#i refuse to back down from this challenge

[matcha3mochi]

PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

[thatnightlamp]

ROGAL DORN NSFW ALPHABET.

Tags: @incrediblethirst @iluminatka16 @portabella201

A = Aftercare

B = Body part

Dorn handles aftercare like a duty, but that doesn’t make it cold. He’ll clean you with crisp efficiency, tuck you beneath his arm, and stroke your hair with a hand that still trembles slightly. He won’t say much. But it means everything. He stays up long after you’ve fallen asleep, guarding you like a sentinel.

C = Cum

Your spine. He watches the way it curves, the way you arch under him. When he fucks you, his hand inevitably slides up your back, following the line like a craftsman tracing sacred architecture.

Efficient, controlled — but when he lets go, it’s startling. His orgasm hits in deep, guttural growls. He always finishes inside, with his hips pinned to yours, holding you in place. Afterward, he won’t let it go to waste, he fingers it back into you slowly, wordlessly.

D = Dirty secret

E = Experience

Dorn has a habit of collecting… evidence. A lock of your hair, your used underthings, a worn shirt that still carries your scent. He keeps it all behind a hidden compartment in his quarters. He visits it when you're gone too long, breathing deeply, jaw tight with restraint.

F = Favorite position

Dorn learns by doing and perfecting. He studies your responses like siege architecture: where the walls give, where the defenses shatter. What starts mechanical becomes deeply effective. He doesn’t waste time with guesswork. You will be undone, methodically.

G = Goofy

Bent over a surface—his desk, a reinforced wall, the edge of his bed—with one hand between your shoulder blades and the other gripping your hip. He likes leverage, control, and full access to your throat and your sounds.

Not even slightly. Dorn doesn’t laugh in bed. Doesn’t banter. Doesn’t smile. If you try to crack a joke, he’ll just stare at you, deadpan, until you fall quiet and then he’ll resume fucking you like you’re nothing but his.

H = Hair

I = Intimacy

Meticulously groomed. His hair is short, regulation-perfect. His body hair is minimal, trimmed, precise. His pubic hair is just as clean, a white trail dusting against his thick cock. He smells like ozone, sanded stone, and something uniquely Dorn—sharp and clean.

K = Kink

Dorn doesn't express love with words. He shows it through consistency, silence, and the way he watches you sleep like he’s guarding you from the galaxy itself. When he holds you during sex, it’s with a possessiveness that borders on obsession. He may not say “I love you”, but when he wraps both arms around you and breathes against your ear, you’ll feel it.

J = Jack off

Rarely. He prefers restraint. But when the pressure builds too high, usually after too many nights thinking of you, he’ll shut himself in his quarters, bare his teeth, and jerk himself off in harsh, gritted silence. Always fast. Always efficient. But always thinking of you.

Control kink: He wants to own the moment. Your body, your sounds, your surrender.

Bondage: He ties you down with silk or leather restraints, not for cruelty, but to hold you still, keep you where he needs you.

Sensory deprivation: He likes blindfolding you, watching you twitch beneath him without knowing where he’ll touch next.

L = Location

M = Motivation

Private chambers, locked and fortified. He refuses to be interrupted. That said, he has taken you in an unfinished section of a fortress, with cold air on your bare skin and his hands keeping you steady on raw stone. It was possessive and filthy and unforgettable.

N = No

Defiance. Vulnerability. When you challenge him with your eyes, when you beg and plead and don’t look away. When you trust him to pin you down and hold you there, when your body yields but your eyes don’t.

O = Oral

No public sex. No degradation. He refuses to devalue you or himself. He also won’t entertain anything “silly”—costumes, pet play, role reversal. Sex is war. He wins, every time.

P = Pace

Giving. He sees it as necessary… until he gets addicted to the way you shake and beg. Eventually, he learns to love it, eating you out with locked eyes and unrelenting focus.

Q = Quickie

Unforgiving. He thrusts like he’s building a citadel inside your body. Every stroke is deep, hard, and meant to last. Even when he slows, it’s just to make you feel it more.

R = Risk

Yes, but only if you initiate. He’ll slam you against the wall, pull your underwear aside, and grunt through his teeth as he fucks you through the wall. But he’ll scold you after. “You should know better than to tempt me like that.”

S = Stamina

Only calculated ones. If you want to try something new, he’ll run through safety checks, position strength tolerances, and ensure you’re secured. Then he’ll try it, once, and gauge the results with a soldier’s scrutiny.

T = Toys

Relentless. He doesn’t ���finish.” He completes you. He can go all night, switching positions, holding you in place until you cry for mercy. And then once more. For memory.

U = Unfair

He doesn’t buy them. He commissions them—artisan-crafted restraints, weighted plugs, cold steel implements that never break. He stores them in a locked case with your name engraved discreetly inside.

V = Volume

His teasing is cruel in its silence. He’ll edge you for hours, never speaking, just watching you unravel under his hands. He’ll bring you to the brink again and again, whisper “Not yet.”, and press your thighs back down when you shake too hard to stay still.

W = Wild card

Quiet. Alarmingly so. A few low grunts, your name like a sacred vow. But when he cums, it always escapes him, a rough, deep noise like the groan of stone splitting under pressure.

X = X-ray

He has a custom-built chastity device, yes, for you. Not out of cruelty, but because the thought of controlling your pleasure while he’s away keeps him calm. He’ll unlock you only when he returns, usually to immediately fuck you senseless.

Y = Yearning

Thick and long, though less veined than others—smooth, heavily ridged near the base, flushed pale pink. His cock curves ever so slightly upward, and he’s always painfully hard. Precum beads at the tip when he gets too focused on your body.

Very high. He just hides it. If you say “Do you want me?” he’ll pause, stare, and reply “Yes. Always.” Then he’ll press you to the nearest surface and take you like he’s been waiting for months.

Z = Zzz

He doesn’t sleep right away. He’ll lie awake, hand on your hip, listening to your breathing even out. Only when he's certain you're safe, loved, and satisfied… will his eyes finally close.

[whiteraven87]

The Flame That Never Fades - chapter 13 - Too Deep (13/16)

pairing: Toto Wolff x Victoria Lorenz (Original Character)

summary: She's young, fiery, naive and blindly in love. He's older, married, powerful and dangerously irresistible. To him, she was an obsession, an escape, a desire. To her, he was everything. The Flame that Never Fades is a story of forbidden love in the world of Formula 1, born from lust… and ending in something that can never be undone.

warnings: age gap (28 years), forbidden romance, obsession, desire, dark romance, smut, infidelity, emotional manipulation, dominant older man, angst, longing, possessiveness, emotional pain, toxic dynamics, no promise for happy ending.

word count: 37k

read on: AO3 - Wattpad - Tumblr

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my other finished fanfiction: The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist [Toto WolffxOC]

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chapters until now:

Prologue 1: Middle of the Night 2: Frozen 3: Shameless 4: Lilith 5: Ruthless 6: The Machine 7: Ride 8: No One Like You 9: Sad Girl 10: Summetime Sadness 11: Un-break My Heart 12: Blue Jeans 13: Too Deep

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Chapter 13: Too Deep

Some say I'm in it Too deep below you But how can I fix it When I'm wide-eyed in front of you? And I'm caught up within my head Without you in this empty bed, no, no Some say I'm in it Too deep below you Too Deep - Sickotoy, Eva Timush

Two months later, Australian GP – Season Opening

Albert Park Circuit was alive with energy. New colors, new contracts, new hopes. But for fans, journalists, and rivals, one event eclipsed everything else: the debut of Victoria Lorenz with Ferrari.

Her red suit stood in sharp contrast to what they knew. The face remained the same—focused, detached, precise. Yet in her blue eyes, the rebellious fire was gone. In its place burned the flames of determination.

Victoria in red looked like a challenge. And that's exactly how she drove.

The race was brutal. The Mercedes cars pushed hard, Red Bulls refused to back down. Yet it was she who clinched pole position. A perfect start. Aggressive, but without chaos. Cut off from the world, clocking one of the fastest race times. Ferrari's strategy—flawless.

Victory. Her first for the Scuderia.

Standing on the top step of the podium, her face lifted toward the sun, champagne held high, she looked like someone who had reclaimed her strength.

But deep inside — his shadow still lingered.

Toto watched the race from the hospital. He wasn't at the track. Not this time.

Susie had gone into labor the day before. Long. Silent. Intense.

Finally, on Sunday afternoon, his daughter was born.

Tiny, pink, her little fingers curling around his thumb. He looked at her as if witnessing a miracle. As if the chaos of the world had fallen silent, if only for a moment.

"She has your eyes," Susie said with a tired smile.

Toto remained silent. Words escaped him. He didn't cry. But in his gaze there was humility. And tenderness. And an emptiness he could no longer explain.

Because even as he held his child in his arms... his mind was elsewhere.

***

That evening, while Susie slept and the baby lay in the nurse's arms, he turned on his phone and saw a picture from the podium. Victoria in red. Alone. Proud. Sharp as a blade. And next to her—Lewis. With a smile that was no longer just friendly.

Toto stared at it for a long time. And in the silence, he whispered just one thing:

"You won, fiery girl. But I can no longer congratulate you."

When the headlines exploded the next day:

"Ferrari back on top thanks to Victoria Lorenz!"

"A new era for the Scuderia"

"Mercedes defeated by their former star"

Toto turned off his phone and returned to the hospital room.

He kissed his daughter's forehead. And he whispered:

"I don't know how to be a good father to you if my whole heart was left behind. With her."

A few days later

Toto sat in his office at Brackley, at the oak desk that had witnessed the most important decisions of his career. Headlines pulsed on the screen before him.

"New F1 couple? Victoria Lorenz and Lewis Hamilton together?"

"Growing closer in the paddock, secret trips – hidden romance?"

"Champions united – romance of the year?"

Neither of them spoke. Neither denied it. And the world, as always, did the rest.

Toto stared at the screen without blinking, but inside him burned a raging fire.

Each headline was another stab to the heart. He had no right to her. He held no grudge against Lewis. But he felt... jealousy. Not silent. Not pitiful. But burning. Brutal. Possessive.

He closed his eyes.

And then that night came flooding back.

Her body sprawled across this very desk. Her hair cascading like golden threads. Her legs wrapped around his hips. Her nails digging into his shoulders. Her soft moan as he entered her. Deeper. Harder. As he growled through gritted teeth:

"You're mine. Do you hear me? Only mine."

And she... She had looked at him with adoration he would never forget.

In her eyes, he had seen the whole world. She had given herself to him entirely. Without fear. Without hesitation.

And he had destroyed it.

Now he sat in the very spot where he had once gripped her hips, kissed her neck, torn the team hoodie from her, whispered in German all the things he would do to her, and she—trembling but certain—had answered:

"Do it. I want to belong to you."

He clenched his jaw. Leaned back in his chair. Swallowed the bitterness. Because now he saw her by someone else's side. Someone who didn't have to hide. Someone who could hold her hand in front of the cameras. Someone who could laugh with her over lunch. Someone who was light, not shadow.

Toto looked at the screen once more.

The photo. Victoria and Lewis. She in red. He in black. Looking at each other with something resembling peace.

And then, very softly, Toto whispered to himself:

"You're not his. You're still mine. Even if you never come back."

But deep down, he knew:

This time... he had lost everything.

Brackley, evening, Toto's main office

Silence, broken only by the hum of the ventilation. And a tension so thick it could no longer be ignored.

Toto sat behind his desk, his face weary, his brow furrowed, fingers clasped together. When the door closed, he lifted his gaze and met Lewis's stare—hard, unyielding. Without a trace of a smile.

"Sit down," Toto said quietly.

"I'd rather stand," Lewis replied coldly.

A moment of silence. Thick. Sharp as glass.

"What's going on between you and Victoria?" Toto asked at last.

Lewis let out a short laugh. But there was nothing joyful about it.

"You're asking me that now? After everything? You?"

"I have the right to know," Toto answered firmly, though something in his voice faltered. "You're not denying it. And the media—"

"Or maybe it just burns you up that someone else is holding her hand, huh?" Lewis's voice rose like a wave.

Toto stayed silent. But he didn't look away.

"You want to know what's between us?" Lewis continued, stepping closer to the desk with each word. "I'm the one picking her up, Toto. Me. After you left her with nothing."

"I didn't leave her—" Toto began.

"Didn't you?" Lewis cut him off with a fury no one had ever seen in him before. "You screwed her wherever you felt like it, fucked her whenever you wanted. On the desk. In the motorhome. In hotel rooms. You made promises. And then, when she looked at you like you were her whole damn world, like a god... you ran back to your wife. To your perfect little family."

Toto stood up. Tense. Silent. But he didn't deny it.

"She... she knew it wouldn't be easy..." he said, his voice strained.

"She was a girl madly in love!" Lewis shouted. "A young woman you only loved when no one was watching! She deserved everything. And you gave her a night. And a morning after which you disappeared."

Toto turned his gaze away. Something flickered across his face—bitterness. Shame.

"I love her," he finally said quietly. "But I couldn't give her more."

"You didn't want to. Don't lie to yourself."

"Lewis..."

"No. I'm talking now," Lewis's voice trembled. "I saw her crying through the nights. Driving like a maniac, like she wanted to die. I saw her crumpled on the motorhome floor, shaking, broken... because you shattered her."

"And you're the one putting her back together, right?" Toto asked softly, bitterness in his voice.

"I'm trying. I'm not you. I'll never have the look she gave you. But I'm there. Every day. And I won't let you hurt her again."

Toto slowly sat back down, as if the weight of those words had slammed into his chest.

Because no one—no one—had ever told him these things so brutally, so truthfully, right to his face.

Lewis looked at him once more.

"Don't ask me about Victoria again. Don't speak her name. You've done enough."

And he left. And Toto... stayed. Alone. In a silence where every corner of his office still smelled of her body's memory. And he realized that for the first time in his life, he truly knew what it felt like... to lose the person you love.

One Month Later, April, Japanese GP – Evening After the Race

Toto stood in front of her hotel room door, his hand suspended in mid-air. He could still taste the afternoon — the scent of gasoline, the scream over the radio as her Ferrari spun on the wet asphalt and crashed violently into the barrier.

For a moment, the world had stopped.

Now he knew she had made it out. Bruised. Battered. But alive.

He hadn't planned on coming here. He had no right. But he couldn't sleep, breathe, function until he saw her with his own eyes.

The door opened. Victoria stood in the doorway. Dressed only in black, soft, simple lingerie.

Her skin was marred with bruises and scrapes. A bandage wrapped around her hip. A mark from the safety harness etched across her shoulder.

Her eyes were filled with exhaustion. And a wall.

"What do you want?" she asked hoarsely.

Toto swallowed hard. He took a step forward. He didn't speak. He just... looked. At her body. At her wounds. At the trembling in her shoulders she couldn't hide.

"Leave, please," she whispered.

But he was already close. He approached her slowly, as if every movement hurt him. He touched her face. Gently. Her forehead. The line of her jaw.

"I thought I was going to lose you. I thought it was over. And I realized... I can't live without you anymore."

"Don't say that," she whispered, turning her face away. "You have no right. Not after everything."

"I love you, Victoria. I've always loved you. Even when I was a coward. Even when I walked away."

"Toto..." her voice trembled. "Leave me."

"No. Not this time."

He kissed her. First carefully, as if asking for permission. Then fiercely. Deeply. He held her face, her shoulders, kissing her wounds, her neck, the scars of life.

She tried to push him away. Tried to keep up the wall. But the wall cracked.

They sank into each other like drowning souls. He slowly unclasped her bra, brushing every place he touched. With his knee, he parted her thighs, kissing her belly, her arms, every bruised spot with tenderness and fire.

Victoria trembled beneath him, gasping for air between her teeth, whispering his name between spasms. She was wet. Sensitive. Hungry for his presence.

He entered her slowly, resting his forehead against hers.

"I will never leave you again. You are everything. Everything I have."

Victoria clutched at his back, then lifted her hips, taking him in deeper. Her body, despite the pain, responded instantly — it knew him. It had missed him.

They moved together — deep, long, with fire and despair.

Toto caressed her, kissed her, whispered in Polish:

"I love you... my beautiful girl... my wild, fiery girl..."

And she wept. Silently. In ecstasy. In despair.

And when it was over, when they collapsed together, his body still inside hers, his lips on her neck — she said very quietly:

"Leave."

He froze.

"What...?"

"Leave. Please. Now."

Toto lifted his head. He saw the tears in her eyes.

"Don't do this..."

"You already did. You took what you wanted. And you'll go back to Susie. To your children. To your perfect world."

"No... Victoria..."

"Enough. I'm not your toy. I'm not your one-night whore. I love you, do you understand? And it's killing me."

She rose to her feet, naked, trembling with pain but strong.

"Leave. And don't come back. Because I won't survive it a second time."

Toto put on his shirt without a word. He looked at her one last time. At her body. At her tears. At her strength. And he walked out. 

And she slid down to the floor. Naked. Crying. With a body that still smelled of him.

And a heart that no longer believed in anything.

A week later, after the Chinese GP race, Ferrari Garage

Victoria — absent, closed off, a shadow of herself. She didn't answer calls. She didn't reply to messages. In the hotel, she locked herself in her room.

At the track — she performed her duties mechanically. No smiles. No jokes. No fire in her eyes.

Only Lewis dared. He approached her after the briefing. Gently, without pressure.

"Vici... what's going on?"

She lifted her gaze to him. Calm. Lifeless.

"Nothing."

"Don't do this, please. Don't disappear. Don't pretend everything's fine when your whole being is screaming..."

"Lewis... don't ask. I don't want to talk. Just... leave me alone, okay?"

He knew. He didn't need words. He knew. There was an emptiness in her eyes he had never seen before. And anger. But not the explosive kind — the kind that gnawed into your bones.

He left. Straight to the Mercedes motorhome.

Toto was sitting alone, in silence. The desk was empty. The phone — muted. His face pale. His eyes fixed on the window, behind which nothing was happening.

"What the hell did you do to her?" Lewis growled from the doorway. Toto didn't flinch.

"Victoria isn't saying a word. But I know. And I see it. She's like a wreck. And you're sitting here like a corpse, not even trying to fix anything?"

Toto looked up slowly. Not with anger. With... emptiness.

"She told me I destroyed her. And that she wouldn't survive it a second time."

"Then why did you go to her? Why touch her again if you had no intention of staying?"

"Because I love her."

"No, Toto. You need her. But love... love is something more. Loving means not taking everything away when you have nothing to give."

Toto fell silent. He could still hear her words. Still feel her skin, her tears. He knew that this time he had crossed a line there was no coming back from.

Lewis looked at him once more.

"If you hurt her again, I swear to you... you won't even have the chance to regret it."

The door slammed shut. And Toto was left alone.

With the silence that echoed like her tears.

***

Two months had passed.

