asleep: slowly. and then all at once. ( john green

❝ I will love you until the sun dies. And when it does, I will love you in the darkness. ( pierce brown

❝ Whatever happens to you, good or bad, you're still you. I would never abandon you. ( madoka kaname

❝ I love you and that's the beginning and end of everything. ( f. scott fitzgerald

❝ I want you. All of you. Your flaws, your mistakes, your imperfections. I want you, and only you. ( john legend

❝ I love you.

#ㅤ𓈒⠀ㅤ◟ ㅤsundaycentric #sunday x reader #sunday hsr x reader #hsr sunday x reader #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #hsr x reader #reader x hsr #honkai star rail x reader #reader x honkai star rail #sunday honkai star rail #drabble #fluff #i love sunday #sunday sunday sunday sunday sunday sunday sunday

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therenlover · 1 year

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Always For A Second (Usually At The Start) - A Helmut Zemo x Reader fic

"And when I imagine life when it's mine / I can try to picture faceless folk to love a thousand times / But always for a second, and usually at the start / You're in the image posing with a cradled beating heart" - Katie Gregson MacLeod, i'm worried it will always be you

Synopsis: Leaving Helmut for good had been the biggest, most final choice you'd ever had to make. Two years later, he's in your living room again. This time, though, things are different.

Tags: Explicit Smut (+18), Exes, Getting Back Together, Enemies to Lovers to Exes to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Switch!Zemo, Oral (Fem Receiving), Service Top!Zemo, Aftercare, Bucky is Mentioned Too Much

Rating: E (+18) Minors DNI

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 8,600~

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“I didn’t expect you to come crawling back so soon, schatz,”

The restaurant was crowded enough that nobody heard Helmut’s words, curt and cloying and so fucking familiar. Still, my face heated. It always would for him, no matter how much my common sense protested by body’s reactions. How dare he be so damn effective at getting under my skin?

Some over-expensive brown liquor sloshed against the rim of the glass in my hand as I lifted it less than gracefully from the table, dribbling down the edge of my mouth as I guided it to my lips and drank deeply. “For one, two years isn’t soon,” I started, swallowing. “Two, you’re the asshole who showed up in my apartment like a robber, which makes you the one who came crawling back. I was just nice enough to let you take me for a free meal to get you the hell out. Three,” I set the glass down sharply, “don’t call me that. We’re not friends. We’re not anything. I still haven’t forgiven you,”

“Apologies,”

He didn’t mean it.

“Still, it’s too soon to expect any sort of kindness from you,” he continued, “If I recall correctly, you said you’d rather die than suffer through another night with me for the rest of eternity. I believe an eternity has yet to pass… and yet, here we are,”

His matter of fact tone left little up for debate, unless I wanted to reach for my fork and maim his smug face. Instead, I bit my tongue and swallowed another mouthful of whatever I was drinking.

For once I was glad to be surrounded by the kind of noisy, faceless jumble of humanity that usually made my skin crawl. F. Scott Fitzgerald was on to something with his theories on large crowds and intimacy; there was no better place for two war criminals to meet than the corner booth of a hazy restaurant, lounging and drinking, covered by the blanket of sweet anonymity. Anyone who glanced our way would see two normal human beings sharing a meal in peaceable silence, sharing sparse conversation between bites of this and that.

They would see lovers.

The thought left a lump in my throat.

Maybe I looked uncomfortable enough that they would presume, correctly, that we were ex-lovers. I wasn’t hopeful about it, though.

Helmut noticed, of course, but I knew he would. He had always had an almost supernatural sense for these things, like he could tune into my emotional radio on a frequency I didn’t even fully know myself. Enemy or ally or… otherwise, it was a constant to be seen through and picked apart like carrion. An appetizer for the fights to come. Thankfully, though, he chose to have mercy on me this time in a rare show of respect. Instead of wrapping his lips around another snide comment- even though I could tell it was burning a bitter hole into the tip of his tongue behind his clenched teeth- he chose to pick up a ring of calamari from the plate between us. He held it up to examine the crust in the dim lamplight before placing it delicately against his lips, pulling it from the fork in one bite. Still, he couldn’t be too gracious. Helmut held eye contact as he went.

I could only managed a disgusted sigh but found myself mirrored as his teeth sunk into the squid and his brow furrowed.

“Bad?” I asked.

He chewed for a good while before managing to swallow the offending clump down, gagging all the way. “Despite my recent diet, that might be the worst thing I’ve eaten in a long while,”

A laugh escaped me before I even knew it was there. “You managed to pick a restaurant where our appetizer is worse than prison food? Serves you right for ordering seafood in the midwest,”

“I suppose it does.” He nudged the plate towards me with a growing smirk, “See for yourself. I’d hate to see it wasted, and as you said, it is ours. I can’t be expected to finish it alone,”

As if under the spell of his charisma all over again, I followed his instructions without a second thought. It was just as bad as I anticipated.

Things were off to a bad start from the moment the tines of my fork hit the batter. The breading seemed to squelch under the pressure, sagging and giving way into meat that was somehow both rubbery and gelatinous, if that was even possible, and if the texture seemed bad outside of my mouth it was even worse inside. Somewhere between its fishy tang and the overly salted batter, there was a bitter, almost sour note that seemed to permeate further with every chew. I spit the macerated glob into my napkin before even attempting to swallow down the remaining spit.

Across the table, Zemo grinned at my misfortune. “Let’s hope our entrees are less offensive to our palettes,”

“Fuck off,” I muttered, lips turning up at the edges.

“You can curse all you want at my poor choice of venue, but I can tell you’re glad you’re the one who ordered the pasta instead of the steak,”

I went for my glass again, letting the liquor with a name I couldn’t pronounce burn all the way down my throat and into my chest. “I hate that you’re always right, Helmut. Can’t you be wrong, just once? Leave some correctness for the rest of us,”

Maybe it was the lighting, soft and amber against the dark wood of the table to mask the bloody steaks that would sit below, or maybe it was the music, something old and swinging that I couldn’t quite put my finger on but knew from the radio in my grandmother’s car as a child, or maybe, just maybe, it was the crows feet that popped up around Helmut’s eyes when he smiled that hadn’t been quite so prominent the last time I’d seen him, but no matter the cause, the solid iron wall I had put up around my heart when I walked out of the Baron’s life those two year sago seemed to soften. Weakened, somehow. It was like someone took a blowtorch right to the center of my defenses. Something in me screamed that they had never been all that strong to begin with.

I only noticed I’d been staring when he looked away, clearing his throat and wiping his thin mouth with the napkin from his lap.

There went my hand. Helmut, 1. Me, 0… Well, 1, if leaving him those years ago counted for anything, and I refused to believe that it hadn’t. That the blow to his ego hadn’t given me at least a slight upper hand compared to the naive girl I had been in comparison when I first met him. There had been so much good in the world then.

The silence dragged on as if the structural flaws of my guarded heart could patch themselves up with the defenses created from just a few silent moments between us. That’s all it would take for me to remember all the reasons this would never work: all the pain, the sleepless nights, the snide comments that turned into biting replies that grew into massive, earth-shattering fights that exploded into days or weeks or months living alone in a house with him. One by one, the memories flooded back, reminding me exactly why it had taken me almost two years to find enough peace within myself that I wouldn’t decide to shoot the man in front of me on sight. My heart hardened by the second.

“I saw your concert,”

I was simultaneously thawed and frozen all over again. “How did you-“

“James mentioned it,”

“You still talk to Bucky?”

“Here and there,”

The conversation lapsed into silence.

He had… been there? I didn’t even bother to think about the talk I’d have to have with Bucky about my privacy, too focused on the more important matter at hand.

The venue was grungy, a basement bar with a small stage serving the communities aspiring comedians and desperate punk-rock garage dwellers just waiting for their big break. I had barely had the guts to pay the booking fee, though. It was just me, a piano, and my guitar for an hour and a half set of mostly cover songs that had gone better than I’d expected, but hadn’t been anything crazy. The crowd was appreciative and respectful. Several people had left tips, even more giving me a congratulatory clap on the back as I left the building that night, promising to “stream my EP” whenever I released it, despite the fact that I had no plans to do any such thing. Still, I couldn’t imagine that I hadn’t seen his face in the crowd. I couldn’t name what I was feeling as I imagined it; visualized his face on the other side of the smoky room, leaned against the bar with his dark eyes catching hold of mine…

“You came and you didn’t say anything? Not even a hello?”

Helmut laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “And risk my life over a free concert? No.” He paused, “Despite my tendency to sometimes be… less than kind, I knew it would rattle you to see me. I didn’t want to throw you off before your performance.”

I didn’t have much of anything to say in response. Instead, I picked at the paper straw wrapper in my lap and tried to look anywhere but in his direction, shoving down whatever was welling up in my chest. He wouldn’t let things go, though. He never could. That was half of why we’d never work. Every time I tried to drop an uncomfortable subject he’d be there to pick it up with a snide comment or two. It was an easy rhythm. Too easy. I had never wanted to fall back into it and yet, here I was, almost excited to snipe his next words down.

“Cain misses you,” He continued.