The paddock had grown used to her emotional absence. At press conferences, she was factual, cold. At briefings — silent. On the track — still flawless, but as if she were driving for someone else. Not for herself.

Yet Victoria felt something changing.

At first, it was exhaustion. Then slight dizziness. Morning nausea she blamed on stress. Until one day, after a training session, she ran to the bathroom and vomited endlessly.

Something inside her froze.

She went to the clinic. Alone. Without telling anyone.

The doctor looked at the ultrasound screen, then at her, and said softly,

"Congratulations. It's a very early pregnancy, but everything looks perfectly fine."

Time stopped. She didn't cry. She didn't react violently.

She walked out of the office like an automaton. She drove in silence.

And then, that same night, she packed her things and disappeared.

On Monday, a brief statement circled the world:

"For personal reasons, Victoria Lorenz is temporarily suspending her career in Formula 1. Ferrari kindly asks for privacy."

She didn't tell Lewis. She didn't say goodbye to the team. She left everything behind — the race suit, the trophies, the starting number.

But one thing she knew for certain: Toto could never find out.

Not about this. Not about the child. Because whatever had once existed between them... no longer did.

And this new life growing silently inside her — it was her choice.

Her path. Her secret.

And maybe, for the first time in her life, she had something that was truly hers.

-----------

Next -> Chapter 14: Into Dust

-----------

[lilacxquartz]

break away; oc!incubus x f!reader

plot: in which your human sized apartment causes your live-in incubus more than just distress — themes/cw: injury, stress, hurt/comfort, demon/human romance, blood, first aid, fem reader, the oc is a yandere so he is tagged as such even though this is a story just to explore his dynamic with the reader more — w.c: ~900+

for june of doom, day 20: “maybe it’s better this way” (alternative theme)/wound cleaning • read on ao3 • more event stories • masterlist

Living with Midnight came with its perks and challenges. For the most part, you felt better protected with your literal live-in demon, but in turn, Midnight struggled to fit himself into a much smaller space than he was used to.

Your apartment was a tight fit compared to the vastness of hell. He was much taller than you, too, bordering on around eight feet tall, which was a great height when he stood next to you, a regular human being. As a result, he found himself shuffling awkwardly through the narrow space, ducking beneath every frame he had to go through.

Despite this, he never once complained. He liked following you around, keeping in your shadow as you lived out your life just because you were doing all of those things. However mundane it was, he simply liked your company, but then, one night, one incident in particular gave you both pause.

Midnight stood rigidly just outside the bedroom door, unable to move. You were tucked in bed by then, waiting for him to join you.

The standstill caused him to tighten his fists and clench his jaw, attempting to will the sudden surge of pain away. A sharp coppery scent filled the room, and he grunted as he pried something off his head, holding it tight in his clawed hands. No matter what he felt, though, he promised himself never to violently react to anything in front of you, so he bit back a lot of what he felt.

The last thing he wanted to do, after all, was to frighten you over something that wasn’t your fault.

As the ache festered, you sat up in bed from the noise alone. The bedroom shook from the collision of him walking into the doorframe that time, but that wasn’t what concerned you. What did spark worry, however, was what he was holding onto.

Your eyes were trained on his chipped-off horn, unsure what to even say or do. “O-oh, oh no, I’m so sorry—”

“—It isn’t your fault,” he calmly stopped you, even as his voice was overcome with pain, “it was probably going to happen sooner or later.”

“Do you need any help?” you asked without skipping a beat, refusing to sit still as you fussed over the alarming sight.

Midnight blinked at you, but like always, you could never truly meet his blank gaze. Blood gathered at his darkened root from where the horn once grew, trickling in rolling beads down his ashen grey skin.

All he could do was shake his head, wincing at the sharp ache. “No, no. It’s okay,” he replied softly, trying to keep his voice calm for your sake, although he couldn’t resist a bit of dark humour. “Besides, it might be better this way. At least I can fit into your home now that at least one of these things are gone.”

You could only blink at his attempt to lighten the mood. Even if he was joking, you didn’t want him to think that way. His horns—just like everything else—were a part of him.

“Midnight—” you started.

He didn’t drop it. “—Maybe I should break off the other horn too,” he bitterly mused; however, he stopped himself before he pushed you away for good. He knew that you were acting the way you were out of a place of care, and he had to nurture that part of you rather than lighten the issue.

At that, he sighed as he walked slowly to the bed, sitting on the edge. Like usual, the mattress dipped to accommodate his weight. For now, he palmed at the wound to plug the leak. Thinking quickly as he bled over the floor, he tried to give you something to do—something that would likely help you both feel better—asking that you help clean him up.

Right away, you perked up as you dashed off to the bathroom, taking out the first aid kit you kept in the cabinet below the sink. You hoped that the simple supplies would be enough to help him, doing your best to sterilise and wipe the wound clean as Midnight sat tight, trying not to react to the sharp pain that radiated through his entire body.

Just as you were about to attempt to bandage around his head, though, he suddenly pulled you into his larger form. His arms encircled your frame, holding you close. Somehow, the act of care, even if he was the one who requested it, brought out even more of his feelings for you.

“Don’t,” he gently instructed, taking the bandage and scissors out of your hands, tossing them off to the side as he brought you over his chest, his back meeting the mattress. “I’m sorry for worrying you, but I’m fine now. You should rest.”

“But, but—” you weakly protested even as you felt the hypnotic pull of sleep. Midnight had that effect on you. Whether it was magic or comfort, you always felt a little too relaxed in his company.

He shushed you with a light squeeze. “I’ll sleep too,” he murmured softly, “sleep will probably heal the worst of it.”

You didn’t fight it the second time, falling asleep atop his form.

Midnight could only sigh, feeling up to meet with his broken horn. He weighed in on the good and the bad. The bad being that as he refused to part from you, the horn breaking was only the start of all the problems he potentially faced by staying in your world.

The good being that he could continue being with you, which he supposed overpowered the bad. For a life without you would break him down in a completely different way.

[jelach]

Ok, so I've always felt a bit uncomfortable and weird about magic!baby, but the autofill gods have spoken. It's exactly 1000 words (do I get extra points @cinnonym ;) ?) and I wrote it in like 1h waiting in an airport to head home, so it's unbetaed and I'll probably come back to edit later.

Anyway, enjoy!

That day, Emma and Regina were going to the hospital to see if they were pregnant.

Admittedly, the two pink lines that Emma had nervously watched appearing spoke of an almost definite “yes,” but it was almost too improbable to be true. So improbable in fact, that if Regina - wise, perfect, expert-on-all-things-magic Regina - hadn't confirmed it was possible amidst a bout of happy tears, Emma might have been more sceptical.

Initially, Emma hadn't been quite so “happy tears” about it, because it - they, the baby - had come as a complete shock. And Emma had thought herself pretty much unflappable. She had seen a lot of surprising things over the years since she had come to Storybrooke, but this really took the cake.

It's not like it had been some kind of immaculate conception or anything. No, in that respect they'd certainly been trying, and often at that. But neither had thought that such a thing would have been possible, biologically speaking.

But then, Regina had been so warm and joyful when she had explained to Emma that True Love was a powerful force capable of things beyond their control, beyond their comprehension, even. Emma had expected a fight, Regina screaming at accusing her of infidelity because that was the only rational explanation. But Regina had calmly taken it in her stride and offered the impossible as an explanation right away. And somehow, Emma had started to feel like maybe it was a good thing. So despite her general misgivings about pregnancy, she had swallowed her worry down for Regina's benefit and played back a warm smile. Somewhere underneath, the concern broiled angrily, a bubbling pot left unattended on the stove and ready to explode. A million scenarios surfaced - where she wasn't ready, where she would mess it all up, or worse screw up their child. Rationally, she knew Henry had turned out perfectly, but a small voice reminded her that Regina had done most of the heavy lifting, and there was also the fact that Henry's entry into the world had been anything but perfect - a chasm away from that ideal, in fact.

Regina, of course, had called Emma out on her micro-spiralling right away. The woman had a sixth sense for Emma's distress, and she refused to relent until the words tumbled from Emma as if the pot lid had been lifted and there was nothing to contain it anymore. Hot, vicious self-doubt had spilled from her, and Regina stayed quiet until she ran herself dry. But then Regina had reminded Emma that Henry was a product of both of them, too, and that he was perfect, so they had nothing to worry about.

Of course, it had been impossible to deny that, and Emma had felt reassured by Regina's words and tone. It wasn't that all of her concerns had disappeared immediately, rather she knew right away that any challenges this child brought to them, they would face together. The thought of it - of them - a child that would look like her and Regina, like both of them… well, Emma couldn't speak for an extended moment.

Fortunately for Regina, Emma's silence was also reassuring, as her face had morphed into liquid joy, and she had hauled Regina into a crushing hug for good measure.

~.~

So they found themselves, not pacing nervously as they waited to be seen for Emma's first scan. True Love magic was a powerful thing, but not even Regina had evidence of a baby born to two mothers before, so they were both anxious to see what it was that was growing inside Emma. And it would need to be a resilient little thing, what with the whole world of crazy that would be thrust upon it - them. Emma chuckled at the thought, and then replayed it aloud for Regina's benefit.

“I don't think they're going to have to worry, love,” she replied softly, in that all-knowing tone that would convert anyone into a believer.

At Emma's unspoken request for clarification, Regina continued gently.

“They have True Love on their side,” she scoffed, barely containing her laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. The Evil Queen having an accidental True Love baby, of all things!

“In all seriousness though, Henry's going to make a marvellous big brother. And I don't think they're going to be short of loved ones to help them through the crazy,” she expanded.

Regina's certainty was a rich and terrifying thing, and so far from anything Emma had known before. So instead of letting the reassurance wash over her, Emma felt thick with melancholy, a heavy, leaden feeling that stole the fleeting joy of the moment. Because Regina was right - a small voice cried that she always was - this kid was going to have all of the things Emma had wished for Henry, and in so doing, they would have all of the things she could only have dreamed of. But then again, if she listened hard enough, Emma heard the small voice that sounded an awful lot like Regina in her head. And though her throat got thick when she dwelled on it, she knew that she was going to have everything she had once dreamed of too.

The word family got stuck in her thoughts as though her mind was drowning in the syrup of it all.

“Yeah,” she said quietly in lieu of everything else. “Yeah, we're gonna make sure of that.”

“I love you,” Regina offered gently, instead of digging for the source of Emma's disquiet. It was probably the exact same as her own. Regina's feelings of inadequacy were trounced by her excitement, but they were still there, even though the self pity felt strange when the self in question was so far in the past that she was a stranger. All she could do was look forward and thank her lucky stars that her future looked so different.

And when Emma said “I love you, too,” Regina revelled in the promise of that sparkling future.

Crack Fanfic Idea:

Short chapters that are called after a specific pattern. For example:

The day Emma and Regina...

But instead of clever ideas you use autofil and see what's going to happen that day. You probably need help with different algorithms, but I think it could be so fun and silly.

[shaylai]

A quick doodle I made for a friend 🐥

[final-milf-ratchet]

Y'know who else needs his pussy destroyed? Cliffjumper. There's two entire issues dedicated to cliffjumper and Deathasaurus and you know how many fics of cliffjumper getting his pussy destroyed? Like 3 :(

Look at that mech, it would fix him if he was getting dicked down on the regular

[ratasum]

guild wars 2, 30 day challenge

25. favourite belief system (eternal alchemy, spirts of the wild, etc)

The Eternal Alchemy / The All.

Hilariously, mathematics is the field I'm the worst at, but I've always been fascinated by the idea of divine machines and sacred geometry, and the Eternal Alchemy fits that bill for me. Also the aesthetic is just really cool.

[origamibagel]

Two partners in a row I've managed to end up in a 2 year long situationship that leaves me feeling emotionally drained this can't keep fucking happening to me 💀💀

[playingplayer2]

Something I love (sarcasm) having to remind myself is that I am smart. That despite everything I heard from teachers and peers growing up, I am smart. I don't have to be a genius, I don't have to be spectacular or brilliant- but I am fucking smart. and fucking hell it took so, so, so long for me to be able to understand just because my interests and abilities didn't, and still don't, line up with that of family members doesn't make me stupid.

[mostly-imagines]

Doghouse

dick grayson x afab!reader

aka dick’s in trouble…

warnings: 18+ minors DNI, implied smut, discussion of sex

“Baby…”

You don’t look up from your book as you hum, “Hm?”

“You’re being mean,” he pouts from the end of the couch.

You purse your lips. “If I am, you deserve it.”

His head lulls backwards pathetically, “I don’t deserve this. No one deserves this.”

You ignore him, scanning over the words littering the page with little thought.

He takes your lack of response as an invitation to climb up the couch a bit, just close enough that he can nibble kisses at your neck.

“Come on, I’ll make it up to you,” he promises.

You roll your eyes, flipping to the next page in your book as his hands feel up your waist. He’s apologized a few times already, but you’re not ready to let it go. He’d bailed last minute on your date nights one too many times and you’ve had enough. So if no sex is the only thing that seems to get his attention, no sex it is. You’re not mad, not really, but if you can give him a taste of the neglect you’ve been feeling, well…

He continues despite the lack of acknowledgement, pestering on. “This is deprivation of nourishment.”

All in all, he’s really not putting up his best argument. He could be doing better work, much better work, and you’re certainly not going to let him off so easily.

“I don’t care.” You move the book you’re not really reading up higher, removing him from your line of sight.

Sensing the challenge, he takes the book from your hands, tossing it blindly out of reach. It lands with an unflattering thump on the hardwood. You gawk at him, but he doesn’t notice, too busy minding his own motivating force.

He pulls you further down the couch, so he’s face level with your stomach. The top of his hair tickles you as he kisses below your navel, hands holding you in place firmly by your waist.

“Baby,” he murmurs against your skin, dragging his lips over. “Please, please let me eat you out.”

You cross your arms over your chest, glaring at the wall.

He rests his chin gently over your stomach, peering up at you with puppy dog eyes. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

This pushes him to borderline pouting, huffing, “Come on, you’re not having any fun like this either.”

Yeah, but it’s more torturous for him than it is for you.

His lips edge at the seam of your underwear, and his fingers hook under the elastic as he looks up at you expectantly.

You take a deep breath upon the sight, steeling yourself.

“No.”

He lets out an honest to God groan and drops his forehead against your stomach, whining.

You push him off of you, though he does most of the work of shifting his weight for you. You stand up from the couch and retrieve your book from its place on the floor, flipping through it to refind your page as you move for the bedroom door.

“You’re gonna leave me like this?” he calls out at you, watching you leave.

You shrug, “Take care of it yourself.”

“Myself?” He gapes, like he’s shocked at the audacity of the suggestion.

He stands up quickly, scrambling after you into your room.

He watches as you plop down onto the bed, pretending like you’ve got the concentration to keep on reading.

He pouts in the doorway, both surprised and annoyed with your commitment to making him suffer.

At this point he can take care of you better than he can take care of himself, and God knows he prefers to. So it’s bordering on inconceivable that you could have gotten so mad at him as to take away his privileges to do his very favorite thing in the world.

So he snatches your book straight from your hands again—just as you’d found the right page, too—and holds it up high.

“Dick Grayson!”

You swat at him and try to grab it back, but he’s too quick and too tall.

You kneel on the bed, reaching up in a fruitless effort before you drop your arm at your side, glaring.

He raises his chin, silently imploring you.

“Talk to me.”

You roll your eyes, “I am talking to you. I’m not sleeping with you—”

He shakes his head, “No, you’re still mad.”

“And you think this is what’s gonna help?”

He throws his head back. “You’re killing me,” he whines.

“Good.”

“What’s the plan here? Neither of us get to come ever again?”

You all but throw your head back, “I think it’s pretty fucking bold of you to assume that I rely exclusively on you to come.”

He levels you with a look.

“You do though.”

You gape at him. He says it with such self-assurance, so matter-of-fact that it’s not even a joke. And you know what? Yeah, he’s right you do, but you are nowhere near ready to give him the satisfaction.

So, you did something that you knew would piss him off.

“I—” you pause. “Fine.”

You dip your hand underneath your waistband, prepared to prove your fucking point.

“Don’t—” he bats your hand away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He gawks at you, keeping an arm between your hand and your body. “That’s my job.”

You push his arm, with minimal real effort. “It’s my body!”

“You really don’t want me to touch you? Really?”

He levels you with that look he knows you can’t rebound from, giving you no room to squirm away.

Your chin lowers out of pure habit and your mouth shuts. He takes the opportunity to drop the book on the bed, scooping up both your wrists in one go. He pulls them up above your head and holds you against the bedroom wall.

“What can I do?” he asks lowly, face only inches from yours.

You glare at him, not trying to escape his hold.

“You can fuck off.”

“I’m serious,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

You raise your eyebrows as to say, ‘yeah, I am too, buddy.’

“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me have my girl.”

You tug your hands out of his grasp, and he lets you without complaint.

You huff, looking at him.

“You have to take me out on a date tom—a real date—tomorrow night, the whole night, flowers and everything.”

He’s nodding along with your words eagerly, terms he couldn’t be happier to agree to.

“Even if some vigilante shit comes up—”

“Of course, of course.”

“…and do what you said before,” you say, quieter.

“What did I say before?” he asks, like he truly can’t remember.

“Dick,” you warn.

He smiles, perfectly content to let you off easy.

He leans forward, kissing you deeply but with an air of sweetness.

“I’m sorry I missed our date, pretty girl. I’m so sorry.”

Your shoulders noticeably relax and you take a deep breath, nodding.

“Yeah,” he says as he kneels down on the ground. He grins up at you as he hooks your leg over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of my baby, of course I will.”

☀️ i’m worried the sun will go out soon if you don’t start reblogging fics ☀️

[zarameraki]

♡₊˚🥀₊✧ 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗯𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝘂𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗲 ♡₊˚🥀₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 king x concubine 𖥔 lots of plot with porn 𖥔 mentions of abuse 𖥔 mentions of sexual assault 𖥔 normal form sukuna (sorry yall but next time ill do his big boy one) 𖥔 he only has eyes for you 𖥔 you're his darling 𖥔 he would kill for you 𖥔 breeding (!!!!) 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 8.8k

: ̗̀➛ notes: this took a whole WEEK to edit. im so obsessed with this story. it's my favourite thing ive written because i love period movies and dramas and really got to challenge my writing skills to give it more a fantasy-esque element. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

The diligent hands of Lord Sukuna Ryomen’s palace attendants scrubbed away the grime that clung to every inch of your weary form. There were no traces of tears in your eyes, despite the discomfort of the cleansing process.

Perhaps it was the residue of gratitude for an escape from a foster family who saw fit to barter you away for a pittance to fuel their vices.

The water surrounding you had transformed into a murky haze, carrying away the evidence of your former life's hardships.

Yet, amidst this cleansing ritual, you couldn’t shake the puzzling thought of why the guards had singled you out from the other young women within the household. Uraume, the overseer of palace affairs, had arrived alongside them, their presence looming over the proceedings with an air of mystery.

That morning, you were subjected to abuse in front of everyone at the central market, longing for someone to stand up for you. And someone did. They offered you an escape from that hellhole and into a world of luxury.

You weren’t going to complain now that you had accepted this new fate of yours.

“Ya’ got too many scars, girl,” remarked one of the elderly attendants, gently assisting you out of the steaming bath, her hands wrapping a towel around your shivering form. “Our powders will struggle to conceal ’em all. How did ya’ come by such marks?”

“From my foster family,” you murmured, gaze fixed upon your toes as if they held the weight of your past. The plush carpet beneath your feet offered a small comfort, a luxury unfamiliar to your upbringing.

Memories of their harsh discipline flooded back—the blistering gravel underfoot as punishment for daring to voice dissent. It was a brutal introduction to a world where obedience was paramount.

“A wretched lot,” the attendant muttered sympathetically.

Enveloped in a silk robe, she led you into a chamber shared by a cohort of women, a realm far removed from the confines of your previous abode. Here, space was ample—the expanse excessive, with beds lining the walls and a high ceiling adorned with a single chandelier.

As you entered, a symphony of pretty faces and inquisitive gazes greeted you. Women of all colours and shapes reclined luxuriously in plain robes, their hair intricately braided or cascading freely down their backs. Conversations paused, curiosity piqued by your arrival, as all eyes turned to welcome you into their midst.

Beneath the weight of their scrutinising stares, you found yourself shrinking. These women, draped in silk and adorned with jewels, were the king's favoured concubines, a fact repeatedly emphasised during your journey to the palace and even in the fragrant confines of the bathhouse.

Every instinct urged you to rebel, to refuse to be just another ornament in the king’s harem, but you understood the value placed on purity by the monarch.

Unfortunately, your innocence had been cruelly stolen from you by your foster father, leaving you tarnished in body and spirit. Lord Sukuna would have no use for a damaged flower in his garden of perfection.

In truth, you couldn’t even imagine an image of his face in your mind. His Lordship remained a mystery to those beyond the palace walls.

“Here ya’ are.” The attendant guided you to your bed. “That vanity there’s yours to use.” She gestured toward the communal area by the window, where two other young women were preparing themselves. “Once your hair dries, one of my girls will assist ya’ in preparin’ for your audience with His Lordship.” Her touch was gentle as she caressed your cheek. “Rest assured, dear, ya’ safe now.”

You attempted a smile, though the effort seemed Herculean amidst your weariness.

As the attendant departed, her scolding to the rowdy girls fading into the background, you nestled into the comforting embrace of your soft bedding, ignoring the hushed criticisms trailing in your wake.

She’s feeble.

Her hair lacks refinement.

The king would never entertain a lowly pauper.

She’ll be gone by tomorrow.

Their words, like venomous serpents, slithered through the air.

Amidst their degradation, you succumbed to exhaustion.

But your slumber was interrupted by the bustling commotion of handmaidens assembling around you.

Disoriented and scarcely given a moment to collect your thoughts, you found yourself swiftly escorted to the vanity, where the clamour of girls jostling for space filled the air.

They manipulated your locks, weaving intricate patterns into your hair, fashioning a crown braid atop your head while allowing the remaining tresses to cascade freely down your back.

Meanwhile, other attendants removed your robe, their hands moving with practised efficiency as they anointed your skin with fragrant oils, infusing it with the delicate essence of lavender.

Between the flurry of activity, the whispers of your fellow concubines hung in the air like a veil of awe and trepidation. Their eyes were drawn to the scars marring your skin, as they speculated about how the king would perceive your imperfections as repulsive.

Good.

You craved precisely that outcome.

If the king recoiled at your sight, it meant he wouldn’t desire you to bear his heir. If the tales circulating in the town about his monstrous nature held any truth, then he’d likely offer you death as a reprieve—and you’d welcome it with open arms.

Before facing the king, you stole a glance at your reflection, the final moments of solitude before your fate was decided. The powder concealed the imperfections of your skin, rendering it smooth and flawless. Your cheeks and lips bore a muted hue reminiscent of crushed cherries. Delicate white blossoms adorned your hair, woven into your braids by nimble fingers.

As you stood, the other women adorned you in a robe of silky fabric, its floral pattern draping over your form, cinched at the waist to accentuate your curves. Barefoot, you followed them out, the chill of the floor beneath your feet a stark contrast to the warmth of anticipation and trepidation swirling within you.

“Good luck, pauper,” taunted one of the concubines, her voice dripping with disdain, echoed by a cacophony of mocking laughter.

Palms clammy with nerves, you shifted your gaze to the opulence of the palace corridors. Adorned with countless chandeliers and swathes of velvet drapery, they offered a stark contrast to the blooming back garden. Memories of tending to the earth and nurturing life back at your foster family’s home flooded your mind.

“Quickly now,” one of the maids urged, her voice tinged with urgency. “His Lordship detests tardiness.”

“I apologise.” You hastened your steps to keep pace with the group of attendants.

She halted before a grand set of double doors, guarded by imposing sentinels clad in formidable armour. With a flick of her wrist, the guards swung the doors open. She gently nudged you forward, and only as you crossed the threshold did the doors seal shut behind you.

You blinked, adjusting to the dimness within, scanning the chamber until your gaze alighted upon a pair of crimson glimmers opposite you. “My Lord?” You inclined your head and took hesitant steps toward the source of those fiery eyes.

“Come closer,” his command echoed through the chamber, sending a shiver down your spine. The low resonance of His Highness Sukuna Ryomen’s voice was unexpectedly rich and velvety. You had envisioned a voice tinged with age, but instead, it possessed a rough texture that awoken something within you.

With hesitant steps, you approached until you stood at the edge of his bed, your fingertips grazing the diaphanous curtains that enveloped him in a cocoon of privacy.

“Closer,” he urged, coaxing you to unveil the enigma lying beyond the veil.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you obeyed, parting the curtains and gracefully crawled onto the mattress. The silkiness of the sheets were a blatant contrast to the roughness of your foster house’s. A pang of guilt tugged at your conscience as you realized the irony of finding solace in this luxurious confinement of being his concubine.

“Enough.” His abrupt order halted your thoughts, drawing your attention back to the present moment.

As commanded, you obediently settled into your posture, folding your legs beneath you in the dimness. Within his shadowed realm, only the luminous crimson irises pierced through the gloom, studying you with an intensity that made your belly churn. Despite the curiosity burning within you, you restrained the impulse to voice your questions. Instead, you settled in the tranquillity that crowded the space between you.

“What is your name?” His inquiry cut through the hushed air.

“Y/N, my Lord.”

As your name slipped from your lips, he captured it delicately, repeating it like a sacred prayer. Each syllable danced on his tongue, imprinting itself upon the very essence of his being. In that moment, you observed a subtle shift—the shadows that had cloaked the chamber seemed to dissipate.

A soft, golden luminescence filtered through the parted curtains, cascading across half of Sukuna’s face.

You blinked in astonishment.

He appeared . . . young?

The age difference between you and him was not a chasm of decades, but rather a modest gap of no less than five years.

Physically, at least.

His appearance was striking, with locks of hair dyed a subdued pink hue, contrasting with a streak of darker shade beneath. His hair was styled into rugged spikes, lending an air of defiance. Intricate black markings adorned his features, tracing a path from his cheekbones down to his chin, while similar patterns wove across his strong shoulder, cascading over his defined pectoral muscles and sculpted abdomen.

As your eyes fell upon him, your heart quickened its pace, each beat a vicious drumming against your ribs. Gone was the expectation of a lord showing the signs of wisdom, with wrinkles upon his brow and a body marked by the passage of time. Instead, before you sat a vision of breathtaking beauty, defying your preconceived notions and leaving you breathless in awe.

With a graceful gesture, he swept aside the curtains, allowing them to unveil his entirety.

The same markings mirrored the other side of his face and cascaded down the length of his body, a mesmerising display of symmetry. Dark bands encircled his wrists, and his nails bore the same deep hue.

Poised against the headboard, he reclined with an air of effortless elegance, one knee raised as his elbow found a comfortable perch, while the other leg extended out. Though he was unclothed, a veil of silk sheets cloaked the lower half of his form.

“Remarkable,” you unknowingly whispered. Your hand clapped over your mouth. “I apologise, my Lord.”

Sukuna’s lips curved into a sinister grin, his flawless teeth gleaming in the golden light. While many would flee at the sight, you remained rooted in place, unable to tear your gaze away. A delicate flush spread across your cheeks, betraying the undeniable attraction simmering between your legs. He was absolutely divine, and the path of being his concubine suddenly didn’t seem so terrible.

Yet, the reality of sharing Sukuna with ten other women loomed over your thoughts like a shadow. The thought of him spreading his affections among so many others kindled a small flame of jealousy within you, mingled with confusion. Why hadn’t he impregnated at least one of them with the promise of an heir?

“Have you not been schooled in the art of lowering your gaze in the presence of nobility, Y/N?”

Your lashes fluttered as you registered your lapse in decorum, hastily averting your gaze. “Forgive me, my Lord, if my oversight has caused offence.” Surely, he wouldn’t punish you for a momentary lapse of admiration.

Would he?

A gentle touch beneath your chin guided your face upward. His fingers spread across your cheek, the warmth nearly forcing you to curve into his touch. Despite the temptation, your eyes remained obediently downward.

“Look at me.”

Your gaze lingered on him, tracing the delicate patterns etched over his cheek, the fiery hue of his irises, the elegant contour of his nose, and the soft curvature of his lips. Never before had you felt such a rousing desire towards any man. Yet fate had chosen to ensnare your heart with the one most forbidden to you.

“You bear a sadness that weighs heavily in your eyes,” he noted softly, his hand descending to the curve of your neck, his thumb caressing the frantic rhythm of your pulse. A low, melodic sound produced from his throat. “Tell me, my love, does the face before you stir fear within your heart?”

“It does not, my Lord. The fear of your appearance holds no dominion over me,” you declared with quiet resolve. “You’re quite . . . beautiful.”

Sukuna’s gaze sparked with a mixture of surprise and intrigue at your response.

Suppressing a nervous gulp, you silently reprimanded yourself for speaking so boldly to one of noble rank. Back in the confines of your former life, such defiance would have earned you swift punishment, yet here, in the presence of royalty, it could lead to your demise.

As you prepared to avert your gaze, ready to accept whatever consequences may come, Sukuna’s voice cut through the tense air before you could retreat.

“Don’t.”

In that moment, you found yourself questioning your instincts.

Why did you not cower in fear? Why did your body not tremble in the presence of a man who had slaughtered the lives of his enemies without hesitation? And most perplexing of all, how could you maintain unwavering eye contact with a figure of such formidable power?

“Remove your robe.” His grip remained firm around your throat, his thumb delicately tracing your pulse. “And do not stray your gaze elsewhere.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Your fingers loosened the fabric’s bindings, allowing it to cascade down your frame, and revealing the soft curvature of your form beneath. As it pooled around your lap, your breasts stood exposed to his scrutiny.

A shiver danced across your skin as his eyes traced the contours of your body, a faint smirk teasing his lips.

He brushed back strands of your hair, his touch trailing down your vertebrate. His eyes narrowed into thin slits, brows knitted together in contemplation, fingers repeatedly tracing the ridges of your scars.

“Turn around.”

The dreaded discovery that sent ripples of revulsion through the concubines had finally come to pass. Your scars lay exposed before the gaze of a powerful lord. Not only would he slit your throat, but also those of the maids who had tended to your needs, and perhaps even Uruame, who had brokered your purchase from the bastards responsible for your imperfections.

“Never before have I been compelled to repeat myself for a concubine.” His voice carried a lethal edge as he increased his grip around your throat. “Turn the fuck around.”

Your compliance came in slow, measured movements as you turned away, presenting your back to him in a gesture of submission. His hands gathered the strands of your hair, lifting them aside to reveal the raw truth etched into your skin. His fingers traced the jagged remnants of whip lashes, the seared imprints of cigars, and the cruel reminders of knife wounds inflicted by a foster father turned tormentor.

Silent tears traced a path down your cheeks, as you sat in a state of numbness, your gaze fixed upon the closed door of Sukuna’s chamber.

A tender sensation, soft and moist, grazed your back, prompting a reflexive twitch in your left shoulder.

Turning slightly, you beheld Sukuna pressing his lips against the scar that marred your shoulder blades.

“My Lord—”

“I did not ask you to speak,” he murmured over your skin, sending a tremor through your frame. “Rise onto your knees.”

Obeying his command, you ascended onto your knees, feeling the weight of his hands settle upon your waist. His lips trailed a path of reverence, bestowing kisses upon each mark that scarred your skin, from your marrow to your nape.

Your breath caught in a delicate dance of exhales, a whispered symphony escaping your parted lips. The wet caress of his tongue sent ripples of sensation coursing through your being.

His arm circled your waist, drawing you into the sanctuary of his embrace. A fleeting kiss graced the nape of your neck, followed by the suction of his lips upon the tender side of your neck. His soft hands possessively held the curve of your breasts, cradling their weight.

Your head reclined against his strong shoulder.

With his gaze fixed upon you, his lips glistened with a hint of moisture, while his crimson eyes locked onto your own human-like ones. You dared not divert your gaze as he previously ordered. His fingers pinched and pulled at your nipples, sending lightning strikes through your frame.

Unlike the non-consensual encounter of the past, there was no hint of agony; only a tantalising blend of pleasure that left you breathless, without a protest or helpless whimper. Instead, a sigh of pure rapture escaped your lips, encompassing your body in an embrace.

Sukuna’s gaze narrowed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as if he had stumbled upon a long-sought treasure.

His fingertips skated down your torso, gliding toward your centre. You captured your bottom lip between your teeth. Holding his gaze became a daunting challenge as he skillfully teased your sensitive nub, causing your breath to quicken and your chest to rise and fall with each exhilarating sensation.

Sukuna slid his middle finger into you. “You’re incredibly drawn, Sad Eyes,” he murmured, the endearment he had bestowed upon you almost provoking a smile. His lips grazed your ear as he continued. “Perhaps I should stretch you out”—he pushed in his ring finger, forcing a sharp gasp to tear from your throat and an involuntary arch of your body against his chest—“so that your cunt is able to welcome my cock.”

You stifled the knot rising in your throat as Sukuna plunged his fingers into you. Such profound bliss seemed inconceivable with mere digits alone.

“My Lord.” Your breath caught as he increased his tempo. “My—” Each thrust intensified the knot in your stomach, threatening to unravel you entirely. You teetered on the brink, dangerously close to staining his fingers with your release. A sharp gasp choked out of you as he struck a wondrous chord deep within. “Please, my Lord. I beg of you— I will soil your hand if you persist—” But your plea dissolved into a cry of ecstasy before you could utter another word.

Sukuna’s laughter danced teasingly in the hollow of your ear, leaving you utterly spellbound.

You were overheated, overstimulated, overridden by the explosive undoing from his fingers. Breathless and consumed by lust, your world spun as he seized your jaw and crushed his lips to yours.

In that electrifying moment, his tongue invaded your mouth, initially startling you, yet you surrendered to the rhythm.

Sukuna leaned back slightly after planting a tender peck on your lips. Exhaling softly, he threaded his fingers through your hair, his touch sending shivers down your spine. As his lips met yours once more, gentler this time, your hand ventured to trace the contours of his adorned chest.

“You are quite the vixen.” A playful glint danced in his eyes. “How valiant of you to seduce a lord into bestowing kisses upon his concubine.” A broad smile graced his lips, leaving you uncertain whether his words were playful jest or genuine admiration.

“Do you not bestow your kisses upon all your concubines, my Lord?”

“I do not pleasure their cunts, either.”

His speech carried the brashness of a tempest, a departure from the expected decorum one associated with royalty. Sukuna Ryomen defied conventions. It was a trait uncommon among lords, yet one that intrigued you deeply. His demeanour, both in battle and in the intimate confines of the bedchamber, lacked the softening. But you found yourself drawn to his unfiltered honesty, appreciating the absence of cryptic notions.

As you sat before him, considering your next words carefully, a surge of courage emboldened you to reveal your truth.

“My Lord,” you began, your voice quivering with uncertainty, “I . . . I am not pure.”

“Given the sounds you were drawing out,” he quipped with a chuckle, “I wouldn’t have surmised otherwise.” He assisted you in rising from where you rested against his chest, positioning you before him. Observing your solemn expression, he arched an eyebrow in curiosity. “Was your satisfaction not fulfilled?”

“Indeed, my Lord, it surpassed any expectation,” you confessed, worrying your lip as he sighed impatiently. “But I must disclose . . . I am not chaste.”

Sukuna’s response was subdued, save for the faint twitch in his jaw. He averted his gaze from yours momentarily, reaching for the decanter on his bedside table and pouring himself a measure of spirits.

“Speak,” he instructed, his tone clipped.

“It occurred before I reached maturity,” you murmured softly, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself. “My foster father—” Your words faltered as Sukuna raised a hand, a silent acknowledgment of his comprehension of your unspoken anguish.

“I need not hear more.” He swiftly consumed the crimson liquid in a single gulp. “You are dismissed for the night.”

“But my Lord’s desires remain unmet—”

“Leave,” he commanded, his tone final and unwavering.

With a gulp, you hastily gathered your robe around your form, delicately extricating yourself from his expansive bed.

Just as you thought to retreat, a firm hand seized your wrist, drawing you back into Sukuna’s embrace. His lips melded with yours in an intoxicating kiss, causing both your gazes to flutter open when he pulled away. A faint smirk played upon his lips as he adjusted the robe over your shoulder.

“Next time,” he murmured, plucking a flower from the adornments in your hair and placing it upon his bedside, “you shall grace my chambers without such distracting embellishments upon yourself.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” you replied with a respectful bow of your head, awaiting his dismissal until he gestured for you to depart with a casual wave of his hand.

In the shared chambers, your fellow concubines swirled around your bed, eager to hear of your inaugural encounter with Lord Sukuna.

Each girl shared their own vivid tales, painting scenes of ecstasy under the cloak of darkness, where the king’s touch invoked sensations akin to celestial bodies colliding, or where unfamiliar pleasures erased the boundaries of their throat—whatever that latter entailed.

Though a twinge of jealousy flickered within you, it was swiftly overshadowed by a swell of pride. The concubines pleasured Sukuna in darkness, the same darkness you had willingly entered, before his touch had set ablaze a world of gold for you.

They were merely beautiful means of physical gratification for their lord, devoid of the intimacy you shared—his fingers delving deep into your core. And never had any of them spoken of kisses exchanged. Sukuna had spoken true when you questioned if others received similar treatment.

But why you?