I folded the straw wrapper in my hands, pulling at the crease as I thought about the doberman puppy I had left behind. He would be so big now, as big as the one I’d taken with me was now. My heart ached at the thought.

“I doubt he remembers me after all this time,”

“Of course he does,” Helmut’s voice was low. It was almost hypnotic, the way he carried himself. He could fool anyone. I realized, with a sinking feeling in my stomach that couldn’t have been the calamari, he could still fool me. “He’s quite the troublemaker. More times than I can count he’s evaded me in the house, only to be found asleep in your old closet. I think he remembers your scent,”

“Thats…” I sat quiet for a moment, pursing through choices of words in my mind, mulling over the sharp accented way he pronounced the t in scent, “Sad. Really sad. Makes me wish I could’ve taken them both,”

“And what of Brutus?”

“He’s good,” A smile crossed my face. “Big, as you saw tonight. I remember when we got them, they told us they’d be 60 pounds at most, but I swear Brutus must’ve snuck in with the rest of those puppies, because he’s massive. Headbutts me every time I walk through the door wondering where I was. He’s a good boy, though. Keeps watch while I sleep, just in case.”

“Just in case I decided to let myself in through the window one night?”

I let myself laugh without judgement this time, reaching for my water. “Looks like it was all for nothing, then. Who knew he’d just let intruders come waltzing in off of the fire escape?”

“Am I truly considered an intruder in your home?” He asked it as if the answer wasn’t obvious. As if there were any other answer I could possibly give. As if I could’ve wanted him there. His earnestness almost hurt as much as his taunting did, maybe more, because even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself, there was a soft ring of truth to his words.

I took the cowards way out. “I don’t know, what do you think?”

It was a vulnerability to not give a straight answer, the kind of weak spot that Helmut would catch wind of in an instant before using it to unravel someone piece by piece. Not a no, but certainly not a yes, and the fact that it hadn’t been a resounding yes was enough to glean that maybe, deep down, I wasn’t hating this dinner. He would see through me. Rip me to shreds for the subtle admittance that I hadn’t hated seeing him waiting for me on the couch when I walked through my door, even if I hadn’t expected or wanted him there in the first place.

I found it was better to lie by omission than to fully lie and let him see through me to the more important truth; For as much as I despised everything about him, I had missed Helmut Zemo. I had missed his stupid expensive taste and the tilt of his stupid head and his stupid shiny white smile. I had missed seeing his coat hung up beside the door and knowing what waited for me inside. It was sick how I had loved him. How I had loved every minute of him picking me apart by the seams and putting me back together. Who could possibly crave their own destruction? Who could live knowing that to be loved was to be deconstructed down to the bone and laid bare as something lesser, something so small compared to the great destroyer I devoted myself to.

How could he let me live like that if he truly saw through me?

And that was why I had to leave.

Loving Helmut Zemo was no way to live. I knew that. I had known that the day I picked up my dog and walked out of our home with nothing but my wallet, car keys, phone, and a polaroid picture of his silhouette. Somehow, I knew that he knew that too. Why else would I move on so suddenly, so sharply, removing every piece of the life we’d built to start myself fresh? A new me, I had said. A new chapter. Yet here I was across from him, shredded bits of paper littering my lap as he puppeteered my heart right back into his arms.

No. I couldn’t let it happen.

Not again.

“Listen, baron,” I didn’t let him answer my rhetorical question. It wouldn’t be wise to let him gain the upper hand again. It wouldn’t be smart to let myself stay weak. “I appreciate dinner. It’s been surprisingly lovely to catch up with you. I’m glad to know you’re not dead, and its great to know Cain is doing well, but I know you weren’t here to tell me that over a plate of mediocre pasta,”

Helmut smiled, his head in its signature tilt, and swished his own glass a bit. The ice was all but melted giving the liquor an almost clear quality as it diluted. Not a sip had been taken. “Ask the question, schatz,”

“Why are you here? Why did you stalk me here and break into my apartment when I made it clear that you weren’t welcome in my life?” My words came out so matter of fact even I almost recoiled at them. Not unemotional but detached.

“Um, who had the chicken alfredo?”

I could feel the blood drain from my face as I looked up at the poor waiter, hot plates in hand, as he took in our table at just the wrong time. Five minutes earlier he would have walked in on polite conversation about the dogs or the shitty appetizers. Now, though, he stood between a man who was known to kill for the things he wanted and me, the one thing he could never have again.

Surprisingly, though, Helmut waved a hand towards me as I froze. There were none of the usual dramatics, just polite chatter with the waiter as he set my plate in front of me and left Helmut with his, taking the offending calamari plate away with him as he scurried away, surely to tell his coworkers about the crazy exes at the corner table. Helmut didn't even carry on with his answer. He just started tucking in to his steak and potatoes, not sparing me a single glance. If I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t memorized the way his eyes looked in the low light of a restaurant across from me, I would think he’d been replaced by a skrull.

Where was the tearing? The shredding? The utter evisceration of my waiting throat as he drank deeply of my darkest, most shameful thoughts only to spit them out for the world to see. Where was that shame? In the before times, in the times that the two of us had been a we, he never would have paused to mind a waiter. The world would have revolved around him as he laid me bare, no matter who watched or waited in the wings. What changed?

How had I not noticed his docility until now?

The pasta was decent. It was better than anything I would’ve made at home, at least. I barely thought about it, though, letting my body go through the motions of eating mechanically while my mind went over a million things I could say. What could I say? There was nothing left to. We had gone over every possibility before I had left, at least I thought we had. Whatever we were was dead. That was certain. But what we could be…

I swallowed hard before I could choke on a relatively large piece of broccoli I neglected to chew in my trance.

Helmut seemed to be in a painfully similar situation. One look at his plate showed a steak cut into tiny pieces. Almost none of it looked eaten, just diced into a pile and shuffled around a bit on the plate to mix with the potatoes, smashed down from their neat ice cream scoop globe and spread with the back of a fork.

With a sigh, I set down my fork, pasta already forgotten.

“Lost your appetite?”

He paused his fiddling with his fork and knife, mirroring me and letting the utensils rest on the table beside his plate. It was odd to see him rattled. Strange to watch his eyes roll up to the ceiling and pause there, as if he was searching for the right words to say. He always knew just what to say to cut the deepest. Maybe it was foreign for him to not want to cut; To find a soft word, instead of a sharpened one. His mouth opened one… two…three times. Open and shut, open and shut. I couldn’t help but hurt for him. The man of many words was finally struck dumb.

Finally, it came.

“I’m sorry,”

I had anticipated a selfish reply, a demand for me to come back and put the past two years behind us, but time had changed him. It had changed us both. He was no longer the man he had been when he was first freed from behind bars, vengeful and biting and so deeply afraid of being alone again, but I was no longer the lost girl I had been either. I did not need to be destroyed to breathe. I could feel tears pricking up in my eyes as he reached a hand across the table to search for my own. It was such a familiar sight in a time of uncertainty. I kept my hands firmly in my lap, though. I would not give him the satisfaction.

More, I would not give him hope.

“Come home, schatz,”

There it was.

I couldn’t hold in the bitter, wet laugh that bubbled up through me, more at my own foolishness than at anything else. He had changed, yes, but some things never would.

“Helmut,” The word hurt to say. It was altogether both familiar and unfamiliar, covered in a thick layer of dust from time, but nothing could erase the fact that it had once been used over and over, like a prayer, as easy as breathing or saying my own name. “You know I can’t,”

He let his hand slink back to his side. “I had to try, you know,”

“I know,” The words were a whisper.

So this was closure?

The table was quiet. There was no desperation from Helmut’s side, no attempts to sway me or sudden outbursts of resentment. It was almost peaceful. His voice was sad but there was no manipulation in it. We laid our cards of the table as the game we’d played for years finally came to an end.

“You were right about us, when you left,” he laughed, “I was, as you so aptly put it, a massive ass. I was still so deeply disillusioned about this world and the horrors of it. It was as if everyone around me was just another cog in it all, even you. I thought if I could puppet it all, make things go my way, everything could just be quiet. The horrors would finally stop. The memories would finally stop. I took it too far, though. I took it out on you. For that, I will never be sorry enough,”

I put up a hand. “Helmut, you don’t have to do this-“

“I want to,”

His voice was delicate but didn’t waver. For the first time I wondered if this was more about what he needed to say than about what I needed to hear. I nodded him on. Without me even thinking about what I was doing, my hand caught his across the table.

“I wanted to run after you the same day you left. I nearly did, too, before I thought better of it. Then I really thought of what you said. What I did. It was then that I decided I had to change for the better, not for you but for myself. Only then would I allow myself to try again. So I did. I spent my time deconstructing the things I had seen and done and finally facing my own demons. I’m not perfect- believe me -but there are many things I have… worked on, for lack of a better word. James was surprisingly helpful throughout it all,”

“Is that why you’ve been talking?” My thumb stroked over his knuckles, pausing on a scar.