Why, after a mere span of ten hours within the palace walls, did you find yourself, dare you entertain the notion, as his favoured? What magic did you possess that drew him to you, and how had you managed to seduce his lips, his fingers, to meet yours in such an intimate embrace?

“Did he spend himself inside you?” one of the girls whispered, prodding your knee to rouse you from your silence.

“No.”

“Aye, he never does,” remarked a golden-haired girl with a resigned sigh. “He sees to it that we consume some berries afterward, claiming they prevent conception. Strange, isn’t it? Especially if he’s so eager for an heir.”

Another girl hushed her, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. “Did he take you from behind? That’s his favoured position, you know. He’s had us all that way.”

You stumbled over your words, unsure how to respond.

“And did you savour his taste?” came the next question. “It’s quite rich in sodium—”

“Girls!” A booming voice echoed from the doorway of the bedroom, startling you and the other concubines into immediate attention. You caught sight of the elderly attendant who oversaw your care, hands planted firmly on her hips as she observed the chaotic scene before her.

With a disapproving huff, she pivoted sharply on her heel and departed, leaving a lingering sense of reprimand in her wake.

As the frenzied chatter about Sukuna’s body attributes gradually dissolved into the quietude of sleep, morning arrived with its routine of communal showerings.

Throughout the shared bath, you silently scrubbed away the remnants of the night, indulging your fellow concubines about your previous life in town.

Upon drying off and exiting the bathing chamber, you were met with an unexpected sight: a gathering of the girls clustered around your bed.

Navigating through the throng, you reached your space to discover a resplendent scarlet silk robe embroidered with intricate black floral patterns.

Gingerly lifting the note placed atop the fabric, you read Sukuna’s precise handwriting. Curious glances from the other concubines peered over your shoulders in anticipation.

No distracting embellishments, Sad Eyes.

“What does that mean?” a curious whisper floated through the air, followed by murmurs of intrigue from the other girls. “Why does he call you ‘sad eyes’?”

You clutched the letter to your chest, suppressing a grin as you ignored the questions, the mockery, and the jostling of bodies around you. Your attention was fixated on the magnificent robe gifted to you by His Lordship.

For the remainder of the evening, you slept without any interruptions, seeking to compensate for the countless nights spent battling insomnia within the confines of your foster home.

You observed with a keen eye that none of the other girls were ushered to Sukuna’s chambers; their time seemed to veer toward strolls in the back garden or spent in the dormitory, indulging in wine-fueled scandals about the palace staff, as was their custom.

As the clock struck eight in the evening, a troupe of maids entered the chamber bearing dinner trays. A wave of anticipation swept through the room as the other girls eagerly accepted their meals and accompanying pitchers of water. Your own stomach rumbled in hunger, awaiting your own turn.

But that moment never arrived.

Instead, the maid bypassed your bed entirely, moving on to the next. A surge of apprehension rippled through you as a handmaiden approached, guiding you away from the mattress and toward the vanity.

“What about my dinner?” you asked as the attendants groomed your hair.

“His Lordship has extended an invitation for you to dine with him tonight,” came the reply.

The room fell into a sudden hush.

Dine with him?

The notion sent a flurry of thoughts racing through your mind.

Before you could process further, you found yourself pulled upright, your garments removed to be replaced by the scarlet robe.

Envy flickered in the eyes of the other concubines as they observed, their resentment palpable as they stabbed at their food with exaggerated aggression. It wasn’t your doing that Sukuna had taken an unexpected interest in you.

With no adornments save for a dab of crushed cherry paste upon your lips, you were escorted to Sukuna’s chambers.

Once more, the imposing doors swung open, and you found yourself gently ushered into the chamber. As they sealed shut behind you, the room was flooded with light. Sukuna’s figure stared out at the moonlit gardens outside, clad in a billowing white silk robe.

“My Lord,” you greeted respectfully, inclining your head in deference.

“Draw near.”

Complying with his directive, you approached and stood at his side. His presence loomed over you, his stature commanding and formidable, capable of engulfing you entirely with a single embrace. Not that such thoughts dared to linger in your mind.

“Why is your face flushed?” he asked, his gaze penetrating.

You blinked, attempting to dismiss the telltale warmth creeping up your cheeks. “It’s nothing, my Lo—”

Before you could finish, Sukuna turned your chin towards him, his palm coming to rest against your forehead. A nervous swallow traced its way down your throat at his touch, his eyes trailing down your form, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as they settled upon you in your robe.

“Thank you for your gracious gift,” you murmured, feeling the warmth rise to your cheeks.

His fingers trailed through your hair, a mischievous glimmer dancing in his eyes. “I anticipate nothing less than thoroughly enjoying the privilege of removing it off of you.”

You blushed deeper at his statement.

“Come now. I’ve brought a surprise for you.” He took your hand in his with a tug, guiding you towards a doorway. With a simple flick of his fingers, the door parted, revealing a dimly lit hallway beyond.

Your gaze widened in astonishment. “How did you do that, my Lord?”

“Do what?”

“You opened the door without laying a hand on it.”

Sukuna’s striking blood-coloured eyes cut to you. “There is much about me that will be unveiled in due course, my love. What you perceive is but a guise for my true nature.” His smile, oddly childlike, sent a chill down your spine.

Was he some sort of sorcerer? You’d only heard whispers of human anomalies lurking beneath the earth’s surface or sealed within vessels, but historical accounts weren't exactly your cup of tea.

“I ventured into town today,” he said.

“Oh.” You swallowed hard, recovering from his previous statement. “I hope it was a fruitful trip.”

“Indeed, quite fruitful.”

In the soft glow of the distant hallway, Sukuna’s face came into view, casting a spell of trepidation upon your heart. His features were drawn into a mask of stoicism, his eyes devoid of warmth, and his lips pressed into a firm line, jaw rigid with tension.

Parting the curtains, Sukuna drew you near, his arm sweeping out to reveal a horrifying sight: your foster father, bound to a chair with chains, wearing the cruel marks of torture.

His face marred by countless wounds, an eye absent, and teeth scattered at his feet. His dignity stripped away, his vulnerability laid bare in his nakedness, and his manhood amputated.

The sickening lurch in your stomach threatened to betray your composure. “F-Forgive my intrusion, my Lord, but is he . . . is he dead?”

Sukuna’s response was a gilded dagger from within his robe, its handle decorated with a jewel reminiscent of your own captivating eyes. Nestled within the hilt was the very flower he had plucked from your hair. Upon the blade, your name was inscribed.

“Do as you wish, my beloved,” he whispered, his voice stained with dark fascination, offering you the instrument of your foster father’s fate with a chilling sense of detachment.

You couldn’t possibly bring yourself to commit such a heinous act.

Despite the unspeakable cruelties inflicted upon you by the bastard, the idea of taking another’s life filled you with a trembling dread.

Yet, the itch to end the torment, to rid the world of such a vile presence, simmered just beneath the surface as you stood before him, his life slipping away.

A hand trailed down the back of your head, guiding your trembling fingers to grasp the dagger tightly.

Looking up, you met Sukuna’s gaze, his expression hollow, his features obscured by shadows. This was the face of the Devil that cursed his enemies on their knees and had them willingly submit to death.

With a push from behind, you stumbled forward, drawing closer to your step-father’s prone form.

Glancing back at Sukuna, you were met with an incongruously bright smile. Quite a twisted paradox, His Lordship.

Your step-father sat unconscious, the stench of his bodily fluids assaulting your senses. His wounds oozed with a sickening mixture of blood and pus, his laboured breaths the only indication of life remaining within him. The scene was painfully familiar, a mirror image of the torment you had endured countless times before.

But now, someone had intervened, offering you a chance at liberation, a chance to end the cycle of abuse once and for all.

You glanced back again.

Until Sukuna.

Your gaze reluctantly returned to the true embodiment of cruelty before you. With a steady hand, you raised your arm, wielding the dagger with purpose.

It found its mark in your foster-father’s chest, a chilling silence punctuated only by the sound of steel meeting flesh. Ignoring the strangled cry that erupted from him, you withdrew the blade, then drove it back into his heart.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

His lifeblood painted your face and stained your pristine garments, mingling with the fabric in a macabre dance of crimson. To the untrained eye, it could easily be mistaken for a mere splash of vibrant colour upon your robe.

No one would dare suspect the truth.

No one would dare come near if they knew of your sin.

No one, except Sukuna.

Once the monster over your bed was consigned to the depths of hell, his guts spilling onto the floor around your bare feet, you allowed yourself a moment of grim satisfaction.

With a contemptuous snarl, you spat upon him, a visceral response to the years of degradation he had inflicted upon you for every misstep.

A comforting warmth touched your back.

Startled by the sudden contact, you tensed before easing at the sight of Sukuna’s faint smile.

As he reached to caress your cheek, you instinctively recoiled, lowering your gaze in deference.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” you murmured, “but I cannot permit you to spoil your hands with the blood of this man.”

Sukuna’s shoes entered your line of sight as he tilted your chin upward, his moon-white sleeve wiping away the traces of blood from your mouth and its vicinity. “You appear rather exquisite painted in blood, Sad Eyes. Perhaps I ought to designate you as my prized assassin instead of a mere concubine.”

“I beg your pardon, my Lord, but I cannot partake in killing . . . again.”

“You need not worry,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he drew near. “I will defend you from any who cast their gaze upon you, let alone lay a hand upon your delicate form. Those who dare cross that line will face my wrath, their very existence extinguished before your eyes. Not a single tear shall stain your cheeks.” His lips brushed against yours. “From this moment forward, fear shall not reside within you. By my side, you shall command fear itself, my love.”

That night, Sukuna bathed you in the sanctuary of his chambers, washing away the traces of blood from your skin as you gazed at him with a sense of wonder. It wasn’t the superficial admiration the other concubines whispered about—it was a profound affection blossoming within you, nurtured by power and protection.

He draped you in the luxurious folds of one of his silk robes, summoning servants to prepare dinner. Seated upon his lap, he fed you spoonfuls of rice and chicken, even as your stomach protested its fullness. Soft kisses peppered your neck like a sweet dessert, culminating in one upon your lips before he reluctantly released you to retire to your dormitory.

In the ensuing weeks, Sukuna would consistently send a crafted robe ahead of each meeting—in the serene seclusion of his chambers, where the flickering candlelight cast shadows upon the walls as you dined together.

Over the course of these intimate dinners, he eagerly absorbed your musings, whether they revolved around the narratives of books discovered within the palace library or your adeptness with herbs and plants, nurtured by your profound knowledge.

On occasion, as the first light of dawn painted the sky with hues of pink and gold, Sukuna would summon you for a stroll in the haven of the back garden. Woven between the fragrant blooms, you’d dance about with childlike enthusiasm, identifying various flowers and tracing their lineage.

Ever the attentive listener, Sukuna trailed behind you, his gaze fixed upon your animated figure. He would only speak when you fell silent, demanding you to continue sharing the familial ties between apples, plums, and the roses they stemmed from.

Within the crevice of your soul, the once withered garden of affection had flourished into a lush wilderness, blossoming with untamed wildflowers and clouds that spelled out his name.

Sukuna inhabited your every waking thought, his intoxicating mouth that worshipped your body left you giggling in delight behind your hands.

Yet, each encounter with a fellow concubine, flushed and eager with tales of their rendezvous with him, felt like thorns piercing your tender heart. Jealousy, like ivy creeping upon stone, entwined itself around your every plagued thought. Your gaze often strayed to the bedside drawer where the dagger lay dormant. The mere mention of his physique by the other women tormented your soul relentlessly.

Why hadn’t Sukuna taken you as he had with every other concubine? You had grown accustomed to his presence, even eager to reciprocate the pleasure he gifted you every evening. You had offered yourself willingly, aching for the intimacy that would bind you even closer to him. But he had not claimed you in the same manner, not entered you fully, not seeded his legacy within you.

Did he question your worthiness? Did he see you merely as a transient pleasure? Were you destined to remain just a concubine, forever denied the honour of carrying his child?

“Why do you remain silent?” Sukuna asked, turning the pages of the book you had suggested to him; he was already half-way through.

You were seated snugly between his legs upon the bed, your back rested against his chest, fingers idly toying with the strands of your hair. “I find myself devoid of words this evening.”

“Hmm.” Sukuna took a leisurely sip of his drink before placing it aside. “Surely you can conjure something. You know well enough that I cannot endure your silence.”

With an exasperated sigh, you rolled your eyes. “Well, I apologise for failing to provide you with amusement, my Lord.”

Sukuna snapped the book shut.

You instinctively pressed your lips together, silently chiding yourself for the unintended sharpness in your voice.

With a heavy sigh, you resigned yourself to maintaining your composure, forcing yourself to take slow, steady breaths. Deep down, you believed that he wouldn’t inflict harm upon you or cast you out of his chambers. But the nagging thought chewed at you.

This was Sukuna Ryomen, and you . . . well, you were merely a shadow in comparison.

“If you crave my touch,” he breathed softly into your ear, “all you need to do is utter the request.”

With a determined resolve, you turned to face him, settling yourself upon his lap. Sukuna regarded you with a quirked eyebrow, a quiet acknowledgment of your unconventional audacity.

“I do crave your touch, my Lord,” you confessed, your voice a hushed plea, “but not only with your hands or lips. I long to feel you in a different manner.” Your gaze drifted down to his pelvis, the unspoken appetite evident in your eyes. “I crave that.”

Sukuna exhaled heavily, his gaze piercing as he addressed you. “So, you’ve been withholding your words simply because I haven’t fed you my cock?"

Heat rose to your cheeks at his blunt proclamation, though you had grown accustomed to his coarse mannerisms over time.

“Yes, my . . . Lord.” Your voice carried a mixture of embarrassment. “I’ve endured three long months of anticipation, patiently waiting to share in the pleasures enjoyed by your other consorts. Yet, with the arrival of autumn, I find myself still untouched by the experiences they so openly boast about.”

His lips curled into a smirk. “Are you asking me to bed you merely for the purpose of becoming a notch in your bragging rights?”

“Never, my Lord!” you protested vehemently, a hint of hurt flickering in your eyes. “I would never demean you with such vulgar talk in public. I’ve spun tales to the others, concealing the truth of our encounters. They remain oblivious to the pleasures you’ve granted me.” Your fingers traced the intricate markings on his chiselled abdominal muscles. “If my spoiled state displeases you, if I am deemed unworthy of your touch, pray, inform me now. Regardless, my sole wish is to fulfil His Lordship’s needs.”

Sukuna disentangled your hands from his chest, a gesture that caused a fissure to form within your heart, forcing your body to instinctively withdraw from his touch.

Just as you began to pull away, he swiftly encircled his arm around your waist, tugging you back onto his lap with a firm grip. Before you could utter a single word, his lips descended upon yours, silencing any protest with a passionate kiss.

With a purposeful touch, he skillfully divested you of your robe, revealing the curves of your form beneath. His hands, warm and adept, began to massage your supple breasts, kindling soft gasps from your lips. His own trailed a wet path downward, leaving a bridge of feverish kisses along the expanse of your throat, lingering over the rapid pulse beneath your skin.

As his lips found purchase on the tender flesh of your neck, his actions became more urgent, his touch more demanding. A pinch at your pebbled nipples sent a shiver of sensation coursing through you, followed by the heat of an open-mouthed kiss.

Your gaze drifted downwards, enchanted by the sight of his tongue encircling the sensitive spots, suckling on the swollen buds like a babe. Already, heat was building within the depths of your being, igniting a flame that spread between your legs.

Sukuna laid you back, relishing the delicate flavour of your lips as his fingers skillfully sought out your throbbing clit, stimulating it with unhurried circles.

With practised ease, he slipped two fingers inside you, quickening his rhythm without preamble. Your hand instinctively traced down to his chest, undoing the fastenings of his robe.

“Take it,” he whispered against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. “Satisfy your lord, my love.”

Your fingers curled around his pulsating cock, the very object of desire that the other girls had passionately recounted. The knowledge of their previous intimacies with him only stoked the flames of envy within you, spurring you to intensify your ministrations.

With a surge of determination, you quickened the pace of your caresses, applying pressure with your thumb upon his sensitive tip while fondling his sacs.

Sukuna’s grin widened against your lips as he reciprocated with equal zeal, slipping a third finger into your slick heat until he was fully engulfed by your swollen core.

Together, you sailed upon the waves of raw carnal desire, locked in a lecherous race to reach your climax, each vying to be the first to cross the finish line—

Sukuna’s low, guttural moans resonated throughout the chamber.

You had achieved victory.

His essence spilled forth into your waiting hands, his cock convulsing with the intensity of his release. Moments later, you succumbed to your own climax, a soft cry escaping your lips.

With care, Sukuna withdrew his hand from your centre, and you instinctively examined your palm, noting the striking resemblance of his essence to your own.

You tentatively brought your fingers to your lips, savouring the taste of him.

“I did not instruct you to do that,” he growled, his gaze blazing as you tasted him. “But I suppose I’ll permit it.”

“It is salty,” you murmured, almost absentmindedly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, are you women incapable of discussing anything besides my cock?” he exclaimed, frustration evident in his tone.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension dissipating as he cleaned his fingers with his tongue before tenderly cradling the back of your head, drawing you to sit upon his lap. Your laughter softened into chuckles, a smile playing upon your lips.

“Did I please you, my Lo—”

“Sukuna,” he interrupted firmly. “Only you may address me by my given name.”

“My L—”

“I command it.” His tone left no room for argument.

You affirmed your agreement with a nod.

He was Sukuna.

Your Sukuna.

“Very well, Sukuna.” You felt a subtle shift in the air between you. His chuckle rumbled softly. “Shall I turn around for you?”

“And why do you deem such an unnecessary act necessary?”

“Because—” You suppressed the urge to divulge the whispers of the other concubines regarding his favoured position. “Never mind. How would you prefer me to present myself to you?”

“As you are,” Sukuna answered, his grip tightening around himself. “How you managed to have me spend by your hand in under five minutes is a marvel beyond my comprehension.”

Internally, you gave yourself a congratulatory pat on the back.

“Now, my love,” he said, inclining his chin towards his erection, “will you do my cock the honour of sitting on it?”

Licking the grin of your lips, you nodded, rising to your knees. With nimble fingers, you positioned his hardened length at your entrance, gradually lowering yourself onto him.

A sharp intake of breath escaped Sukuna’s lips, his hands instinctively grasping your hips. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, enduring the initial sting of penetration. Perhaps every touch of his fingers had been a meticulous groundwork for this pinnacle moment.

As you settled into your seat upon him, you granted yourself a minute to acclimate to the sheer magnitude of him stretching and filling your tight, supple walls.

Sukuna tilted his head back, impatience evident in his eyes. “Will you begin moving at a pace befitting this century, Sad Eyes?”

“Just a moment,” you retorted, your tone tinged with irritation.