“More or less. I needed advice on how to overcome my atrocities, and I owed him an apology either way. He told me about your concert because he thought I would be ready to make amends, and yet I found myself unable to speak to you because I knew that if I did, I would have to beg you for forgiveness, and that is not something I will allow myself to do from anyone. Not now, nor ever,”

I let myself pull away. This was not a movie. There was no happy ending for the two of us at the end of this conversation. It was a chance to clear the air and let go of our grievances before going our separate ways. Treating it any other way would only hurt us both. “Why break in, then, and drag this all out over dinner? Why not just knock on my door, apologize, and leave?”

“I couldn’t have you slamming the door in my face and leaving me to apologize to the wall, now could I?”

We shared a sad smile, a knowing one. “I guess that’s true.”

“I needed to know you would hear what I had to say until the end,” he paused, “And one last confession. I must admit, I could not walk away without sharing dinner with you one last time. It’s selfish, as I am selfish, but I could not see you again without truly seeing you, more than just as you shouted at me and threw me to the curb,”

“You think so little of me?” I asked. There was no bite in it.

“No, I think so little of myself,” he finally took a sip from his glass, “Any anger on your part is warranted,”

We did not speak again for a long while. Helmut methodically went through the bite-sized pieces of steak on his plate as I finished the alfredo, which had grown cold in the time it took to sort things out. There was no quiet conversation, no jokes or shared stories in the glow of the lamps overhead. Instead we sat in peaceable silence and breathed in the finality of it all. I was almost grateful for it. I never would have imagined sharing a meal like this with him in all of the years I had known him and loved him. If it was to be the last, and it was, we would savor every moment of each others company. Every moment not spent on my meal was devoted to memorizing the line of his jaw and the shape of his eyes as he did the same for me.

By the time the waiter came to ask about dessert, I could have written sonnets about his face alone, and by the time he returned with the check, paid discreetly with a 40% tip for his troubles on Helmut’s card, I had committed the sound of his breathing to my mind. I could only hope the memory would last this time.

Realistically, I knew it wouldn’t.

I wondered if he was thinking the same thing as we approached the front of the restaurant together, pausing awkwardly outside the door as we exited out onto the street.

“So, this is it,” My hands found the pockets of my coat as I rocked onto the balls of my feet.

Helmut smiled softly in the lamplight. “Let me walk you home,”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,”

“Says who? I have to follow you either way, my car is parked down the block,” He offered me his arm.

I took it far quicker than I should have, relishing in the scent of his cologne. Even after all these years he had never switched to another brand, and I refused to admit to anyone else but myself that I was grateful for it. Instead I leaned into his warmth. “Well, it’s only a few blocks anyways. I guess it couldn’t hurt,” and with that, we were off.

The night was cool. Summer had given in to the pull of a lush fall, the temperatures dropping to a comfortable but windy chill when the sun fell below the horizon. The leaves were not yet falling but they’d begun their slow transformation from green into a mosaic of reds and yellows and greens, forming a rustling canopy above the sidewalk that allowed a flash of stars and moon through the foliage every few steps.

We were not the only pair walking through the streets that night, but if you had asked me about it later I would have said we were the only two people in the whole city, matching each other step for step under the flickering streetlights. Helmut’s crows feet were in full force as he laughed at my terrible jokes, and I couldn’t help but feel warmth rush through my neck and cheeks as he recounted the moment we first met.

It had been fall then, too. A brief, chance encounter in the streets of Paris was all it was, a night spend with a stranger, until I had seen him again in Sibera, and again in Germany, and again on the Raft, and again, and again, and again, and again…

He had been younger then, much younger, and still raw with grief, but I had loved him even then.

I was so lost in my own memories that I almost missed the stairs up to my apartment, but Helmut paused there, keeping me rooted with him even though the look in his eyes told me he almost kept walking past, hoping to gain one more turn around the block before he had to let me go. He didn't, though. This was the end of the line.

My arm slipped easily from its place against his own, hand catching briefly on the crook of his elbow. “Walk me to my door?”

His laugh felt almost nervous, a paid mockery of my own earlier reticence. “I don’t think that’s wise,”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman, baron?”

“I have never claimed that,” For a moment, when he paused, I thought that would be that. I would turn my back, ascend the stairs, and turn around to find he’d shifted back into the shadows from whence he came, but then the moonlight caught on his soft, wet eyes. “But for you, schatz, I try to be,”

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find the words I wanted to say as we walked up the front steps and into the building.

It had been so angry last time. I had vomited up every hateful, raging, repressed thought that I had shoved down into my chest over the course of our turbulent time together all at once and left without a second glance. This time, though, it felt wrong to end things without giving him credit for all of the other things, the things I had forgotten in the midst of all the chaos that surrounded us. How could I thank him? How could I tell him every wonderful thing about himself only to close the door in his face a moment later? I spent the whole trip up to my apartment trying to find a way to express even an ounce of what I felt, and then it was far too late.

We stood there on my novelty doormat, boots settled over the dirty cartoon chickens, hands in our pockets, and breathed in the stale hallway air.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said. If I shut off my heart and my mind and every other little betraying ache in my bones it was like it had been all those years ago. We were just meeting. This was the end of our very first date. There was a future instead of a past in the time that lay beyond us.

Helmut averted his eyes from mine. I could tell he was pretending too. “Of course,”

“I’ll see you again,” I lied, “I mean, it’s inevitable. We’ll end up at Bucky’s place at the same time,”

“Or run into each other at a busy cafe,” he offered.

“Exactly! Or our cells will end up next to each other in maximum security prison,” I laughed, but it caught, pathetic, in the back of my throat.

He took a step back, boots leaving my doorstep. “I look forward to it, whenever it may be,”

My shaking hands found my keys, an autopilot motion I had done a million times, and the door to my apartment swung open. I could hear Brutus in his kennel, beginning to whine the moment he heard me come home, but I paused there for a moment, one foot in and one foot out.

“Goodbye, Helmut,”

“Sleep well, schatz,”

I stepped inside and locked the door without turning around for a last look.

My tears came quicker than expected as I took in the room around me. It was the antithesis of my home with Helmut, all whites and beiges and grays from the sparse walls to the lonely couch against the wall. There was one great shock of black, though; a solid footprint on the windowsill. One last souvenir to remember him by.

I had done the right thing.

I had to have done the right thing.

Life with Helmut was hell. It was exciting and lush and romantic and alluring but it was destructive and painful too. It would mean being seen and unseen for the rest of my life, living with the ghosts of those lost in Novi Grad. He would never stop being the man his grief had created. He was just too broken… wasn’t he?

All at once I knew I had to see him again. This wasn’t going to be the end. There were still so many chances to make it right.

Before I knew my own feelings, I was undoing the latch and throwing my door open, only to find him there, feet planted solidly on that stupid welcome mat and fist raised to lift the knocker. Our eyes locked.

We didn’t need words then.

No, all I needed was his lips on mine and my hands in his hair. It was a need easily rectified.

He didn’t pull away as I grabbed the edges of his ridiculous fur coat and dragged him in for a kiss, letting the remains of that day’s lipstick smear against his chapped lips as the parted and made way for me. It was like a piece of my puzzle fell back into place, like the thing that had been lying dormant in my empty chest for the past two years had jumped to life and jumped into my throat. The tears weren’t coming anymore, though Helmut’s cheeks felt wet when I guided one of my hands to rest against it, dragging him closer. I needed him urgently. I needed all of it. Every moment I had missed.

At least one time in my entire tiny, useless life I needed to know him as he had always known me. I had to see him through eyes that would know every atom of him by heart.

It could have lasted second or hours. I was lost in it; lost in every heartbeat and the messy clack of teeth on teeth as we remembered exactly how our mouths locked into each other. There was no need to breathe. I would happily drown in him if he would let me. Through the passion I distinctly remembered this fervor, the endless need for him. It wasn’t frightening anymore, though. I knew how to walk away. We both did.

This time I didn’t want to.

Helmut was the first to pull away. His mouth was wet and red as he panted there, just a breath away from diving in for more, but he pulled away when I advanced again, instead choosing to speak between placing kisses on my cheeks and down my jaw. “I couldn’t let you walk away from me. Not again,” his voice shook as he kissed me, “Does that make me a bad man? Does that mean you can’t love me?”

I could only breathe a laugh as I pressed my chest to him. No measure of closeness was enough. I needed him to cover every inch of me. “I don’t think I could stop loving you if I tried, and I’ve tried,”

“Please, stop trying,”

With that, he caught me in another kiss.

“We should probably go inside,” I panted, gesturing towards the apartment with my head and Helmut nodded, maneuvering us over the threshold and into the barren entryway of the home I’d made without him. It didn’t matter, though. That wasn’t what I was focused on. Instead, my hands were more focused on pulling his coat from his shoulders and discarding it loosely in the direction of the coat rack between fevered kisses.

The old Helmut would’ve pulled away and make some snarky remark about keeping the place clean. This Helmut, though- my Helmut, as I had selfishly started to refer to him mentally in the past few moments -just dragged me in closer after his arms were freed, letting his hand drift to the small of my back but not even an inch lower.

Suddenly, though, things seemed to cool. The kisses grew shorter, softer. His arms still held me but seemed to loosen their grip.