“Unfortunately, the sight of your leaking cunt is testing my patience,” he remarked, his gaze lingering provocatively on your flushed form.

Collecting yourself, you affirmed your resolve with a nod before subtly adjusting your position, and swaying your hips forward. His strong hands guided you, aiding your movements as you sought a rhythm. “Gods, you’re— You’re quite large. It’s rather discomforting.”

“Ah, where has the enthusiasm to please your lord vanished, my love?” His laughter echoes through the chamber as he leaned back, amused by your scowl. “I must confess, your defiance is perhaps your most alluring trait. It has crossed my mind more than once during moments of handling myself in the bath.”

Your brow furrowed in dismay.

It was evident that the other concubines possessed far greater expertise in pleasuring him than you ever could. All you could manage was to feign enthusiasm, your movements faltering and disjointed, as you struggled to produce even a fraction of the satisfaction they effortlessly blessed him with. His laughter, which wasn’t helping your cause, bore an uncanny resemblance to the mocking tones of the girls who had taunted you in the past.

You no longer wished to endure this charade.

You halted in your tracks, unable to muster the courage to meet his gaze, your eyes fixated instead on his throat. “It appears . . . that I may not be adequately versed in fulfilling your needs. I shall endeavour to educate myself further before making another attempt. For now, I request permission to retire for the evening, my Lord.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened as he seized your jaw, compelling you to meet his gaze. “You dare to defy my command to address me by my given name?” His smile remained wicked as he drew your face closer to his own. “Remember, my love, there is a boundary to which I tolerate your rebellion. Do not allow my affections to cloud your judgement. I remain your Lord, above all else. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp out.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sukuna,” you replied, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

With a swift motion, he released your sore jaw, and before you could even consider easing the ache, his lips crashed against yours.

In that moment, control slipped from your grasp entirely. His hands gripped the flesh of your buttocks possessively, guiding your movements as he claimed you with a primal savageness that left you shaking in his embrace.

“Does it pain you, my beloved?” Sukuna growled, his fingers curling around your nape possessively. “Do you feel the strain of my cock as I breach your tender walls?”

You whimpered softly, your head nodding against the curve of his neck.

“Fear not, my darling. I will diligently train this cunt of yours to accommodate every inch of me, dusk, dawn, and twilight. Your throat, too, shall be honed to fulfil my every whim, wherever and whenever I demand.” With a swift motion, he tugged your hair, forcing you to meet his glare. “And should you dare to entertain thoughts of defiance with any other man beyond the confines of my chamber, rest assured, there will be consequences.”

“Sukuna,” was all you gasped, eyes rolling back as his tip probed the depths of your womb. His tongue traced the delicate curve of your throat before shoving into your mouth, drawing out your own to suckle on. In the heat of the moment, your hands roamed aimlessly, torn between grasping at his waist, clutching his shoulders, or caressing his cheeks.

“Oh, how I love the sight of your breasts greeting me in my face.” Sukuna tightened his hold on each of them with a deadly grasp, savouring the melodious cry that escaped your lips. He lowered his head and teethed each nipple, drawing it out and relishing in the masochism of your sharp nails clawing down his back. “Deeper, my darling. You alone hold the privilege of marking my flesh. Let my scars mirror yours.”

With caution, you shifted your hands to rest upon his firm pectoral muscles before you could accidentally claw out his spinal cord.

Sukuna’s touch drifted from your bruised breasts to cradle your face, guiding your gaze to meet his crimson one.

Encouraged by his comforting presence, you arched your hips forward with newfound confidence. His fingers swept through your hair, pushing it away as he offered reassuring nods.

Now, the reins rested firmly within your grasp.

“Fuck . . .” Leaning back against the headboard, he released soft sighs. Warm breaths escaped his parted lips as you continued increasing your ministrations. Your gaze momentarily flickered to your favourite book resting on his bedside table before returning to his face.

Suddenly seized by an impulse, you leaned forward to plant a tender kiss upon his lips, trailing upward to gently brush against his cheekbones, tracing the intricate markings lining his skin.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Someone must play the role of the tender one between us, Sukuna,” you answered, mirroring the attention he had given your scars during your initial encounter. With each kiss, you felt his eyes tracing your movements, following the path of your lips as they journeyed across his face, landing upon his nose or the pulse of his neck.

“My beloved,” Sukuna’s voice caressed your ears, drawing your focus entirely to him, “listen closely to my words.”

You halted your movements, a curious expression dancing in your eyes. “What troubles you?”

With a deliberate motion, he guided your hips forward, his gaze unwavering. “Throughout the night, I will fill your womb ceaselessly, and in mere weeks, you shall carry my legacy within you.” Your heart leaped into your throat, fluttering with an overwhelming rush of emotion. “Peril will shadow your every step. Those who oppose us will stop at nothing to eliminate your life and the life of our child. Do you comprehend the gravity of our situation?”

You blinked back the tears, resigning yourself to the inevitable.

“But I vow upon my honour, such an atrocity shall never come to pass. I will sever entire bloodlines if even a single strand of your precious hair were harmed.” His movements quickened as he thrusted into you.

Your grip tightened on his shoulders again, gasping for breath between erratic pants.

“At dawn’s light, all concubines shall be reassigned to palace duties. You need only point out those who have dared to trouble you, though their transgressions are already known to me.” His motions became more intense as he pressed you onto your back, pinning your arms above your head. “And when the sun graces the horizon, you, my beloved, shall be proclaimed as my queen.”

Your voice wailed through the chamber as you cried out his name, drowning in the waves of scorching pleasure never before experienced.

Instead of seeing celestial bodies colliding, your gaze met the deep crimson of his irises, those same eyes that had captivated you on that very first night.

“Sukuna . . . ”

With a smile mirroring his own, you tilted your head upward, silently beckoning him to seal the moment with a kiss. As he obliged, his cock pulsed within you, filling you with his warmth until every fibre of your being was tethered with his.

But he didn’t withdraw. Just as he had promised, he intended to keep you close throughout the night, to claim you as his own.

And in that moment, as you laid with him, you welcomed the dawn of a new chapter standing beside him, prepared to reign as Sukuna Ryomen’s queen.

[blank-potato]

Insomniacs with a z

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader x John Walker

Summary:

“Damn it, John, let go,” you whisper under your breath, carefully trying to pry one of his arms off your waist. No use. His super soldier strength is in full effect, and all you manage to do is shift the grip higher—great, now he’s got you in a chokehold. And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there. “Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited. Or You form the New Avengers' very first sleep sub-unit. You, John and Bob all struggle to sleep, so you sleep in the same bed together to help each other out. And it's definitely platonic.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, fluff, little angst, threesome, p in v, oral sex (female and male receiving), creampie, sex dream, John and Bob being cute

WC: 9.5k

A/N: Started this ages a while ago but finally finished it. I wrote this because who wouldn't wanna be in a John and Bob sandwich, and I feel like since it's May (Challengers month but every month is Challengers month imo) I need to write threesomes. And I love Sentryagent, Thunderbolts has brought back the multishipper in me. Enjoy!

***

Sleep was something that often escaped you. After the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen, you’re surprised you sleep at all. It’s like your mind refuses to shut down, always racing, always bracing for something that never comes. Like there's a part of you that's always on watch, never letting you fully rest unless your body gives in from pure exhaustion.

So here you are again, wide awake at god-knows-what hour, standing in the kitchen in your sweats, staring into the fridge like it’s going to offer you something other than the same sad leftovers and a questionable bottle of juice. You close it. Two and a half seconds later, you open it again.

You pace. Open a cabinet. Close it. Lean against the counter. Wander to the sink. Insomnia’s a bitch. The hum of the fridge is loud in the quiet of the night, and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet is the only rhythm to your restless routine.

“What are you doing up?” a voice asks from behind you.

You turn to see John standing in the doorway, looking tired, his old white army shirt wrinkled, hair an adorable mess (not that you’d ever say that out loud). His expression is soft, caught somewhere between concern and exhaustion.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say, shrugging. “Staring at my ceiling was starting to drive me crazy. What about you?”

John exhales deeply, like he’s carrying the weight of something heavy. “Same. Too much on my mind.”

“Feel free to join me,” you say, hopping onto the counter next to him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just moves around the kitchen trying to get his bearings. You sit on the counter, watching him as he searches the cabinets.

You never quite knew what it was. It wasn’t anything obvious, just something about seeing him like this, all comfy in his pyjamas. You liked it more than you probably should.

"You're staring," He says, snapping you back to your senses.

"Am not."

“Are too,” he replies smugly, finally retrieving a jar from the cabinet like he just found buried treasure.

“You’re such a child,” you say, rolling your eyes, though you’re smiling despite yourself.

“And yet, here you are. Watching me like I’m the last man on Earth who knows how to make a sandwich,” He says, going over to the fridge to grab bread. 

“I’m just making sure you don’t burn the kitchen down,” you lie, folding your arms.

“With peanut butter?” John questions, eyebrow quirked up. 

“You never know.”

He rolls his eyes at you and tosses his bread in the toaster as he goes to try to find the jam for his PB&J.

Just then, there's a quiet creak, the unmistakable sound of someone stepping into the kitchen. You and John both glance over to see Bob walk in, clearly not realising anyone else is there yet. He grabs a glass, eyes still adjusting to the light, then turns around. 

He stops in his tracks when he sees the two of you. His hair’s sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed, and he's holding his empty glass like he’s just been caught stealing. In an instant, his powers kick in, the glass shattering in his hand. 

“Oh shit, I’ll…” Bob blurts, immediately rushing to pick up the broken glass with his hands.

John’s on the move before the words even finish leaving Bob’s mouth, already halfway across the kitchen, when he heard the glass break. “Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself—”

“I can’t get cut, remember?” Bob says with a small grin, crouched and collecting the shards like it’s no big deal.

John hesitates, hand still extended like he might intercept him anyway. He often forgot just how strong Bob actually was, it wasn’t something he ever led with. Something about the way he carried himself made you want to protect him, even if he was as strong as a God. Same for the rest of the team, probably.

“Still…” John mutters, his concern clinging stubbornly to the edge of his voice, even if it had no real argument to stand on.

You hop off the counter, bare feet, making a quick dash to the broom closet. “What are you even doing awake, Bob?”

“My mind was too busy. Plus, I’m kind of hungry,” he replies, tossing the glass shards in the bin. You start sweeping up the remnants of glass left on the floor when you get an idea. 

“Wanna have a midnight snack?” you offer.

“It’s 3 a.m.,” John cuts in, after glancing at his watch. 

You flash him a quick grin. “Wanna have a 3 a.m. snack?”

Bob nods, his grin matching yours now. You make quick work of sweeping up any remaining glass on the floor, and the two of you start raiding the fridge like a pair of delinquents. John watches from the side, towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed. He rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I swear, the two of you are going to be the death of me.”

There’s a beat of silence as you and Bob settle on cereal, clinking spoons against mismatched bowls.

“Do you smell that?” Bob asks, nose wrinkling slightly.

There’s a very distinct burning smell filling the room, thick and bitter.

“The toast,” John grumbles, fingers running through his hair. 

“I told you,” you gloat with a smug grin, watching as he rushes to the toaster.

He yanks the lever up and pulls out what is no longer a slice of bread but a small, blackened slab of charcoal.

“It’s cremated,” Bob says through a mouthful of cereal, casually stabbing another spoonful into his mouth.

John just sighs in defeat.

“Just join us in having cereal,” you tell him, nudging the box toward him with a smirk.

“Fine,” he grumbles, grabbing a bowl. Eventually, the three of you relocate to the couch, cereal bowls in hand, because the counters weren’t exactly comfortable, and the kitchen still smelled like a small appliance fire.

“So… what’s keeping you both up tonight?” you ask, nestled between them on the couch.

John answers first, his voice monotone. “The usual.”

The usual being everything he never says out loud, all his regrets, everything he’s lost, everyone he’s lost. All the weight he still carries. It’s been quite some time since the divorce, but he still hasn’t quite gotten used to sleeping alone, constantly tossing and turning, wanting someone to be there.

Bob chimes in, “Same. The usual.”

His mind was always too awake at night, too weak and susceptible to slipping back into the darkness. It was impossible for him not to think about everything that haunted him. He was unbelievably touch-starved. He knew touch was one thing that could help soothe the restless chaos inside. Sleeping alone, just feeling the cold sheets on his skin, only made the emptiness grow louder and kept him up.

You raise an eyebrow. “What an open group we have here.”

John glances over. “What about you, then?”

You hesitate, staring down at your cereal for a beat, then sigh. “The usual…”

The silence that follows is oddly comforting. Each of you lost in your thoughts, shoulders brushing lightly, grounded only by the shared sound of quiet crunching. You all finish your cereal, the moment hanging in the air like a soft exhale.

Bob stands, collecting the empty bowls. “I’ll wash these.”

“Are you guys going back to bed?” you ask, stretching slightly as you glance between them.

John shrugs, sinking further into the couch. “I’ll stay here for a bit…”

Bob returns a few moments later from the kitchen and flops down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Same.”

The three of you start shuffling around on the couch until everyone finds a spot that feels comfortable, John leaning back with his feet on the coffee table, Bob sitting close enough that your knees touch, and you tucked between them like the final puzzle piece. From there, the conversation seemed to flow, distracting you all from what was keeping you up at night. 

“I mean, you turned my shield into a taco,” John says, deadpan but with a slight edge. You’ve always known he was a little bitter about it. 

“I said I was sorry!” Bob defends himself, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “I was a different man then.”

You chuckle at their banter, head resting back against the cushion as their voices wrap around you like a blanket. The warmth of their presence, the soft glow of the living room, and the gentle rhythm of familiarity start to lull you to sleep.

You don’t even remember when your eyes close. Just the sound of them, bickering, laughing, still talking as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist.

***

You wake up the next morning, so well rested, you’d think you slept on a bed of clouds and dreams. 

John’s arms are draped loosely around your waist, his fingers just barely brushing your skin beneath the hem of your shirt. Bob’s head rests gently on your shoulder, his breath soft and warm against your neck, making you shiver even as you smile sleepily.

The sun is barely peeking through the curtains, casting a soft golden hue over the quiet living room.

You know you can’t stay here forever, so with great care and a ridiculous amount of flexibility, you begin to untangle yourself from their limbs. 

You pause once or twice as Bob shifts slightly or John murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep, but they don’t wake. 

It isn’t as easy as you’d think it’d be, especially once you realise you’re caught in a trap. John’s arms tighten around you in his sleep like you’re some kind of oversized teddy bear he refuses to part with.

“Damn it, John, let go,” you whisper under your breath, carefully trying to pry one of his arms off your waist. No use. His super soldier strength is in full effect, and all you manage to do is shift the grip higher—great, now he’s got you in a chokehold.

And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there.

“Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited.

It takes at least fifteen minutes before you finally manoeuvre your way out of the human bear trap that is your two oblivious teammates.

Once you’re out, you decide to have a little fun. You gently lift Bob’s head and nestle it against John's shoulder, shifting John's arm so it's draped protectively over Bob. The sight almost makes you stay.

Finally, you tuck a blanket around the two of them and step back, admiring your work with a sleepy smile. They looked peaceful. Safe.

You leave the room quietly, knowing full well someone, maybe Yelena or Bucky, would be the first to stumble in and find the two of them cuddled up like that.

They wake up hours later, the distant hum of activity signalling it’s definitely already afternoon.

“Walker?” Bob murmurs groggily, his voice rough with sleep, as he blinks at the ceiling. Then he turns his head and freezes, feeling John’s arm slung comfortably across his waist.

They both jolted upright like someone had hit a panic button.

“Nothing happened,” John says immediately, running a hand through his hair, eyes wide.

“Obviously,” Bob replies, a bit too fast, already scooting to the far end of the couch.

But any attempt at saving face is promptly ruined when Ava walks by with a mug in hand and a wicked grin.

“You two make a cute pair,” she teases without slowing, not even sparing them a second glance as she disappears down the hall.

They sit there for a beat, stunned, before Bob mutters, “Please tell me no one took pictures.”

John groans, rubbing his face. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

***

The next few nights are tough. Worse than jetlag, worse than missions, worse than running on three hours of sleep and no espresso. You toss and turn like your sheets are made of sandpaper, pillow doing nothing to muffle the ache of absence beside you. You wanted to ask them, just once, to sleep beside you again. Just to see if it would help. Just to see if it meant anything.

But how were you supposed to do that? Knock on their door and go, "Sleep with me!"?

Mortifying.

Still, the restlessness was eating away at your nerves. So, gathering all the courage you can possibly muster, you decide maybe, just maybe, you’d go to both of their rooms and… ask. Or not ask. Maybe just stand there awkwardly until they read your mind.

You stumble out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and go to open your door—only to stop short at the sight of a tall brunette swaying nervously right in front of it, arm halfway raised to knock.

“Bob?” you whisper, blinking.

He jumps slightly, caught red-handed. “Oh… hey.”

You tilt your head, heart thudding. “What are you doing out here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I was just… walking. Or, not really. Thinking. Or maybe… not sleeping.”

You smile, because yeah, you know exactly what that’s like. “Same.”

There’s a pause. The moment stretches, as you both tiptoe around the same thought. Then, finally, you take the leap.

“So do you… wanna stay in here?”

Bob’s eyes flick up to yours, and his smile is small, but relieved.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Both of you lie next to each other on your bed, talking about nothing and everything. It feels more comfortable, and you can feel your body starting to relax a bit. 

But ten minutes later, there’s a knock on your door. You and Bob exchange a look, and you walk over to your door to see John standing there. He looks as tired as you are, eyes rimmed red, posture slack, like sleep has been eluding him for days.

John notices Bob already there, sitting cross-legged on your bed, half-wrapped in one of your throw blankets.

“I’m interrupting, aren’t I? I can—”

“Stay. Please, it’s okay. The more the merrier,” you say quickly, stepping aside. You were happy to see him, and judging by the soft smile tugging at Bob’s lips, so was he.

“So, I’m assuming you’re both here to sleep with me,” you start, watching as they both sit down on either side of you. They pause. Blink. The silence stretches, thick with implication.

“Well, you know what I mean,” you clarify, cheeks heating. “Sleep next to me. Next to each other in a totally platonic and cool friend way.”

“Yeah, like that…” John says, nodding way too seriously. “I actually slept really well when we crashed on the couch the other day, so…”

“Same,” Bob adds. “I… haven’t really slept since then. Not like real sleep.”

You look between the two of them, then glance at your bed.

“So… how are we all going to fit?”

There’s a beat of silence before John offers, “I’ll take the edge.”

“I don’t mind an edge either,” Bob shrugs. “Unless you want it.”

“I want pillows, that’s what I want,” you say, flopping backwards across the bed. “We’ll make it work.”

And somehow, you do. There's a bit of shifting, a tangle of limbs and blankets, someone’s foot ending up in the wrong place and being shoved off with a muttered complaint. You’re in a Bob and John sandwich, and it’s actually very comfortable. Just knowing that you didn’t have to fall asleep alone did more for you than you thought it would.

You smile to yourself and relax, the warmth of them on either side soothing you more than any blanket ever could.

“Are you guys asleep?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bob lets out a soft, “No,” and John follows with a groggy, “I was.”

“I thought of a name for us. We’re ‘insomniacs… with a z,’’ Good right?” you whisper with a grin, and though you can’t see his face in the dark, you know John rolled his eyes at that.

“You need to go to sleep,” Bob murmurs, leaning into you, his voice low and full of fondness.

You hum in response, already halfway to unconsciousness again, feeling his hand settle gently on your waist while John’s leg brushes yours under the covers.

***

For the next few nights, the three of you fall into an unspoken routine. Cramming into your bed, trading dumb jokes and half-whispered stories until sleep takes over. It’s oddly comforting. Easy. You've never slept better.

Sometimes when you’d walk in, John and Bob would already be there, lying next to each other, leaving just enough space for you, but close enough that their legs touched under the blanket. You saw it even if they didn’t. The way Bob’s shoulders relaxed just a little more when John was near. The way John’s usually guarded face softened around him. Bob’s quiet glances when he thought no one was looking. John’s compulsive need to take care of him, even in the smallest ways, like adjusting the blanket around Bob’s shoulders or handing him a snack before he could ask for one.

You even caught John absentmindedly running his fingers through Bob’s hair once, his other hand resting casually on your shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, for the three of you, it was.

It was your little (not-so-secret) secret. Until one morning when Bucky catches you all red-handed. 

He rounds the corner, coffee mug in hand, just in time to catch John and Bob exiting your room. They're both rumpled and sleepy-eyed, Bob rubbing the back of his neck, John trying to quietly shut your door.

They both freeze when they see him.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, lips already twitching.

“It really isn’t what it looks like,” John says quickly, holding up his hands like he’s surrendering.

Bucky takes a slow sip from his mug, never breaking eye contact. “And I’m really not sure I want to know, Walker.”

Bob makes a small noise of protest, like he wants to clarify something, but then thinks better of it.

“But whatever helps you sleep at night,” Bucky deadpans, walking past them.

John takes a breath while Bob chokes on air.

Trying to eat breakfast after that was… an ordeal, to say the least. Ava was in the kitchen, minding her business but clearly listening, her facial expressions and raised brows doing all the talking. And Alexei (of course) was making himself at home, throwing not-so-subtle glances your way that made you want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Alexei comments casually, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Young people need warmth. Back in my day, we shared beds all the time for survival.”

“Right,” you mutter, pushing cereal around in your bowl.

“Nothing brings people closer than shared body heat,” he continues. 

“Ugh…” you groan, dropping your spoon. But all this was worth it. You needed them in your bed… for completely platonic reasons. Obviously.

That night, you open the door to see John already leaning against the frame like he owns the place.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say with mock grandeur, stepping aside to let him in.

John heads straight to your bed, dropping onto it like it's his. He leans back, gets comfortable, then pauses—his brow furrowing.

“Have you been eating cookies in here?”

“…No,” you lie, a little too quickly.

John shifts, brushing a hand across the blanket with exaggerated suspicion. “I can feel the crumbs,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes, not wanting to hear the full lecture. “Okay, maybe one cookie. Or maybe it was more like… four.”

John sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly fighting the urge to launch into a full monologue about hygiene and cookie crumbs.

“I’m not sleeping in your cookie-infested bed,” he mutters, shooting you a look. “Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, used a plate instead of just rawdogging it with your comforter?”

“Who takes a plate of cookies to bed?” you argue, arms crossed, as if this is a totally reasonable lifestyle choice.

John just stares at you. “People who respect baked goods and their sheets,” he rebuts dryly, rubbing his temple like you’re this close to giving him a headache. “When Bob gets here, we’ll just go to my room instead.”

But ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

And still—no Bob.

You glance at the clock, then at John. “Think we should check on him?” you ask, the teasing drained from your voice now.

You were both beyond concerned.

Something wasn’t right.

John nods, and you follow behind him in silence, heart tight in your chest, hoping Bob’s alright.

“Bob? Are you in there?” John calls out, knocking once, then again, louder this time. But there’s no response.

He tries the handle. Unlocked.

Pushing the door open, you’re met with a rush of cold air. The window had been left wide open, the curtains fluttering slightly in the night breeze. The room is dim, quiet, and strangely still.

Then you see it—a Bob-shaped lump curled in the corner, knees drawn in, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold something in… or keep everything else out.

“Bob?” you say gently, voice soft but urgent, as you and John step carefully inside.

He doesn’t move. Still cradled in the same position. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

The two of you lower yourselves to the floor, sitting near but not too close, not wanting to spook him, not wanting to leave him alone either.

“I’m fine,” Bob says after a long silence. His voice is thin. Flat. The kind of “fine” that clearly means anything but.

“This doesn’t look fine,” John replies quietly, a mix of concern and frustration in his voice.

You take in his dishevelled form—hair messy and clinging to his forehead, eyes wet with tears that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. His whole body looks like it’s holding something heavy, like whatever’s going on inside him is too much to carry alone.

“You can tell us when you’re ready,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the ache building in your chest. “But we’re not leaving you alone.”

“We’ll stay on the floor with you all night if we have to,” John adds, firm and honest, with no hesitation.

Bob looks between the two of you, eyes wide and shining, like the idea of someone staying is new and almost too much to believe.

“You don’t understand…” he whispers, voice cracking. “If I lose control... I don’t hurt just me. I hurt everyone.”

Bob closes his eyes, and the memories hit him like a freight train—what happened in New York flashing through his mind as vividly as if it were happening again. He can still hear the screams, the panic in the streets, the chaos he caused. What he became. The helplessness of knowing that at any moment, it could all slip again. He could become that thing. And there’d be no undoing it.

“Bob,” you say gently, grounding him, your voice pulling him back from the edge.

His glassy eyes flutter open to the sight of you and John. He could see that you cared, more than he was used to. 

“If you lose control,” you continue, steady and unwavering, “every single one of us will be here to bring you back.”

“This will never be something you have to fight on your own. Never again,” John says, his voice thick with conviction.

And that’s when Bob breaks.

The weight he’s been carrying finally cracks, and he collapses into John’s arms, sobbing, raw and unfiltered. He reaches for your hand, grip tightens around it as soon as you find it. 

You stay there, the three of you, only the sound of Bob’s soft, trembling breaths audible. No one rushes him. No one lets go.

By the time you’re all finally drifting into sleep, slouched against each other on the floor, the first light of morning is creeping through the window.

***

The next day is a lot brighter.

The whole team is sent out on a mission that almost goes smoothly, if you don’t count the narrowly avoided international incident and the flaming jeep that somehow ended up in a fountain. But no one’s seriously hurt, and considering the usual chaos, that’s practically a win.

By the time you all make it back to the tower, bones are aching, eyes are heavy, and moods are dangerously close to cranky.

Then someone smells it.

Food. Real food.

The delicious scent winds through the hallways. The team practically floats toward the kitchen on instinct, lured like cartoon characters by the promise of actual food.

You spot Bob at the stove, apron slightly crooked, sleeves rolled up, a little flushed from the heat. You rush over to him, ruffling his hair without hesitation.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, smiling.

“I felt better today,” Bob says, glancing at you shyly, then smiling a little more freely. “So… I thought this might help. Everyone seemed like they needed something good.”

His eyes flick briefly to John, who’s leaning against the doorway, watching with soft approval.

“Well, thank you. We really appreciate it,” John says. “Plus, it’s definitely better than whatever the hell Alexei made last week.”

Alexei pipes up from the table, “It was fusion.”

“It was a war crime,” Ava mutters.

Everyone laughs, the tension melting into the kind of easy camaraderie that doesn’t come often, but when it does, it means something.

The whole time you eat, you feel it, that strange warmth in your chest, like a string pulled gently taut between the three of you. You catch yourself looking forward to nightfall in a way you never used to.

Like clockwork, they enter your room that night, John with a tired smile, Bob already carrying a pillow under one arm like he’s making himself at home. You scoot over to make space as they settle in on either side of you.

“Can you both do something for me?” you ask softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Name it,” Bob replies without hesitation, already leaning closer.

“No judgment,” you say, a bit embarrassed, “but… can you run your fingers through my hair?”

There’s a beat of silence, then two sets of hands move almost simultaneously. No teasing. No questions. Just soft fingers brushing through your hair, careful and gentle.

You lean into their touch. Each stroke sends a calm shiver down your spine, melting tension from your body. You don’t mean to fall asleep, not that fast, but your eyes flutter shut and the weight of the day slips away before you even realise it.

“She’s been falling asleep a lot quicker lately,” John comments quietly, pulling the blanket up over you.

Bob nods, watching your steady breathing. “Yeah… think she just needed to feel safe.” His hand lingers for a moment, brushing a stray strand from your face before settling back. Then something happens that makes them question everything. 

You moan.

“Did you…?” John starts with a mix of hesitation and curiosity, but he’s cut off when you mumble in your sleep.

“John…” you whisper softly, dream-heavy and far too sweet.

Both of them freeze. Bob’s hand goes still on the blanket, and John stares at you like you just hit him with a truck. You continue, a few more unintelligible whimpers slipping out. They’re soft, needy little sounds that make both men immediately and awkwardly alert.

Your brows scrunch in your sleep, and then another mumble: “Bob…so good…”

Their hands are completely out of your hair now, as though it burned them. They exchange a wide-eyed look.

“What’s happening?” Bob says, whispering like the room itself might judge him.

“She’s dreaming,” John mutters back, blinking at you. “But… of what exactly?”

“She said both our names.”

“I know.” A pause. “Do you think we should wake her up?”

“No,” Bob cuts in quickly, eyes fixed on you, like you might say something even more incriminating. “We should let her sleep.”

They both sit stiffly now, backs straight, trying very hard to think about anything else as you sigh contentedly in your sleep, clearly having a very different kind of night than they are.

“Whatever it is,” John finally mutters, “it must be really good.”

“Walker…” Bob says, voice low and barely above a whisper.

“I’m just saying,” John mutters, lifting his hands in defence. The blonde’s ears were still pink, eyes wide. “I’ve never heard her make noises like that. That had to be… something.”

Bob runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “Yeah, something. Something that included both of us.”

John sinks a little deeper into the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “That’s what I’m saying.”

You gasp softly in your sleep, a breathy “Holy shit…” slipping out before your voice finally fades into silence. Your breathing evens out, those needy little noises replaced by soft, peaceful snores.

They both freeze, eyes locked on you like you’re a live grenade in the middle of the bed.

And then, finally, you shift slightly and curl in, utterly unaware of the absolute panic you’ve left in your wake.

John exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s just… go to bed.”

“Goodnight, Walker,” Bob says, still sounding dazed.

They lay back down, each careful not to touch you or each other as if contact might electrocute them. They eventually fall asleep, but their minds? Nowhere near quiet. And between the memories of your sleep-talking and the unanswered questions hanging thick in the air, it ends up being the most uncomfortable restful night either of them has had.

***

The blankets rustle and shift, and you move closer to the two of them, shuffling about as you fight to get comfy.

“You need to stop moving,” John grumbles, his voice gravely as he's already half-asleep.

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you argue, shuffling over to press against Bob, who whines in protest.

“You really do need to stop moving like that,” Bob chimes in, his voice a little breathy, not entirely annoyed.

John’s hand finds your hip, firm but gentle, holding you still. “John…” you whisper, suddenly aware of how close his body is pressed against your back.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Do you want this as much as we do?”

You look between the two of them and let out a soft, shaky breath. “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, and then John’s lips are at your neck, slow and deliberate. Bob’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you.

“Can I?” he asks gently, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes, Bob…”, you reply, and he leans in, your lips meeting in a kiss that’s careful at first, but quickly deepens. It’s a little messy, a little desperate, like he’s been waiting too long to do this. Pulling back, you gasp softly, breath mingling in the space between you.

Looking up at both of them, your words are a whisper, “I need you so bad.”

Your pleas are interrupted as John’s hands climb up your shirt and under your bra. It’s like everything he did was made to make you fall apart.

As if you weren’t overwhelmed enough, you feel Bob’s lips on your neck. His tongue tracing patterns, his lips kissing your sensitive spots so hard that it makes your toes curl.

Then suddenly all the touches stop, and you find yourself trying to catch up to the shift in the air. You’re about to open your mouth and whine about it when you notice them looking at each other.

It’s charged and quiet, electric, even.

Then John’s hand lifts, tentative, almost hesitant, and his fingers curl into Bob’s hair, like he’s done it before, or thought about doing it a thousand times. He leans in, and they kiss. It’s entrancing, the way their bodies shift toward each other like magnets finally giving in to the pull.

You’re sure you saw tongue.

Watching them kiss was a once in a lifetime experience and the fact that it was happening on top of you, “Holy shit…” 

Was this heaven?

You wake up, still a little dazed from that crazy dream you had, but feeling refreshed nonetheless. But you can’t lie, you wanted (needed) to see the end of that dream, but life couldn’t be so easy.

As you start to shake off the haze, you’re expecting the usual warmth, an arm slung around your waist, maybe a leg tangled with yours. Instead, there's nothing but cold sheets and the sharp absence of closeness. Your hand stretches out and touches only air. You blink groggily and glance around to see both Bob and John at opposite ends of the bed, practically clinging to the edges like there’s a force field between them, and you.

You let out a big, unfiltered yawn, and both of them twitch. Like actual startled animals.

They exchange a glance above you, a rapid, silent conversation with widened eyes and furrowed brows before both sit up like someone just sounded an alarm.

“What’s up?” you ask, squinting at them suspiciously. “You two look like you just got caught doing something illegal.”

“N–nothing,” Bob stammers, eyes flicking to John, then back to the floor. “I should get going, though. Breakfast… cleaning… stuff.”

“Yeah, I’ve got training,” John says, not meeting your gaze either. “Mission later, gotta prep.”

“Guys?” you press, voice dipping slightly with confusion.

“I need to, uh, do some chores. Important chores. Early morning chores.” Bob’s words tumble out of his mouth clumsily as he untangles himself from your sheets. “I have to go.”

And just like that, they both bolt, practically tripping over each other in their haste to leave the room.

You're left blinking at the door, your head spinning.

“…What the hell just happened?” you mutter to no one.

Did you miss something? Or worse, did you do something?

Because whatever it was, they’re clearly spooked.

All day, they ignore you, and you’d never seen either of them act like this before.

John, who’s normally a chatterbox, could barely talk to you on the mission; it was like when it came to you, it was like he couldn’t even hear your voice. And Bob, sweet and usually glued to your side, sat across the room at dinner like being near you might set him on fire. Every time your eyes met, he looked away.

To make matters worse, they break their ‘Insomniacs with a z’ club commitment. You wait up at night, waiting for them to come, but they don’t. Midnight, 1 am, 2 am, and they’re still not here, so you lie down in your sheets on your cold and empty bed, trying to sleep. You can’t, though, it’s the first sleepless night in a while, and there’s no other reason than the fact that they’re not by your side. 

You wake up alone again and with a mood. It was one thing if they didn’t want to do it anymore, but to drop you with no explanation wasn’t fair.

You were practically a walking sigh at this point.

Moping in the kitchen, tragically stirring your cereal like it personally offended you.

Moping in the gym, aimlessly walking on the treadmill like your heartbreak was some dramatic indie film montage.

You even moped in the laundry room, staring into the dryer like it could somehow spin your problems away.

And Yelena had had it.

“You want to talk?” she asked finally, catching you mid-mope as you stood in the hallway holding a half-folded towel like it was a fragile relic of a better time. “Because this sad little ghost routine is killing the vibe around here.”

You groaned, dragging the towel dramatically over your face. “They don’t want to sleep with me anymore.”

Yelena blinked. “Wait, what?”

You lowered the towel. “No—I mean—not like that.”

She arched a brow.

“I mean like… they used to come into my room. And sleep. With me. Next to me. It was a whole thing. We’d talk, they’d run their fingers through my hair, but no funny business, and now? Nothing. They’re avoiding me like I’m radioactive.”

“Well,” Yelena says dryly, “There’s only one way to fix it.”

“…How?”

“Easy. Corner them. Trap them. Use emotional honesty and eye contact. Or—if that fails—lock them in a room until they start talking like adults.”

You blinked.

“You’re a genius.”

“That’s what I keep telling people,” She gloats before she disappears down the hallway.

You just had to lure them in. That night, you send them a message that’s sure to have them running to you.

“Where’s the spider?” They ask, both rushing into your room at the same time. 

You appear behind them, locking the door behind them, “Fools.”

They froze. Like deer in headlights.

Bob blinked first. “You… tricked us.”

“You sent a code red spider alert,” John added, accusatory, like that was the crime here.

“And it worked.  You two aren’t leaving until I get some answers. So now, sit. Talk.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other like maybe, just maybe, one of them could break down the door and flee. But they decided not to test your wrath.

“Why didn’t you show up last night?” you repeated, slower this time, folding your arms like a disappointed parent. “You can’t just… vanish, and not just that, but you’ve been avoiding me. It’s been miserable.”

“Did I do something?” You ask quietly, and from the subtle little flinch, you know it’s true. “Oh…”

You suddenly feel self-conscious and start rubbing your arm to subconsciously comfort yourself. Bob then steps forward, unable to let you be so distressed. “It’s not really your fault. It’s not like you can control it.”

You tilt your head at him, confused, “Control what?”

They both take a deep breath, doing their whole little silent conversation thing before obviously deciding on something. “Your dreams,” John finishes.

“My dreams–” You cut yourself off as your memories of last night's particularly steamy dream come to mind. Did you talk in your sleep?

“Did I.. Oh, I did, didn’t I?” You cry out before almost launching yourself into your bed headfirst.

“It’s not a big deal, I mean it’s understandable,” John says, gesturing to himself with his usual little grin.  “I am kind of dream worthy.”

You want your bed to just swallow you whole. “This is unbelievable. I’ll never be able to get over this. This will quite literally haunt me for the rest of my life.”

You lie still like a plank, bathing in your self-pity before a question snaps you out of it. 

“What happened exactly?” Bob asks, and your head snaps towards him.

“You want to know what happened in the dream?” You question, your mouth agape. 

Rolling onto your front, you suck in air as you replay the dream in your head, both of them shirtless, Bob’s lips on your neck, John’s fingers rubbing your clit through your panties, watching them kiss. “I don’t think that‘s the best idea.”

“It involved a few things here and there…” You say hesitantly as you try to downplay it, but the way they were looking at you from either side of you.

“We want to know,” John says, sitting down next to you. At this point, they’re both crowding around you, and you thought you were the one supposed to be trapping them.