“Tell me you want this,” He whispered softly against the shell of my ear, “That you want me,”

Ah. So that’s what this is.

“Helmut, of course I do-“

“That’s not enough,” his voice was laced with a rare seriousness as he pulled away to look at me properly. His brown eyes glowed a million honeyed colors under the shitty, flickering overhead lighting I should have replaced months ago. They flitted from my swollen mouth to my cheeks to my watery eyes as his hand came up to cup my cheeks again. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake or a bad decision you’ll regret the second we finish,”

The rest went unsaid.

(Tell me you’ll stay. Tell me this means something to you, even if it doesn’t mean as much as it does to me. Tell me I won’t wake up alone tomorrow morning. Tell me anything and everything except the cruel reality that neither of us really knows what the future looks like once this is over)

I simply nodded my head, coming in for one closed mouth kiss. “I want this. I want you. Whatever I choose to do next, you’ll be a part of the decision. No more running away,”

Like a shot, we were off to the races again.

It was hard to detach our bodies long enough to give Brutus a treat to quiet him down, harder still to lead him to the bedroom and drop his hand long enough to turn on a nearby lamp, but somehow I managed. For all of the small things I’d forgotten about Helmut in the two years we’d spent apart, his bitten nails and the silhouette of his nose and the sound of his labored breathing as he took in my body with something akin to animalistic hunger, it was easy to fall back into the rhythm we’d always found ourselves in intimately.

His shirt came off first, exposing the soft curve of his stomach. I kissed down from his neck to his chest, letting myself pause on each and every pinkish scar that graced his flesh. I made a mental note to ask him about a few new ones, including a wicked one across his collarbone that still puckered into an inch long divot in his flesh. My fingers followed my mouth, mapping every inch of his flesh. They caught on every soft yielding place he offered, a worship on the altar of his body, dragging his flesh ever so slightly but never enough to leave a scratch or bruise.

I would not mark him any more than the world already had. It was not my purpose to remold him into my image. Instead I would venerate what he was, what he had become.

Helmut had put so much effort into changing himself, rebreaking the things that had never healed correctly and setting them right again. I refused to let him break down to splinters again. Not on my watch.

He shuddered at my attentions.

“Let me see you?” It was a question, not a demand, and how could I deny him when he asked so nicely?

I stood up again, relishing in the feeling of his fingers against the hem of my t-shirt, the gentle scratch of nails on skin as he lifted it over my head. When he looked at me, it was like he was looking at the most precious thing in the world. Usually he was so hungry for it that there was never a pause once my shirt was discarded. My bra would be thrown off with it, then my pants, then my underwear, all in such quick succession that I barely distinguished one article from the next in the order of things. This time, though, he paused, hands just inches from my bare flesh.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered to me like a prayer, a confession, “I don’t think I can hold back much longer,”

Slowly, deliberately, I stepped forward and pressed my body into his awaiting hands. He squeezed my hips once, gentle, and twice. Then they were roaming up to the clasp on my bra with that usual hunger again, freeing my breasts for his attentions. I don’t exactly recall how he manhandled me on to the bed, I was too busy feeling the hard press of his bulge through his crisp dress slacks. The first thing I was fully cognizant of was his hot breath on my sternum as he hovered over me, still standing but bent at the waist, boxing me in with his knees.

“So fucking sweet,” he whispered before taking one of my nipples between his lips and laving his tongue over the hardening tip.

I felt like a live wire. Heat was building everywhere. Dazzling electricity shot through my head and fingers and toes and cunt and gods especially my breasts. They were always my weak spot, and how he knew it, how he knew me. I wanted to thrash against him, to buck and gain his attention where I really needed it, but his body above mine held me fast, keeping me right where he wanted me, vulnerable to him and his specific brand of torture. With a particularly sharp pinch and a well timed suck he had me keening against him, curling into his every move.

How had I lived without him? It was hard to imagine a night not spend here with Helmut, wherever here was, not that that mattered. I was embarrassingly wet. The slickness had gathered enough that I could feel it on my thighs despite my jeans. When I tried to relieve myself, though, the baron caught my hand, tutting softly.

I expected to have to ask permission. Soft begs escaped my mouth. I needed him. I had no patience for games. Instead, though, he lifted up off of my chest and smiled, pulling my hand to his lips. “Let me help you, love,”

There are no words in the human language that could adequately represent the sound that escaped my mouth. I could not even begin to try. It continued even as I lifted my hips to shimmy free from my jeans and underwear in one fluid motion, only ceasing when Helmut was on his knees with his face buried in my cunt. I was making different noises then. Loud. Guttural. If I had any mind left at all I would worry what my neighbors thought, to see me out on my doorstep desperately pawing at a man only to hear the noises we were making in tandem now. Thankfully, any sensible thought I had left seemed to fly out the window with Helmut’s first lick to my cunt.

It was clear that he hadn’t forgotten me, and if he had, the muscle memory was coming back quick. His tongue was deft as it worked its way over my aching nub in a pseudo-figure eight; circling once, twice, and three times before dipping back through my folds. I held him in place this time, though, rocking into his mouth. At some point my hands found their way into his hair. It was so soft between my fingers, so pliable as I pulled against him, desperate for more of him, anything he would good.

Every time he relented to me. Each sharp jolt was rewarded with a kiss against my thigh or a muttered curse in Sokovian, hot breath teasing my glistening mound.

He was so giving, so attentive to my every need. He had always been a generous lover, never leaving me wanting for anything, but this felt… different. The way he sucked bruises into my thighs, relenting to each and every sobbing please that escaped my soft lips, was a new and devastating experience. There were no power games left to play, no lording his sexual prowess over me as he brought me slowly closer and closer to the ever distant goalpost, just his mouth on me over and over and over again as he wrung the first orgasm of the night out of me, then the second in short measure, barely ceasing from one to the next.

By the time he decided I’d had my fill, my legs were a trembling mess against his shoulders and my cunt was a sopping mess.

He grinned a crooked grin at his masterpiece.

“How was that, my love,”

I could barely catch my breath enough to speak. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, thrumming a frantic drumbeat even as the room quieted. “So good- really really good, Helmut,”

Slowly, he rose up from his knees, undoing his belt. “Please say my name again, schatz,”

“Helmut,” My voice was hushed. Reverent.

He undid the button at his fly, pulling at the band of his boxers. “Again,”

It fell from my lips like a prayer. “Helmut,”

His cock bounced free, bobbing as he took a sharp, steadying breath. He placed his hand at the base and squeezed slightly.

“Again,”

“Helmut,”

“Fuck, that’s good,” The trance broke momentarily as I gazed up at him, watching the sweat roll down his forehead in shining rivulets despite the chill in the air. He wiped at them with the back of his free hand and smiled sheepishly. “Scoot back and get comfortable, please. I don’t think I’ll last long,”

I did as he asked, settling against my pillows on the still-made sheets. “Neither will I,”

“Where are your condoms?”

“Bedside drawer, way in the back. I’m on the pill too, so no worries,”

He moved quickly, grabbing a foil package from the small pile I’d accrued, just in case.

It felt odd to have him be the one using them.

There had been a few other men who had been invited here, fewer still that made it to the point that Helmut and I were at now. Every time, though, I hadn’t been able to go through with it, because every time they had finally settled themselves above me, I would close my eyes and, just for a moment, see Helmut in their place. It was unsettling the first time, enough so that I sent the guy home right away. The next time, though, it was more thought provoking than anything. I chalked it up to him being my longest lasting sexual partner and left it at that, but now, watching him roll the condom onto his length and crawl into his position over me, I knew.

I would never get over him, even if I tried for years. My heart had a space carved out in the shape of his own. No matter how long I stayed away, I would never find something quite like what we had. He was it. This was what people dreamed about. And to think, I had almost let it slip away…

He slid one hand into mine, lacing our fingers together in the gentle lamplight. “Are you ready for me?”

“More than ready,” My thighs spread as I canted my hips up.

Physically and mentally and every other possible way I needed him. I was prepared.

So Helmut pumped himself once with his free hand before guiding himself into my wet heat.

It was impossible to last long once we were finally complete.

Feeling him inside me was like knowing the truth of the universe. It was comfortable, and thrilling, and so deliciously enough. He filled me well, finding his rhythm as he swore and released my hand to prop himself up more comfortably. We were linked together like the final pieces of a puzzle. I closed my eyes at let myself relish in it.

There was nothing left to worry over while Helmut was inside of me. All thoughts that weren’t of him were banished. It was something to be cherished, every thrust paired with a whispered confession of love from one of us, a fleeting kiss, a curse, a plea… We laid ourselves bare. I let my legs wrap around his warm, soft hips as he rutted into me, bringing a hand between us to circle my clit once more. Even after everything he refused to leave me behind while he chased his own pleasure. It didn’t take much to send me tumbling over the edge into oblivion.

As always, Helmut followed me down.

His thrusts quickened, then stilled as he came to rest upon me, panting and heaving and begging for breath. I didn’t care much. He smelled of cologne and sweat as I buried my face in his shoulder and closed my eyes. I could feel him soften inside of me but I was far too spent to urge him to move.