“Well, as you can probably guess, it was a sex dream.”

You twiddle your fingers as if that’s going to make things any better and delay the inevitable awkward silence.

“And we all kissed,” you finish, voice barely above a whisper.

“Like… we both kissed you or…” Bob asks, eyebrows raised, needing the clarification more than anything else, though his voice is gentler than you expected.

“We all kissed,” you reiterate, firmer this time, like saying it with more certainty would somehow make it less embarrassing.

Bob opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly processing before glancing over at John, who’s staring off, lost in thought, his brow furrowed as if trying to puzzle something out.

“Huh…” John finally says, scratching the back of his neck.

Bob exhales, rubbing the back of his neck too. “That’s… not what I expected, but, uh, not entirely unwelcome.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“So…” you begin, your voice quiet, unsure. You hesitate, wondering if you’re about to cross a line, if you're reading too much into the charged glances, the way they’ve both been orbiting closer each night. “Want to make it a reality?”

You almost regret the words the moment they’re out. But then, to your surprise, they both say yes.

You blink. They’re closer than you remember them being, shoulders brushing, heat pooling in the small space between the three of you.

They look at you, clearly unsure where to start. Taking things into your own hands, you reach for them gently, fingers threading into their hair. Bob’s hair is soft and slightly damp from a shower; John’s is shorter and messier, like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times today. They both look at you, wide-eyed, alert, hungry for your attention but waiting to be guided.

You kiss Bob first, slow, deliberate. He melts into it, moaning into your mouth like you're his salvation.

Then you turn to John. His kiss is different—deeper, more controlled—but just as wanting.

You pull back, eyes flicking between them, your hand still in John’s hair as you whisper, “Kiss him.”

They hesitate, eyes locked on each other. But only for a second.

Because they trust you and they trust each other.

You watch as they lean in, cautious at first, a brush of lips like testing the edge of something new.  Again, another enlightening experience. It’s softer than when it happened in your dream, but no less passionate. 

They pull apart to breathe, Bob laughing a little as he catches his breath. He catches the look on John’s face and immediately goes to explain himself.

“No, it’s just your beard is tickling my face,” Bob says with a shy smile.

Bob chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling.

John opens his mouth, about to apologise or say something, but Bob stops him gently.

“No, it’s okay… I like it,” Bob admits quietly.

They turn to you, noticing the way your eyes linger, how much you liked seeing them together.

“Oh, you really like that, huh?” John teases, a smug little grin on his face as he runs his fingers through your hair, right behind your ear, like he knows exactly how much that gets to you.

Bob leans in closer, voice softer but no less intense. “Didn’t know watching us would get you this worked up…”

Then, in a rush, like they can’t wait another second to get their hands back on you, they start removing their clothes. Shirts pulled off, pyjama pants too, movements frantic but focused.

You could scream.

It’s one thing to have one good-looking, shirtless man standing in front of you. It’s another to have two, both looking at you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.

You know exactly what they’d put in your autopsy report if you died right now:

“Cause of death: Abs.”

And honestly? Worth it.

It’s a mix of heat and motion, hands everywhere, so much that you don’t even know who’s touching you half the time. Fingers trailing your skin, lips brushing yours, pressure and pleasure blending until it’s all one glorious blur.

Your hands glide up and down Bob’s abs, firm and warm beneath your palms, while your lips trace along John’s bicep—so close you could just…

Before you know it, your teeth sink into him, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

“Did you just bite me?” John asks, blinking at you with a half-shocked, half-amused chuckle.

“Sorry,” you mumble, grinning. “Intrusive thoughts took over.”

“Bite me all you want,” he says, voice dropping low, “I can take it.”

Bob leans in from behind, his breath ghosting over your neck. “We both can.”

Just hearing that stole all the air from your lungs. In a flash, you’re lying on your back, as John ruts against you. You suspect he’s been hard ever since he and Bob made out, and you don’t blame him. 

Bob’s on the sidelines, completely entranced by John railing you, his desire on full display. Without hesitating, you reach out and palm his cock in your hands. “Can I?” You ask, and Bob swears your lips have never been so inviting. 

“Yeah, I…yeah.”

You take him into your mouth, with a kind of reverence that takes him by surprise. 

When you feel the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, you gag, a well of spit dripping out of your mouth onto the bed. 

“Doing so well,” Bob praises, watching you in awe, as he starts using your mouth more confidently. You moan desperately in response, and that’s all you're capable of right now. 

It’s almost too hard to keep up with. And you swear you’ve never been more full in your life. Your eyes screwed shut in pure ecstacy as you try to breath through your nose... You can’t think. 

“That’s a good girl,” John says as he pulls you close with each snap of his hips. You had to admit, you loved the praises they were giving you. Each one brings you that much closer to the edge. 

Suddenly, you feel Bob’s cum flooding your mouth, his hand holding onto yours as he comes down from the high you had given him. 

Then John pulls out of you, climbing off the bed and pulling the bottom half of your body with him. 

“John…” You whine, needing him back inside of you as soon as possible, because how dare he deprive you of his touch for even a second? 

“I know, I know... so impatient,” He laughs. You’re about to complain at him, but you’re interrupted by him getting on his knees, licking at your hole.  “John!” You scream out. No part of you was expecting him to start eating you out. Every part of your body, is freaking out and your hands scramble until they find Bob. 

As if to placate you, he kisses you, tongue invading your mouth just as John’s invades your pussy. 

You and Bob pull apart, a line of saliva still connecting your mouths as John continues to wreak havoc on your sanity—hands, mouth, voice, all driving you further under.

“Need you, Bob,” you whisper, breath shaky, and your mouth finds his neck, lips and teeth leaving a trail of heat. You press open-mouthed kisses along his throat, then bite down, again and again, each mark deliberate.

Bruises blooming like constellations across his skin.

You always thought he’d look nice all marked up with love bites, gasping out your name like you’re all he needs. 

And now you know he definitely does.

Just as you pull back to look at your masterpiece, John’s mouth pull away from your core only to be replaced with his cock. 

You hold onto Bob as John starts fucking you, each thrust hitting your sensitive spot dead on. “Please, John… please,” you gasp, voice wrecked with need as your words dissolve into incoherent babbles. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore—his hands, his mouth, just more.

You feel him smirk against the back of your neck, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His grip tightens, steadying you.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and teasing in your ear. “But I like you like this—messy and desperate.”

"Please, fuck me harder," You whine, not caring what you needed to say to keep feeling this good.

Bob groans softly behind you, his breath hot as he presses kisses along your shoulder. “You should see yourself right now…”

And just like that, you're gone again.

“Please never stop,” You gasp out to both of them and with another thrust from John, your orgasm hits you so hard, you think you might be done for. “Fuck!” You cry out, your legs trembling as you slide down Bob’s body, landing in the sheets next to his thigh. 

But John doesn’t stop, continuing to pound into you, not once losing pace. Damn that super solider serum. All your restraint and any trace of common sense were long gone. It had left the building as soon as their shirts came off. 

You fade in and out, until you feel him fill you up with his cum, your name coming out of his mouth in pants. 

John pulls out of you and immediately checks on you, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you puff out, chest rising and falling as you collapse onto your back, completely spent and dazed in the best possible way.

The room is warm with afterglow, breath and heat and tangled limbs. You barely register the sound of movement before John and Bob exchange a glance over you.

“Let me help you out,” John offers, seeing that Bob’s already half hard again. 

“You sure?” Bob asks softly, hesitation in his voice. He didn’t want to inconvenience him, but the words falter when John moves closer, solid and warm, his presence filling the space between them.

“I’m sure,” John murmurs, voice low and steady, his hand finding Bob’s hip like it belonged there. His touch is grounding, confident, and it makes Bob melt under it, like everything he was holding tense finally lets go.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Bob adds, almost whispering.

John leans in, their foreheads brushing. “Maybe I want to.”

And with that, Bob exhales, letting him take control. His strong hands wrap around Bob’s dick, and Bob holds onto his arm, needing him so bad, he doesn't know what he’d do without him.

“Walker…John I—” He stutters as he moves his hips, thrusting into his hand with fervour. They look at one another. Bob’s eyes start glowing, the light pulsing with an intensity that feels almost alive. Unearthly, charged, and very imposing. It hums in the air between them, making John's chest tighten.

Afraid it might push Bob too far, might tip him into something he can’t come back from, John starts to pull away.

But Bob grabs him, firm, unyielding. “Don’t.”

It’s sharp, clipped, nothing like the sweet, careful way Bob usually speaks. The tension in his clenched jaw, the rawness in his voice, it’s not a plea. It’s a command. An order.

So John follows it.

He thrusts into John’s hand again and again, the control now flipped on its head, and John doesn’t mind one bit.

It was something else to see. Bob Reynolds, glowing, tense, his usual restraint stripped away. And still, like he was holding the universe back with his bare hands just to be gentle with him.

Then Bob’s eyes fall on you, intense and burning gold.

“Come here,” he says, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

He doesn’t wait for a response. You move, almost without thinking, drawn in by something magnetic and undeniable. You make your way over to him, and before you can even ask what he wants—

He’s kissing you. Like he’s been holding back for far too long.

John moves his hand away, letting Bob guide you until your back hits the bed.

“Are you ready?” Bob asks, smiling at you.

You consider your current position—John is beside you, lips trailing down one side of your neck, his hand firm on your waist. Bob’s cock is pushing against your hole, so close to giving you what you’ve been aching for. Your body is lit up like a live wire, and you feel like you might die.

And yet, heart racing—you let out a soft, breathy, “Yes.”

Bob pushes in slowly, and you find yourself mewling, John soothing you with his kisses. He starts slow, each thrust deeper than the last. 

As you start to get used to it, he picks up the pace, just enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Everything about this—your sounds, your body, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing in the world—was making him lose control.

He didn’t know it could feel so... so good. Overwhelming, all-consuming, better than anything he'd imagined in the haze of lonely nights and quiet want.

His voice is rough when he speaks, barely more than a whisper:

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

And honestly, neither are you.

And when John starts rubbing your clit, it’s over for you. Your moans become higher-pitched until you whimper out, “Holy.. I’m gonna…” 

A blinding orgasm hits you so hard, your back is arching off the bed. The sight is almost too much for them both, but especially Bob. When you come back down and relax against the bed, they both go back to touching you. Making sure you would have no peace while you’re with them.

Bob’s eyes glow again, and there’s a sharp cracking sound as a piece of your headboard is now somehow in his hand, splintered clean off without him even realising it.

Your eyes widen but there’s no time to focus on that, not while he’s fucking you into a new dimension. 

A few moments later, your bedroom mirror shatters, fractured by the force of the moment as he loses himself in you completely.

He starts to hesitate, breath catching, the weight of everything creeping in, but then he feels John’s hand on his back, steady and grounding, soothing him.

“Keep going,” John says, and all Bob wants to do is listen.

He ruts into you, fingers digging into your hips so hard, you know they’re going to leave bruises. 

Then Bob feels something, strong fingers threading into his hair as John pulls their lips together for the second time. This kiss is more desperate, more needy, like something inside him has snapped loose and there's no putting it back.

It’s messy and raw, and he doesn’t even try to slow down; his rhythm with you never falters, never once losing pace. You love a man who can multitask.

The kiss breaks only when breathlessness forces it, and Bob pulls back just slightly, eyes blown wide, lips swollen, his mind a complete daze. 

“I’m close,” You tell him, and he moves faster, doubling his efforts to make you feel good. 

“So perfect for us,” Bob says, matching his thrusts to how John was rubbing your clit. It feels too good to hear him say that. There’s something in the way he says us, the way his grip tightens on your waist… it makes you want to lose your mind.  There was no holding on any longer, so you let go. 

“I–” You start but cut yourself off with a guttural cry, as your climax rips through you. It’s like you're on fire with how the pleasure overcomes you. Your hip stutter against John’s hand, as your walls quiver around Bob’s cock. 

The feeling of you orgasming around him became too much for him to bear, sending Bob into his own.

Bob finishes inside of you, his breath ragged as he buries his face in your neck, holding you tight as the last waves of his release shudder through him.

Your chest is heaving with effort and aftershocks, your body trembling, but this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

They're nowhere near done with you. You can feel it, see it in their eyes.

And when John leans in again, lips brushing your ear, voice low and wrecked with want, he murmurs, “Hope you weren’t planning on sleeping yet…”

They could and would go all night long.

***

The next morning, you wake up tangled in their embrace again, and you're happy.

Sore, thoroughly exhausted, slightly disoriented... but happy.

Your bedroom, however, looks like it barely survived the night—mirrors broken, half the headboard gone, and a John-shaped hole in the wall. You're honestly surprised anything’s still intact, especially the bed frame, though it gives a warning creak when you shift to slide out from under the pile of limbs.

You stretch, muscles aching in that oddly satisfying way, and glance back at the bed.

John’s arm is slung over Bob’s waist, both of them blissfully asleep. Hair messy, skin littered with red marks—some from you, some from each other. You can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips.

You didn’t quite know what this made the three of you now, but there was time to figure it out.

Eventually.

For now? This felt like a damn good place to start.

Masterlist

[cumironi]

GOOD GIRL GO TO HEAVEN

GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU . . . after a long day of assembling a lot of furniture and decorating your new house, they decided they want to test drive the new bed with you.

warning : painfully slow, threesome! satosugu, raw/unprotected sex, humping, daddy kink (just a little bit), praise kink.

w/c : 8k

you and your boyfriends, gojo satoru and geto suguru, wrapped up the furniture assembly just an hour ago. now, they’re lounging comfortably on the new bed, looking relaxed and content. after finishing your shower, you step out wrapped only in a towel, the warm steam still clinging to your skin. you walk over to your wardrobe, glancing over at them with a playful smile.

“so, how’s the bed, honey?” you ask with genuine curiosity. your voice is soft, dripping with tenderness.

“it’s great and so spacious, baby,” gojo answers. he sits up on the bed, his white shirt hugging his toned chest, and watches you approach the wardrobe. beside him, geto moves, spreading his legs languidly as he leans back against the headboard. the sheets fall around his hips, barely covering his lower half. he gives you a lazy smile. “the bed’s not the only thing that spacious here, right, sweetheart?”

“yeah?” you turn around to look at them before pulling out a black oversized t-shirt that belongs to geto from the wardrobe. they stare at you for a moment before gojo opens his mouth. “come here.” gojo says, patting his lap. you look at him and see the mischievous look in his eyes, “i need to… see something.” geto chuckles, knowing full well what gojo plans to do. “you heard him, baby,” he added.

“what?” you ask him, smiling as you refuse to walk over to him and stand in your place.

“i said come here,” he says again, a demanding undertone in his voice now. gojo stares at you pointedly while geto watches with a smirk on his face, his eyes roaming unabashedly over your half-naked body.

“i’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you’re planning to do,” you respond, cocking an eyebrow. gojo’s hand pats his lap again impatiently. “i’ll show you when you come here.” geto rolls his eyes with a smile on his face, “just come here, baby girl. be good for us and i promise we’ll make you feel good too.”

“should i?” you playfully ask and close your wardrobe door. “you should, if you know what’s good for you,” gojo demand, a small smirk stretches across gojo’s face. by now he’s growing a little impatient. gojo is not a man who particularly likes to repeat himself.

“unless you want me to come get you myself?” he raises an eyebrow in challenge. behind him, geto chuckles to himself, clearly enjoying this interaction between you two.

“oh, i'm scared,” you sarcastically replied but made your way towards them, crawling from the feet of the bed before settling on gojo's lap. as you crawl over, his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you’re sitting on his lap, the towel around your body riding up. gojo’s hands start to wander, lightly caressing your bare thighs. you can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“are you gonna behave now, baby?” he asks, his voice low and sultry, “or are you still gonna sass me?” his blue eyes piercing through yours, making all the playfulness on you start to disappear, “sorry..” you mumble.

“you’ll have to do better than that,” he murmurs. gojo’s hands slide up your thighs, past the towel, as he leans in until his mouth is right next to your ear. “say you’re sorry again, sweetheart.”

“sorry, daddy..”

gojo lets out a soft grunt when you call him that, his mouth is still close to your ear. his breath is warm on your neck, “much better, baby.” he moves his mouth down until he’s nuzzling your throat instead. “there you go, being good for me, sweetheart.”

geto has been watching quietly until now, his eyes trained on the two of you as you sit on gojo’s lap. when you say ‘daddy’ his eyes darken a little more, watching intently as gojo turns his attention to your bare shoulders. “you look so good on his lap, don’t you sweetheart?” geto suddenly speaks up, his voice a little husky. “all bare and pretty just for us.”

the room feels warmer now like the heat is starting to build up around the three of you. gojo’s mouth brushes over your shoulder, his lips leaving a trail of kisses on your skin. “look at you, all nice and obedient,” he murmurs against your skin. “do you know what good girls get when they're being good?”

you close your eyes as you feel his lips on your skin— suddenly feeling all cold and chilling just from his touch, barely. “what is it?” you mumble a question.

“rewards.”

gojo’s arms tighten around you, pulling you closer to him. his mouth drifts towards your neck. “if you keep being good, we’ll reward you properly, sweetheart. would you like that?” he pulled himself away from you to look you in the eye as you opened your eyes. your warm breath gently glazed gojo's pale skin, bringing a crushed cherry tint to his cheeks. “yes, please..” your voice soft.

gojo smiles, running his finger along your spine, making you shiver, and a soft moan leaves your lips. “see, that’s what i like to hear. you sound so much sweeter when you’re being a good girl.” gojo’s voice is low, and he’s speaking close to your ear again. he moves a hand up, tilting your head till he can look you in the face. his smile is a little smug as he looks down at you. “how about we get rid of this towel?” you nodded when you looked at him, eyes hooded.

“good girl.”

gojo reaches behind you, finding the edge of the towel around your body. he slowly starts to pull it away, his eyes never leaving your face. the towel falls, the fabric pooling around your waist as your chest and abdomen are left bare. gojo hums in approval, his eyes roaming over your body. “there that’s much better.”

“look at you,” he murmurs. his hands on your thighs start to slowly move further up your body, roaming up your hips and over your ribcage, almost as if he's trying to memorize every part of you with just his hands. “you look so pretty, sweetheart. you're being so good for us. so pretty and obedient.”