We only shifted apart when he slipped free of me.

Helmut quickly kissed my forehead and gathered himself up, shuffling to the trash can to discard the used condom and grab a tissue to wipe himself up. I didn’t let myself move an inch. If I moved, would the bliss run away? Would I realize what I’d done? I let myself lay instead, eyes closed, panting in the autumn chill as my lover approached and wiped up our beautiful mess as gently as he could manage. With one last kiss to my thigh, he discarded the rag, opened the window, and crawled back into bed with me.

The process was indelicate, a lot of awkward shuffling of sticky limbs, but we were settled beneath the blankets soon enough. Helmut stroked his fingers down my arm languidly while kissing the back of my neck.

I broke the peace between us.

“I don’t… I don’t know what this means for us,”

He sighed gently. His breath was soothing and familiar against my shoulder. “That’s not something we have to decide at this very moment,”

“But I just don’t want you to think this means something… or at least something more than it does? If that makes sense? I don’t know,”

“Schatz, please,”

“I want to keep my own place, at least for now. I don’t know what that means for when I’ll see you or if we’ll keep doing this,” I gestured vaguely to my nude body beneath the sheets, “or if we’re even a thing anymore, bu-“

Helmut reached his arm around us, placing a quieting finger over my lips and another soft kiss against my shoulder.

“I swear, your mind sounds even louder than mine,”

“Sorry,”

“No reason to be,” His hand left my lips, running down to my stomach and pulling me back towards the softness of his chest. “As for your questions, I shall respect your wishes about distance and housing and labels, whatever they may be. That being said, as long as you’re still up for… this, as you put it, I will never deny you, no matter the distance. I would cross oceans for you,”

A cum-drunk, half-asleep giggle escaped me as he nuzzled in, kissing my ear.

“Thank you,”

“No, thank you,” he matched my laughter with his own, “I believe this is what James would call post nut clarity,”

“Now you ruined it!” I huffed. The faux anger only lasted a moment, though, before I was rolling to face him, cheek pressed to the soft, downy hair of his chest. “I love you, Helmut.”

“I love you too, sweet girl. Now sleep. I’ll get up and deal with the dog once you’re resting,”

For the first time in two years, I breathed in the scent of Helmut’s cologne before lapsing into a peaceful sleep.

---------

A/N: Thank you for reading! This is my first foray into smut in literal years, and it was literally all written within a 12 hour period, so I hope any mistakes weren't enough to take away from your enjoyment. Comments are always appreciated, but never expected. See you on the next authors note!

#zemo #helmut zemo #baron zemo #zemo x reader #daniel brühl #fanfic #marvel fanfiction #x reader #helmut zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader #daniel bruhl x reader #zemo smut #marvel smut

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gimmethatagustd · 6 months

Text

collard greens | kth

Working as a counselor at a summer camp for kids isn't the most exciting job, but hanging out with Taehyung makes it worth it.

○ Pairing: Taehyung x trans man!Reader

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: A classic Jai weed fic, friends to lovers, summer camp au, smut, fluff

○ 13 / 100 Drabble Challenge (Camp Counselor)

○ Word Count: 3,670

○ Warnings: Some body/gender dysphoria, reference to top surgery, reference to hormone therapy, marijuana, oral sex, (self) hand job, Jai didn't proofread this jhsdkjfsk sorry friends

○ Notes: Today is International Transgender Day of Visibility, created to celebrate trans and nonbinary people worldwide. Particularly on Tumblr and with reader-insert BTS fanfic, there is little representation of trans and nonbinary characters. Readers are often written as AFAB and use she/her pronouns and traditionally feminine terms to describe their genitalia (even when listed as gender-neutral readers). I wanted to share a story that explicitly focuses on a trans reader. I welcome everyone to read this story, regardless of gender or sexual orientation. As F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, "That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong."

○ Disclaimer: The trans community is diverse, and this fic doesn't represent all trans and nonbinary people's experiences. If you'd like to learn more about how to be an ally for trans and nonbinary people, check out this article from the Human Rights Campaign.

○ Post Date: March 31, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Crosspost

○ What was Jai listening to? A weed playlist

“Did you know that smoking weed makes your sperm count decrease?”

You scrunch your nose at Taehyung’s vulgar question, but he doesn’t notice. He’s nearly cross-eyed as he licks along the edge of the blunt he just rolled with expert fingers.

“Not me,” you challenge. “Maybe you.”

Taehyung stares at you for a moment. You can practically see the gears turning in his head before he sticks the blunt between his lips and speaks around it.

“Shit, yeah.”

The summer air, thick with humidity, doesn’t help when your face heats up from Taehyung’s mistake. It’s funny how seemingly inconsequential moments—like Taehyung forgetting that you don’t have the same parts as him—can bring you such euphoria. Taehyung has always been good at that, though. He’s never treated you differently, singled you out, or made you feel like you aren’t enough or are too much.

You’re just two dudes perched on a mossy rock in the middle of the woods, smoking a blunt while the camp kids you’re supposed to be taking care of are asleep in their cabins.

Simple as that.

Taehyung pauses to light the end of the blunt and inhales deeply, drawing smoke through his pink lips and exhaling it slowly. The thick cloud doesn’t have a chance to disappear into the night sky before Taehyung breathes it back in through his nose.

Rolling your eyes at Taehyung’s unnecessary display of stoner prowess, you take the blunt from his pinched grip and curl your lips around the tip.

“Are you trying to say weed is, like, male birth control?” you ask, smoke coming out of your mouth in disjointed puffs and streams between your teeth while you talk.

“It basically is.”

“That feels very unreliable.”

Your fingers brush against each other every time you pass the blunt between you. The contact makes your arm tingle, and the feeling wiggles down the right side of your body the more times you reach for the blunt.

“I mean, I smoke, like, every day, and I haven’t knocked anyone up yet,” Taehyung admits with a shrug.

You nearly choke.

“You’re fucking people raw, Tae?”

“Shhh!” Taehyung giggles with his index finger to your lips. You grab his wrist and try to push him off, but he doesn’t budge.

“Taehyung,” you whisper, but he pinches your top and bottom lips together to keep you quiet. It’s useless; his giggles are louder than you are.

“Listen,” Taehyung grins as he brings the blunt to his lips. Yours are still pinched together with his other hand. “I got tested before camp started, and I got no babies.”

“That’s not–”

“I know the test is for STIs, not babies, obviously!” Taehyung squawks, shoving you hard on the shoulder when you finally free yourself from him with a giggle, almost sending you flying off the rock. “I’m just saying I got neither.”

“Alright, alright! I believe you. No STIs, no babies.”

“Exactly.” Taehyung winks at you as he exhales a thick cloud of smoke.

Since you’re sitting next to each other, it’s impossible to escape the shy embarrassment Taehyung triggers in you. He has no business looking as good as he does when he smokes. It’s his lips and eyes, you think, watching him take another hit. The perfect pink bow of his upper lip and the plushness of his bottom lip make his mouth look pretty when the smoke swirls out of it.

When he looks at you through the smoke that surrounds you, his eyes are dark and lidded, a heavy gaze that weighs on you as you bring the blunt to your lips.

“Do you want me to roll another one?” Taehyung asks, his voice rough and thick, after a few more passes of the blunt between you.

It doesn’t feel like you’ve been outside for a long time, but a quick glance at your phone tells you it’s way past time to return to your cabin.

“We should head back, unfortunately,” you say with a sigh, “Waking up in the morning is going to fucking suck.”

“There’s probably just this last hit left.”

You wave away Taehyung’s offer of the blunt now smoked down to a pinched nub.

“I started it, so you have to end it,” Taehyung insists.

“Fine, come here.”

You’ve shotgunned weed with someone before. Although people may call it a shotgun kiss, it isn’t a real kiss. The person who inhales the smoke is supposed to blow the smoke into the other person’s mouth. Sure, that requires getting close to the other person, but it doesn’t require mouth-to-mouth contact. Everyone knows this, especially someone who smokes as much as Taehyung does.

So why does Taehyung lean in too close to press his lips against yours when you blow the smoke into his mouth?

It’s quiet outside, just the chatter of insects and other forest dwellers breaking the still summer night, so you easily hear the breathy way Taehyung inhales the smoke you’ve passed to him. It’s a soft, gentle sound that makes your entire body tingle, starting where his plush lips connect with yours.

Have you wondered if Taehyung’s lips are as soft as they look? Of course, you have; who hasn’t? Taehyung is easily one of the most gorgeous people you’ve ever met, but he has always been just a camp friend.

You’ve known Taehyung for years, spending half of every summer together at this camp since you were kids, eventually becoming counselors once you aged out of the program. Despite living in different cities and attending different universities, you’ve maintained an unlikely friendship through camp.

However, now you’re wondering if you’ve been reading your relationship all wrong.

Taehyung pulls away and turns his head to the side to exhale the smoke before cupping the back of your head and leaning in again. He’s pretty like this, with his eyes closed and expression relaxed.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and for some reason, it feels like the hottest thing anyone has ever said to you.

“Yeah,” your voice is hoarse when you respond, scratchy from the smoke making your throat raw and your mouth dry. You made the rookie mistake of not bringing anything to drink.

When Taehyung slips his tongue in your mouth, you can taste the smokiness of the blunt. He cups your face with both hands and deepens the kiss, tilting his head slightly and causing your noses to brush against each other. Making out while high comes with an indescribable pleasure, something airy and electrifying that washes over your entire body in waves. It isn’t like normal arousal that you feel throbbing from your core and spread throughout your body. Kissing Taehyung while high makes your entire body tremble.

You twist your fingers into the sides of his baggy t-shirt to have something to hold onto as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, eliciting a low groan from you. The old camp shirt is faded and soft from years of going through the wash. You’ve got an identical one in your dresser at the cabin.

“We have to go back,” you insist weakly once Taehyung releases your lip from between his teeth.

“I forgot.”

“Of course you did.”

Your laugh is full of anxiety as you look away from Taehyung’s heavy gaze. His eyes are blazing red. You wonder if he kissed you because he’s high and if he’s going to wake up in the morning and pretend it didn’t happen. Is that better than the alternative outcome where Taehyung is weirded out because, well, you’re you?

“Shut up,” Taehyung grumbles, but he wears a grin as he digs the toe of his hiking boot into the ground, twisting it to make sure the blunt is put out.

“First one to the cabin gets to shower first,” he declares.

“Taehyung!” you hiss, but he’s already crashing through the forest brush with flailing arms.

It takes a few seconds for your brain to get in sync with your body, still foggy from weed and Taehyung’s kisses. You scramble to get up, having to adjust your pants with a tug to your crotch as you jog after him. Bottom growth is affirming, but it’s also a pain in the ass sometimes. You can’t imagine how cis men deal with all that.

Taking off in what you hope is the direction of the camp, you quickly realize there’s no way you’ll make it to the cabin before Taehyung. The forest floor is uneven, and you’re an idiot and didn’t wear your hiking boots. Your smooth-soled Converse slide against mossy rocks and get caught on raised tree roots, nearly sending you flying as you try to catch up with Taehyung.

When you finally reach the cabin, you’re wheezing, and your entire body is sticky with sweat. Taehyung is already in your bedroom, whistling as he rifles through the dresser like he’s having a grand time despite his hair looking like a rat’s nest and having welts on his legs from running through bushes in shorts.

“Took you long enough,” he grins as you stomp through the front door and head straight to the bedroom.

The cabin is small, with a living room big enough for a couch and a coffee table, a small kitchenette off to the side, and a door to the bedroom you’re sharing with Taehyung. You each have a twin-sized bed that sits across from the other in the small room, and you share a large dresser placed in between your beds against the back wall. On the opposite side of the room is the door to the bathroom. Everything is a tight fit, but you don’t mind. The two of you are hardly ever in the cabin anyway. Being a counselor requires long hours full of activities, meaning you’re only in your cabin to sleep unless you have an off day.

“I’m gonna go enjoy a nice, warm shower now.” Taehyung rubs his victory in your face, his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and his eyes glittering like fire embers in the cabin’s pale yellow lighting.

“Dude, fuck off,” you give him your middle finger as he shuts the bathroom door with a cackle.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for Taehyung to finish showering. You trade places silently, your red eyes avoiding Taehyung’s because the time you had alone made you paranoid about what happened in the woods.

The paranoia only gets worse while you’re in the shower. There’s no need to scrub yourself with your washcloth so aggressively, but you feel like your entire body is crawling. It isn’t the discomfort you once felt when you looked at your naked body. It’s been a while since you felt discomfort when touching your chest or washing between your legs. No, this feeling you’re experiencing now is something different. Rather than feeling the urge to hide, you want to be seen. You want to be seen by Taehyung, and you don’t know what to do with that desire.

Showering doesn’t calm the need pulsing through your body. You feel a little less high, but you’re still buzzing with electricity, still incredibly sensitive as you dry yourself with a fluffy towel. With your brain still floating in the clouds, you almost think you’re hallucinating the slow opening of the bathroom door. Quickly, you wrap your towel around your hips and stare at Taehyung, whose head pokes through the door crack.

“Hellooo,” Taehyung drags out the word, low and slow, as his eyes sweep over your body.

He’s blatantly checking you out, and you feel your cheeks heat up from arousal or shame; you’re not sure which. You may not experience dysphoria anymore, but that doesn’t mean you’re running around shirtless, sporting scars where most guys’ pecs end. It was never “okay” to be shirtless with the chest you had before; it’s taking a while to feel “okay” doing it now.

You take a deep breath and remind yourself that Taehyung has never cared. He watched you blossom for over a decade as you shaped yourself into your most authentic form, and he kept up with every change, no matter how different things were from the summer before.

“Do you need something or…?”

Blinking, Taehyung’s face turns pink, and he shakes his head.

“No. Well, I mean, sort of?”

Taehyung laughs at himself, and you can’t help but laugh, too, because who can hear Taehyung laugh and not want to experience that same joy, even if it’s twinged with nervousness?

“What do you sort of need?” you finally ask with a grin, that shared joy warming your chest.

“Can I come in?”

“You’re already halfway there.”

With a cheeky grin, Taehyung slips into the bathroom and closes the door so you’ll stay warm. He’s wearing loose boxers and a tank shirt because the cabin’s lack of central air conditioning makes it hot at night. He’s cute like this, soft and domestic.

“Did you like it?” Taehyung keeps his hand on the doorknob as though preparing to leave, but his voice is steady when he asks the question.

“Like what?”

You know what. Taehyung knows you know what.

He clarifies anyway.

“When I kissed you, did you like it?” Taehyung switches between focusing on your eyes and your mouth. “Because… I want to do it again.”

It only takes a slight nod for Taehyung to crowd you against the bathroom counter. The kiss feels confident this time, no longer an accident or hesitant test ride. Taehyung holds your jaw to tilt your head up and kisses you hard enough to leave you breathless. You noisily inhale whenever he lets you.

“I didn’t want to wait,” Taehyung explains against your lips while you moan against his.

“For what?”

“You to finish showering.” Taehyung’s free hand runs down your side to squeeze your hip, part of his hand slipping under your towel. “Is this okay?”

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you let him unwrap your towel and drop it on the slippery tile floor. Maybe it’s the weed making you feel reckless, letting this boy see you in a way you haven’t let a boy see you since you started your transition. Maybe it’s just because it’s Taehyung.

“You, too,” you groan when you feel Taehyung’s clothed cock press against your thigh.

Taehyung doesn’t need to be told twice, reaching over his shoulder to pull his shirt over his head by grabbing the back. Once he’s shirtless, his mouth finds your jaw, kissing across to the sensitive spot just below your ear while you tug down his boxers so he can kick them off.

Beneath the arousal building inside of you are nerves you can’t seem to shake. They’re making it difficult to concentrate on how fantastic it feels to have Taehyung’s soft lips kissing and sucking your neck. All you can think about is how you’re afraid that Taehyung will freak out, that he keeps forgetting, and how it feels nice when he forgets when you’re talking about guy stuff, but it’ll feel devastating when he realizes he has forgotten now.

Slowly, Taehyung’s fingertips skirt your torso, creeping down your side to swipe over your waist and trail along the crease where your hip meets your thigh. You hold your breath as he ventures further, eventually shooting your hands out to squeeze his biceps when his fingers dip into your hole to gather your arousal and drag it upward.

“Can I suck your cock?” Taehyung breathes, hot and ragged, against the curve of your ear.

Jolting back, you stare at him with wide eyes and feel your heart flutter painfully in your chest because you still haven’t started breathing again.

“W-What, what did you say?” you stammer, holding Taehyung’s red, lusty gaze.

“Can I suck your cock? I want to suck you off.”

Taehyung says it so simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He slid his fingers through your arousal and didn’t refer to it as your pussy or clit, as if he already knew those words would make you feel disgusting.

“You, how did you know… why did you call it that?”

Scrunching his eyebrows and frowning slightly, Taehyung pulls his hand from in between your legs.

“Uhh… you always call it your dick when we’re talking about stuff with the guys?” There’s a panicked edge to Taehyung’s voice, each sentence coming out like a hesitant question. “But, uh, I feel like most of society agrees that dick isn’t really sexy, so… I thought cock would sound better…”

When you don’t respond, Taehyung’s face shifts from pale with panic to bright red with embarrassment.

“Shit, should I not have said that? Should I have asked first? I’m sorry I—”

You kiss away Taehyung’s embarrassed babbling, your fingers dug into his hair, and your body pressed flush against his. His hands curve around to hold your lower back and pull you closer as if it’s even possible. You want him to try, to mold you into him.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

When Taehyung smiles, his teeth press against your bottom lip.

“You don’t need to thank me. I just wanna make you feel good. Will you let me?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You bite your bottom lip and squeeze the edge of the counter on either side of your waist as you watch Taehyung get on his knees. The bath mat protects his knees from the hard tile when he kneels in front of you.

“You’re so pretty,” Taehyung says softly as he rubs his hands up and down the inside of your thighs with slight pressure to push them apart a little bit more, “Pretty boy.”

It’s hot watching Taehyung lick the tip of your cock, the hormones you’ve been on making it stick out beyond your folds. Taehyung is gentle when he presses your lower abdomen with his palm and uses his fingers to pull your lips back slightly to expose more of you. He gets you nice and wet before he wraps his lips around your cock, suckling it and flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, grabbing Taehyung’s head with one hand so you can run your fingers through his bangs and push them away from his face to see his eyes better.

Taehyung hums in response to your moans, and you feel the vibration rumble through your groin. He’s skillful as he licks and swirls your cock with his tongue and keeps a tight suction around it with his lips and hollowed cheeks.

For a moment, you tip your head back and try to regulate your breathing because how is Taehyung about to make you cum already, just from his mouth? Sure, your body has been more sensitive since you started your hormone therapy, but fuck.

To make matters worse, when you look back down, you notice that Taehyung’s free hand is wrapped around his cock. He pumps his cock at the same rhythm as he begins to bob his head as if he’s sucking even more of you than there really is. You can say, without a doubt, that no one has ever tried to affirm you and make you feel as complete during sex as Taehyung is.

“Fuck, yeah, Taehyung,” you adjust your grip on Taehyung’s hair and start guiding his movements, pulling him up and down by his hair, “Just like that, shit, your mouth feels so fucking good.”

You aren’t pulling his hair hard; you’re really only following the pace he’s already established, but it feels good. It must feel good for Taehyung, too, because he whimpers and jerks off faster. His body trembles just like yours does, and it doesn’t take long for both of you to be panting and frantic.

“Gonna cum, fuck, fuck.”

You squeeze Taehyung’s hair and the edge of the counter as you buck your hips, coming right as Taehyung adjusts his angle to lap at the gush of arousal at your hole, painting his mouth and chin.

“God, you’re so hot, you have no fucking idea,” Taehyung groans into the inside of your thigh, where he nuzzles his face.

His breath is hot and wet as he pants, trembling for a few seconds longer before he finally cums, too. Some of it leaks between his fingers and lands on the inside of your leg, but you don’t care; you just caress his hair from his face while he breathes slowly to calm himself down.

With trembling legs, you twist around to collapse onto the closed lid of the toilet, unable to stand any longer. Your head feels spacey and throbs, likely because you’d been holding your breath too much. It’s okay, though. It makes your body feel all warm and jiggly.

“We have to shower again,” Taehyung says quietly.

He looks just as fucked out as you feel, his eyes wide and staring out into the void as he continues trying to relax his shuddery breath. You can’t help but laugh, throwing your head back and letting it out, like whatever other pent-up energy you had left over after you came needs to escape somehow.

“Yeah, we do,” you wheeze even harder once Taehyung’s face cracks into a boxy smile, and he starts laughing, too.

“I got cum all over the floor,” Taehyung cackles, falling back on his bare ass and holding up his cum-covered hand.

You wipe the tears collecting in the corners of your eyes and shake your head. “That is something I don’t envy.”

“It’s so fucking inconvenient!”

Taehyung grins up at you with crinkled eyes, and you don’t know why you were so nervous before. He’s so perfect it makes your heart hurt.

“Next time, I’ll be the one to swallow,” you promise slyly, pleased when Taehyung lets out a weak moan in response.

“Bro, don’t do this to me,” Taehyung throws his head back and whines at the ceiling. "I’m gonna fall in love with you if you’re not careful.”

Grinning, you shrug. Tonight has been pretty reckless; there’s no use in being careful now.

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd & daddytaehyungie).

#diverseinsertknet #taehyung x reader #bts x reader #bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #bts smut #bts fluff #jai writes #gimmethatagustd #collard greens

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wizardfrog69 · 2 years

Text

୨⎯ "no nut November" ⎯୧

Feat. Yosano, Atsushi, Kunikida, Dazai, Ranpo, Chuuya, kouyou, Oda, Ango, Fitzgerald, Poe, Hawthrone, Fyodor, Nikolai, Shibusawa

CW: nsfw!

Akiko Yosano:

Would never fail

Like never

I think she would participate even tho she thinks it's a dumb idea

Atsushi Nakajima:

Dazai told him what it was

Doesn't see the point

If he does do it then he won't fail

He doesn't really give off horny vibes so might unintentionally do it anyway

Fr doesn't fail

Doppo Kunikida:

Thinks it a dumb idea

If he wanted to do it he wouldn't fail

Cuz he never fails

If his partner wants to participate then he won't agrue

He'll think its quite pointless but he would mind

Osamu Dazai:

Will do it

Probably doesn't fail

Maybe he does but like at the end of the month

It would be fun to tease him throughout the month

The moment the clock strikes midnight at the beginning on December yk he is in the bathroom wanking

He is

You can practically hear it throughout the whole house

Ranpo Edogawa:

He will participate

He won't fail

But if you tease him, then he will tease you and you might fail

Chuuya Nakahara:

He will do it if it's a bet

Idk just say you'll buy him a nice hat or something and he'll do it

Doesn't fail

Kōyō Ozaki:

Obviously doesn't fail

Idk she slays that's all I'm gonna say

Sakunosuke Oda:

Isn't a big fan of no nut November but wouldn't mind participating

Idk

Doesn't fail

Ango Sakaguchi:

Didn't realise it was November

Too busy doing work

Francis Scott Fitzgerald:

Ig I'm just gonna leave the 'key' out

Will pay for it to not be November

Done 🥰

Now he can nut all he wants

Edgar Allan Poe:

Didn't know if he wanted to do it

Does it for fun

Doesn't fail

Nathaniel Hawthrone:

Never nuts

Even in other months

Never fails

Fyodor Dostoevsky:

Too cold to nut

And too weak

This man needs to eat

Istg he's just skin and bones

Someone give this man food

Nikolai Gogol:

Fails in the first hour

Probably fails

Or does it for longer just to annoy his s/o

Tatsuhiko Shibusawa:

Already knows he's gonna fail

Not fail*

I finally get to watch my show and I have to watch like 8 adds 8! Too many

Anyway

I want to brush his hair

And braid it

#yosano akiko #atsushi nakajima #kunikida doppo #osamu dazai #ranpo edogawa #chuuya nakahara #kouyou ozaki #oda sakunosuke #ango sakaguchi #f. scott fitzgerald #edgar allen poe bsd #Nathaniel Hawthrone #fyodor dostoevsky #nikolai gogol #shibusawa tatsuhiko #bsd x reader #bsd #bungo stray dogs

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venus-haze · 4 months

Text

Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? (Foxy Coltrane x Reader)

Summary: It’s Halloween, 1985, and your Little Red Riding Hood costume catches the attention of the Midnight Wolfman himself.

Note: Female (incredibly unhinged) reader. Foxy calls the reader “Red” because of the Halloween costume, not due to any physical descriptors. I've literally been working on this since February🫠 Anyway, this is for all the old man fuckers out there🖤 Except if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Discussions of canon typical violence. Sexually explicit content involving semi-public play, oral sex (m. receiving) and light roleplaying elements.

October 31, 1985

As soon as you walked into the bar up the road from your place, you immediately wanted to walk out. Having no other plans for Halloween night, you figured you could make the best of going solo. Wore a cute little costume to see where the night led you. Somehow you ended up in a bar where no one else was dressed up for the holiday that called for it. At least, not to the extent you were. Sure, it was a mass-produced Little Red Riding Hood costume you bought on your way home from work, but you made it your own with some makeup and cute heels you dug out of your closet.

You trudged over to the bar, soon nursing your drink and your hurt feelings. With your lip pouted in a slight sulk, you looked around, hoping to catch someone’s attention. Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, a man approached. Dark eyes locked on you. Sly grin on his face. Older, handsome in a scruffy way that your friends always teased you for being into.

You craned your neck to look up at him from your barstool. He sure as hell had that going for him too.

“I dig your costume, Little Red.”

You smiled. “Thanks. Seems like I’m the only one here who got the memo that it’s Halloween.”

“Hell, Halloween is everyday for me,” he said.

“You got a name?”

“You can call me the Midnight Wolfman.” He threw his head back and bellowed out a howl.

Your eyes widened. Heart might’ve skipped a beat.

Shouts and cheers punctuated the sound, a few of the bar patrons following his lead with weak howls of their own.

He was probably crazy. Or drunk. Likely both. But fuck, why else would you have gone out on Halloween?

“Buy me a drink, Wolfman?”

“Glad to, Red.”

He sat down at the stool next to you, long legs splayed out as one of his boots rested between your heels on your footrest. He claimed your space so easily, you nearly forgot you’d only just met him.

Two shared shots of whiskey later, your face was warm as he leaned in to talk. His easy drawl lured you closer, knees touching, close enough that you could see yourself in his steel blue gaze. You nearly suggested finding a booth to squeeze into.

Your mind raced with visions of him pulling you onto his lap, his big hands all over you, lips attached to your neck while the other bar patrons were none the wiser.

“Most people call me Foxy, though,” he said.

You furrowed your brows, hoping you hadn’t been fantasizing through too much of the conversation. “Foxy?”

“That’s my name. Winslow Foxworth Coltrane.”

“I like it. Sounds like an F. Scott Fitzgerald character or something.”

“Who’s that?”

“He wrote The Great Gatsby.”

“Oh yeah, I saw that one, had Redford in it. Kind of a snoozefest if you ask me. I mean, hard to follow up Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” he said. “What kind of movies are you into, Red?”

“I love horror, especially the gory shit,” you said before you could think twice.

He grinned, giving you a nod of approval. “Right on.”

“My favorite is probably The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Have you seen that one?”

“Yeah, it was great. Reminds me of my family.”

You laughed. “No kidding.”

His smile wavered, and for the first time all night it felt like you two weren’t on the same wavelength. Had you missed something in your half-drunk stupor? Was there something he mentioned that you fantasized through?

“Um, how about you?” you asked, trying to salvage the connection. “Westerns?”

“I’m into the classics, like those old monster movies.”

“Well, you’re way more handsome than Lon Chaney, Wolfman.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m the real deal, baby.”

“I believe it.”

“Yeah?”

You licked your lips. “With a howl like yours? Makes a girl think you could eat her alive.”

“C’mere,” he growled, pulling you to him.

His lips were on yours, wild and passionate that would keep you up the rest of the night even if nothing else happened. The way he had his hands on you, though, bringing you closer to him, deepening the kiss so you could taste the whiskey on his tongue, the very same he bought you, made you certain he wanted the night to end exactly the same way you did.

He pawed at your ass, his hands pushing up your short, red, satin skirt until your panties peaked out. You moaned when his fingers brushed the wet spot on the fabric, pushing against your clit. Fuck the notion of a getting busy in a back booth, you were ready to let him take you up against the bar if you weren’t so rudely interrupted.

“Hey, c’mon,” the bartender said, looking equally disturbed and exasperated. “You guys can’t—”

Foxy slammed his palm onto the bar, nearby glasses rattling on impact. “Motherfucker, if you don’t get out of my girl’s face I’ll crack your skull open.”

A smile twitched across your lips.

“Get out before I call the cops. Both of you.”

Foxy stood up. “Think I’m scared of some fuckin’ pigs?” Grabbed a nearby beer bottle and smashed it against the bar. Before you could blink, the jagged edge was pressed against the bartender’s throat. If anyone noticed what was going on, they sure as hell weren’t trying to intervene. “By the time they get here I could gut you like a fish.”

A delirious thrill rolled down your spine at the gleam in Foxy’s eyes.

“Look man, you—you don’t even have to pay for the drinks. Just go, alright?”

Deathly silence fell over the altercation, the bartender glancing between Foxy’s wild face and the broken bottle.

Do it, a dark, repressed part of you, ravenous for blood, hissed.

Foxy laughed, shaking his head. “You’re a fuckin’ pussy, man.” He threw his arm around you, letting the broken bottle shatter on the floor as he led you out.

“Don’t come back!”

“I wouldn’t shit here if I ate a gas station hot dog, asshole,” he shouted over his shoulder.

You pulled your polyester cloak a little tighter when you walked outside. Damn, you and Foxy probably looked like one hell of a pair to the people just getting to the bar.

The two of you stood in the middle of the parking lot while he lit a cigarette. “I don’t eat gas station hot dogs if I can help it. Give me indigestion. My ol’ man—well, adopted ol’ man—he used to make a mean fried chicken at his gas station,” he said, taking a drag. “Get a hankering for the stuff sometimes, and KFC sure as hell doesn’t cut it. Guess Colonel Sanders’ get-up is better than dressing like a clown, though.”

You interjected his rambling, “You would’ve done it, wouldn’t you? The bartender—”

“Wouldn’t have been the first time.” He stared you down, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He took a long drag, smoke rolling from his lips and circling above his head as he asked, “You afraid of the big bad Wolfman, Red?”

“Terrified.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Then show me.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Mine. Yours. I don’t know—I need you, Foxy.” Your voice neared a whine.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Say that again.”

“I need you.” You tugged on his shirt. “Foxy, c’mon.”

“Yours. I can’t drive at night for shit.”

You grabbed him by the arm, practically pulling him over to your car.

Jamming the key into the lock, you couldn’t open the driver’s side door fast enough, quickly unlocking the passenger door for him. Your hands would’ve been shaking if you weren’t gripping the steering wheel within an inch of your life as you peeled out of the parking lot the moment he finished adjusting the seat, moving it as far back as it could go to accommodate his long legs.

“Mind if I turn on the radio?” Foxy asked.

“Sure. I don’t live far, though. Should only be ten minutes.”

He fiddled with the stations until a late night news broadcast mentioned the name Otis Driftwood. He paused before sitting back.

“‘Free the Three’ demonstrations in support of the notorious Devil’s Rejects death cult continue well into the night.”

The reporter detailed the Fireflys’ crimes, as if anyone could have missed them. Hundreds of gruesome murders to their names. You, just like everyone else in America, had been glued to the story when it broke. All work practically came to a halt when their trials were going on, obvious guilty verdicts amidst a media circus.

“What do you think of ‘em?” Foxy asked, breaking the silence.

“The Fireflys?”

“Yeah.”

You glanced at him, tearing your eyes off the road for a moment to gauge how he’d react to your answer. “I guess what they did is fucked up, but the police and military have done way worse. Like, Otis Driftwood never dropped nukes on entire cities,” you said. “Why?”

“That’s my family.”

“Really?”

“Well, Otis is my half-brother. The rest of ‘em are all adopted.”

You looked at him again. Then the road. Then him in disbelief. “Then you—“

“Told you I was the real deal, sweetheart.”

“Why didn’t you get caught?”

“I was already in the can. Crazy how that shit happens, huh?”

You hit the gas, accelerating from 50 to 85 in a flash. No cops. Didn’t matter. Foxy could handle them if there were. You pressed your thighs together. Almost considered pulling over and just fucking in the backseat. But where was the fun in that? The excitement? The vulnerability of letting a killer into your home, where you’re supposed to be safe, and hoping to god he wouldn’t see your kitchen knives and get some bright ideas? You moaned. Oh god. You moaned.

“Red?”

“I know, Foxy. I’m going as fast as I can.” Your voice was whiny, high-pitched, desperate. “Piece of shit car—”

He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re nuts.”

“Is that a turn off?”

“Hell no.”

——

You nearly dropped your keys by the time you unlocked the door to your apartment, Foxy feeling you up from behind while you fumbled with them, obviously amused by your racing pulse and trembling hands.

“Cool place,” he said when he walked inside. “You got any roommates or—”

You pushed him against the front door, your mouth on his, desperate, hungry for anything he’d give you. Slipping your hand between your bodies, you cupped the bulge in his jeans. He groaned into your mouth, and you squeezed gently, feeling his cock strain against the rough denim.

“Don’t tease,” he growled.

“It’s only teasing if you don’t follow through.” You kneeled in front of him, moving to untie your cloak while he unbuckled his belt, unzipping his jeans.

“Wait,” he said, “leave the costume on.”

“Whatever you want, Wolfman.”

He pulled his cock from his boxers, big enough to be intimidating at first glance. But he was a killer, part of the Firefly clan, for god's sake, you wouldn't falter, instead mustering up the courage you had to even invite him home in the first place.

“My, what a big cock you have,” you teased, taking it in your hand, spreading the precum at his tip with your thumb while slowly pumping his length.

“All the better to fuck that pretty mouth with, Red.”

You licked your lips, holding eye contact with him as you took him in your mouth. Something primal about him, inherently dangerous. He’d killed people before, probably done far worse. Could change his mind at any time and cause you a world of hell. You pressed your thighs together, trying to ignore the ache in your core for hopes he’d take care of it if you did a good enough job. With the way he dug his fingers into your scalp, loud curses and praises falling from his mouth, you weren’t doing half bad.

“Midnight Wolfman’s got you right where he wants you, huh, Red? Turned you into his little bitch?” he taunted. “C’mon, gimme a howl.”

You whined around his cock, choking a bit when he thrust in your mouth. You liked this version of the story a hell of a lot better. No one to save you. Just you, in your Little Red Riding Hood costume, and the wolf, his crooked teeth bared as he hissed through them, grinning down at you. And you brought him there. Invited him into your home knowing he could tear you apart if he wanted to—maybe you wanted him to.

“You’re a good slut, ain’t you?” He groaned. His cock twitched in your mouth, you could feel the salty taste of him on your tongue as he came with a howl. “Take it all, Red—fuck, take it.” As if you had much of a choice but to swallow, but his praise went to your head, to your pussy. “Fuck, you’re like a dream come true.”

Pulling back, sitting on your heels, you looked up at him with a newfound predatory gleam in your eye as he caught his breath.

“By the way,” you said, acutely aware of the wet ache between your thighs, “I live alone, if you wanna return the favor.”

#foxy coltrane x reader #foxy coltrane #3 from hell #house of 1000 corpses #slasher x reader #slasher fanfic #slasher fandom #slasher community #slasher fucker

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