“oh, you are so pretty,” geto adds, his voice soft as he looks at you sitting half-naked on gojo’s lap. he’s lounging against the headboard now, legs slightly spread. the sheets over his lap are beginning to tent.

gojo chuckles as he notices geto’s current state. “see what you do to him, sweetheart?” gojo’s own hands are still roaming over your body, caressing your soft skin. his hands brush just below your chest, his touch gentle and almost reverential as he looks at you.

gojo’s mouth moves over your skin, his lips tracing up and down the line of your throat until he reaches your ear again. “look at him,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. he’s looking over at geto right now, who’s watching the two of you intently, his eyes on your body. “he’s enjoying himself, sweetheart. he’s enjoying seeing you in my lap, like the good girl you are.”

geto looks you over with unabashed interest, his gaze roaming over your body. “you’re such a sight to see all spread out like that,” he murmurs. the sheets over his lap are tented, more noticeably now. gojo nips at your earlobe, his hands cupping your ribs as he pulls you closer against him. “look how much he wants you, baby.”

gojo laughs faintly when you let out a moan, like he finds it endearing. “you like that, sweetheart?” he asks, his mouth still against your skin. “you like it when i bite you?"

he continues doing it, his mouth trailing down the side of your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin and leaving small marks. you answer him by letting out another soft moan.

“you’re so soft,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by your skin. “so easy to mark. i want to see how much of you i can mark up, doll.”

geto shifts a little on the bed, his hands gripping his thighs through the sheets. the tent in his pants is more obvious now, and he’s watching you both intently. “she’s going to be covered in marks at this rate,” he grumbles.

“i’m not hearing any objections,” gojo responds, his hands caressing your sides. he lifts his head from your neck and looks at you.

gojo’s eyes darken as he looks you over, his hands continuing to caress your sides. he’s clearly enjoying seeing you in this state, all bare and on his lap, with geto watching you intently from the bed.

“you look so pretty like this, sweetheart. all bare and marked up on my lap” he murmurs, his gaze roaming over the various marks he’s left on your neck. “and so obedient,” he added.

“i am?” you whispering, voice cover with hope.

at your words, gojo smiles against your skin. they exchange knowing looks before gojo answers you. “yes, you are, baby.” he continues his assault on your neck, his kisses slowly turning into nibbles and sucking motions, marking you with his mouth.

geto watches hungrily as gojo lays claim to you, his hand still tracing lazy patterns on your thigh from where he sits. “so sweet, so perfect for us,” he compliments, his voice low and rough with desire.

“you’re so responsive too, aren’t you?” gojo’s hands wander down to your bare thighs. he squeezes them gently as if testing your reaction. “responding so well to my touch. so eager to please,” he moaned.

geto lets out a small sigh from the bed, his hands now clenching the sheets around his lap tightly. your thigh slightly twitches from gojo's touch as if to show him the truth of his words. “see how you respond so easily to my hands?” gojo continues, his palms continuing to caress your thighs. he’s watching your reactions intently. “that’s good, sweetheart. it’s so fun to see how easily you respond.”

“it’s getting hard to watch,” geto suddenly mutters from the bed, his voice strained. gojo laughs faintly at geto’s comment. “then stop watching if it’s so easy,” he replies, his hands continuing their gentle caresses.

he pulls you a little closer to him, so you’re pressed even more against his chest. “why are you getting so worked up anyway? you’re acting like you’re not going to get your turn.” gojo looks over at geto and smirks again, clearly enjoying his struggle.

“don’t worry,” he calls out. “you’ll get a turn soon too.” he turns his attention back to you, his hands still wandering over your thighs. “right now i want to see how far i can get you with just my hands, okay?” his blue eyes back to you, gently as he drinks on the sight of your pretty face. geto grumbles a little in response, clearly not enjoying his current state all that much.

gojo’s hands continue to explore your thighs, his touch gentle and almost teasing as his thumbs graze over sensitive skin. “do you think you can handle that, baby?” gojo asks, looking you in the face. “just my hands on your skin?”

you hesitate, wanting to feel his lips on your skin again, but you're too shy to ask, and gojo can clearly see that. gojo smirks at your expression and the way you fidget. “what’s wrong?” he asks teasingly, his hands skimming across your thighs. “can’t seem to find your words? what is it, sweetheart?” his hands continue their slow exploration of your thighs. “you want something?”

when you do not say anything he leans over, lips almost touching you as he speaks, “do you want my lips on your skin again?” he asks, his voice low and sultry. “do you want me to kiss you again, baby?” you nodded as his hands moving up to your hips now. he starts to guide your movements on his lap slightly, just little rocks of your hips.

“use your words, sweetheart. you know i want to hear you say it.” gojo starts to guide your hips, rocking them gently against his lap. his hands on your hips are firm but gentle, as he guides your movements with ease, his body pressed tightly against you.

“i-i want your lips on my skin again..” you murmur, your lips slightly apart. gojo looks at you with his eyebrows arise, as if asking you if you're forgetting something. “please, daddy. . . ” you add.

gojo’s expression softens at the sound of you calling him daddy again. he gives you a small nod as if approving before he speaks. “there you go. that wasn’t so hard, was it?” his hands on your hips continue to guide your movements on his lap. “just good manners, sweetheart. being a good girl for me.”

he leans down, his mouth coming close to your ear again. “since you asked so nicely, i’ll give you what you want, baby.”

instantly, a big smile makes its way to your lips, “thank you, daddy. . .” your hand flaying for a second before it lends on gojo's shoulder, holding him for support. gojo chuckles faintly at the large smile on your face, knowing how much fun you have playing with his kink. “such a good girl,” he murmurs into your ear, his hands continuing to guide your hips and rock against his lap.

“i’m going to give you what you want, so just relax, okay?” gojo’s voice is low and soft in your ear. “just sit there and be a good girl… you can do that, can’t you?” you nodded as you gripped tightly around his white shirt.

“good girl.”

gojo’s mouth moves towards your neck, his teeth and mouth on your skin again. he sucks on your skin gently, his tongue laving over the small mark he’s just made. “you taste so good, sweetheart,” he mutters against your skin. “i don’t want to stop marking you up.”

you moan softly, slightly throwing your head back, “please, don't.” gojo nips and sucks on your neck again, harder this time, his hands on your hips coaxing your movements against his lap.

“keep moaning like that, and i don’t think i’ll be able to stop,” he murmurs, his mouth against your skin. he continues to mark up your skin, his mouth moving up and down the side of your neck, his mouth sucking and biting gently as his tongue laves over the reddened spots. by now your neck is covered in his marks, each one adding up like a trail on your skin.

“oh, god,” you moan from the pleasure of his lips on your skin and from grinding on him. gojo lets out a soft chuckle when you moan against his ear. “already getting worked up just from this, hmm? you’re so sensitive, baby.” he continues sucking on your skin, his hands guiding your hips as you grind on his lap. his mouth moves over your sensitive spots, leaving a trail of marks from your jaw to the base of your collarbone.

geto groans in annoyance as he takes another glare at you and gojo. even in his annoyance, he can't stop looking at the two of you and not feeling jealous. gojo glances over at geto, taking in his expression. “getting impatient?” he asks, his mouth still on your skin. “you look like you’re having a hard time just watching,” he teased, blue eyes glistening with lust and playfulness.

“well, i am having a hard time,” he complained.

gojo chuckles against your skin again. “i see that,” he says mockingly, his eyes on the obvious tent in geto’s lap. “poor geto, having to watch us while he’s stuck on the bed all alone.” gojo’s words are almost patronizing, and he’s clearly enjoying himself now, seeing the look on geto’s face and the way he’s straining against the sheets.

“but that’s not fair for me, is it?” geto threw another complaint with a teasing tone, “i want a taste of her too.” gojo laughed faintly, clearly amused at geto’s words. “life’s not fair,” he replies, his mouth still against your skin, biting and licking.

“though i’ll admit, i’ve been a little greedy, haven’t i?” gojo lifts his head and looks you in the face, one hand caressing your cheek. “how about you, sweetheart? should i stop hogging all the attention?” you look at geto, seeing the pleading in his purple irises as he begs you silently. you chuckled at his expression before nodding and looking at your other boyfriend.

gojo looks at you for a moment, almost as if he’s contemplating. “are you sure? i can keep my hands on you a while longer. you seem to be enjoying it so much,” he softly spoke as if he tries to convince you to say no to geto. gojo’s hands have drifted back to your hips, his thumbs caressing your skin gently. “can the both of you just touch me?” you get impatient. gojo laughs again, clearly enjoying how impatient you’re getting now. “look at you being so eager,” he teases. “is that how good girls ask for what they want?”

you wrap your fingers around gojo's neck to give it a open-mouthed kiss before mumbling on his neck, “i mean, why can i have one when i can get two.”

gojo lets out a soft chuckle at your words. “oh, you’re getting feisty now, hmm?” he pulls you a little closer on his lap, his hands gripping your hips. “you have a point, sweetheart. but that doesn’t change the fact that i like having you all to myself.”

“oh come on!” geto groaned in annoyance, “i wanna feel her too, give me attention.” gojo laughed faintly at geto’s words, clearly enjoying his struggle. “i’m not even done with her yet, and you’re already getting impatient?” he looks you in the face, his eyes roaming over you. “and here i thought you were being such a good girl, not demanding anything.”

“what?” you throwing gojo offended look, “me? i'm just sitting still and looking pretty, i'm not doing anything.”

gojo hummed at your expression, enjoying the look on your face. “i know,” he responds, his hands caressing your thighs. “that’s why you’re being so good for me. you’re being all obedient and still. it’d be such a shame to change that now, huh?”

“uh-uhm,” you nod, this time hugging his neck as you look at geto who's begun to knit his eyebrows together. gojo chuckles again when you hug his neck, his hands moving up your sides, caressing you up and down. “so needy,” he teases faintly. “did you want to give geto some attention?”

still, with your arm wrapped around his neck and cheek resting against his cheek, you nod, “yes, please.” gojo smiles faintly, clearly enjoying having you this eager and submissive for him. he lifts his head from your neck and looks towards geto. “did you hear that, geto? the pretty girl wants to give you attention,” he says, his tone almost mocking.

geto stares at the two of you, his expression a mix of annoyance and arousal. “about time,” he grunts irritably. gojo smirks against your skin, his hand on your thigh giving you an encouraging squeeze. “you heard him, baby. go on. give him what he wants.”

with gojo’s hand guiding you, you shift forward and move off his lap. you settle onto geto’s now, your thighs straddling his hips. in this position, you’re seated up higher on his lap, your chest just slightly above his eyesight.

geto’s hands fly to your waist as you settle on his lap. his fingers press hard into your bare skin as he looks up at you with his sharp, cat-like eyes. “look at you,” he says, his voice deep with lust, looking at your naked body. “you just look so beautiful, sweetheart.”

gojo’s body moves behind you, his chest pressing against your back. you feel him move the shower-damp hair on your neck to the side and out of the way. he leans forward to hover over your shoulder, his lips mere inches away from your neck.

“you look so pretty sitting on his lap, baby,” gojo murmurs in your ear. “so perfect with that towel around you.” his large hand moves to your thigh, his fingers tracing the hem of the towel that still wraps around your waist. “but i think it would look much prettier… on the floor.”

while you’re distracted with geto, one of gojo’s hands sneaks from behind you to tug at the towel. the other hand moves your hair to the side so that it falls over one shoulder, exposing your back to him. the towel falls loose, and gojo starts planting kisses along the slope of your back.

both of geto’s hands press firmly into your hips as he guides your body down and closer to him. he lets out a pleased hum at the feel of your warm skin against his bare chest. “look at you,” he groans, eyes roaming over your form. “so perfect and so good.”

gojo’s lips travel down your spine, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses down your back. “oh, baby,” he praises as he kisses a spot just above your tailbone, “such a pretty girl. so well-behaved, as always.” his hands move to squeeze both of your thighs. once he’s done admiring the skin there, his hand moves to the small of your back and gently pushes you forward, so that your chest is pressed flush against geto’s.

geto lets out a low, guttural growl as he feels your bare breasts against his chest. “fuck,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know there’s likely to be marks left behind. his head drops forward as he lets his lips trail along your collarbone.

“she has such a pretty body, doesn’t she?” gojo muses, observing your and geto’s bodies so closely pressed together. he starts to leave little kisses on the back of your shoulders, “so good and soft.”

geto can only respond with a low hum of agreement. one of his hands move to grasp at the hair on the back of your head as he buries his face in your neck, his lips sucking on your skin hungrily.

“so small and perfectly perched on your lap.”

geto hums his agreement, his fingers digging into your hips as he helps you shift even closer to him. “sweetheart,” he says, his voice strained. “you feel so good. you have no idea what you’re doing to me, baby.”

gojo chuckles as he continues to kiss your shoulder, “oh, i think she knows exactly what she’s doing to us,” ge can see one of your hands reach down to grab at the skin of geto’s thigh, your fingers digging into his flesh.

geto lets out another small growl as your hand grips his thigh. a shudder goes through his body. “ah, she definitely knows what she’s doing. such a naughty girl.”

“no,” you whisper between your moan when they call you a naughty girl. geto's nails rooted gently on your skin sending a tingling sensation on your stomach. gojo chuckles against your skin. “no? you’re not being a naughty girl?” he nimbly moves to your other shoulder to leave another trail of kisses there. “are you sure about that, princess?”

geto’s hands continue to dig into your hips, controlling your movements. between the skin-to-skin contact of your bodies and gojo’s teeth on your neck, you can feel the tension and heat in the room mounting, slowly but surely.

you shake your head softly before mumbling another “n-no,” and let out another soft, breathy moan.

“you keep saying ‘no’, but i think your body’s saying something different,” gojo points out, his lips moving from your shoulder to the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “you keep shifting in sugu’s lap, and making these little noises. that doesn’t sound very ‘no’ to me, princess.”

“i'm s-sorry,” you stutter.

“sorry?” gojo repeats, chuckling at the way you’re falling apart just from some teasing. “it’s okay, sweetheart.” geto, who has been uncharacteristically quiet during this entire exchange, finally lets out a sharp exhale of breath as one of your hands grip his thigh again. he nuzzles into your neck as his hands grip you even tighter. “are you really sorry, baby?” gojo asks, his voice just a growl in your ear. “or do you just like winding us up?”

“i'm really sorry,” you moan again, and geto’s hands digging into your hips harder as he guides you to grind slowly against his lap. gojo chuckles again, enjoying the way you’re falling to pieces on top of geto. “are you sure? you sound so needy, princess. i don’t think you’re really sorry.”

geto can feel your body starting to move in slow motions on his lap. the hands on your hips move to press you down, as his hips start to rise to meet your movements. “she’s so needy,” he says in a low voice, to which gojo hums in agreement.

you shake your head and throw your head back in the slightest when you feel your bare pussy grinding on geto's clothed bulge, “s-sorry, but feel so good,” you mutter between your moan.

gojo and geto look at each other at your strangled words. they’ve reduced you to a mess of moans and broken sentences, and it’s all a result of their hands and mouths on your body.

they look back at you, taking in the way your head is flung back, exposing your chest and neck to them. both of them are staring at you like you’re their prey. and their prey right now is at their mercy. the back of your head rests against gojo's shoulder as you grind slowly against geto.

gojo lets you rest your head back on his shoulder so he’s now free to watch the show. he feels your soft hair against his bare chest, and the view he’s getting over your shoulder is driving him crazy.

geto starts to make a noise that seems like it’s a mixture between a sigh and a growl as he feels you grind against him once more. his hands hold your hips even tighter, encouraging you to keep up the pace. “that’s it, baby. keep doing that,” he murmurs.

gojo watches as your body moves gracefully against geto. he looks down at your body, admiring the way your back is arched, the curve of your spine leading down to your hips, which are being gripped so tightly by geto’s large hands.

he bites back a soft groan at the sight of you looking so perfect on another man’s lap. “you’re being so good for us right now, you know that?”

gojo takes off his white shirt before sitting on geto's lap behind you until your back touches his chest, skin to skin as your body keeps grinding on geto. gojo lets his body touch yours, your back resting against his chest. he can feel the heat radiating from your body as you writhe on top of geto. he leans down to kiss and nuzzle into your shoulder as you continue your movements.

geto’s breath comes out in quick gasps as you keep grinding against him. he holds your hips so tight there’ll likely be marks left behind. “sweetheart,” he grunts, struggling to form words between the heat and pleasure, “you’re killing me.”

“oh god..” you whimper.

your hand moves to the back of gojo's neck, holding him as a support. gojo chuckles softly against your skin at your whimper. “feels good huh, princess?” he murmurs into your ear. feeling your hand move to the back of his neck, he lets you hold him for support. he nips at your earlobe and continues to plant kisses down your neck and shoulder.

geto’s fingers dig into your hips again as you keep grinding against him. his breath comes out in short, hard pants, the sound right in your ear. “keep going, baby,” he urges.

the room is full of nothing but heavy breaths and the soft sounds of skin against skin. gojo has started to move his lips from your shoulder to the back of your neck and down to your shoulder blades. his hips are doing the same grinding motion as yours, his body moving in perfect unison with you.

geto looks up at both of you, watching as you both move on his lap. his lips part with a gasp as one of his hands moves from your hip to the back of your head, pulling you down to his neck.

a shiver goes through your body from the way geto manhandles you to pull you down closer. “there you go, sweetheart,” he grunts as he noses your hair and then rests his chin on your shoulder. “god, you look so good right now.”

gojo lets out a hum of agreement, his lips still on your skin. his large hands travel from your shoulders down to your hips, resting right over geto’s hands. geto leans closer until his head is above your shoulder to kiss gojo— still, the three of you keep grinding at each other. the kiss between gojo and geto is messy and frenzied, and so right above you since you’ve been pulled down against geto’s body. gojo moans in response to the kiss as he deepens it, his tongue swiping against geto’s lips.

geto grips onto your hips even tighter, his fingers digging into your soft skin. he lets out groans as he kisses gojo, the sound muffled by gojo’s mouth.

the three of you are starting to move against each other in more frantic motions. there’s an increasing desperation in geto’s grip on your hips and the way gojo and geto are now kissing, more tongue and teeth than pure lips.

it’s hot and heavy, and the temperature of the room is rising with each passing second. gojo finally breaks away from the kiss, his breath harsh and strained. “fuck,” he mutters, his hands holding your hips as well as geto’s.

gojo’s head drops down to your shoulder, nuzzling his nose into your collarbone. it’s all getting too much. the sounds of heavy breaths and moans, skin pressing up against the skin, the friction all combining to heighten the pleasure, the heat, the pressure.

geto’s grip on you is so tight you’re pretty sure there will be marks on your skin. “sweetheart, i—” he gets cut off by one of your movements that has him groaning suddenly and loudly.

“what is it, baby?” gojo teases, his voice slightly muffled in the crook of your neck. a small chuckle rumbles in his chest as he continues planting kisses on your skin. “that wasn’t exactly an answer, sugu.” geto grunts as you continue moving on top of him, your body grinding against his. “i’m so close, sweetheart.” he mutters, his voice breaking in the middle. “m-me too baby— oh, fuck,” you nod, moaning mess on suguru's neck.

gojo lets out a pleased hum when you answer, his teeth nipping at your skin. “i knew it,” he says, sounding somehow smug and cocky, even at this moment. “you just look so perfect grinding against him; how could you not be close, princess.”

geto’s body tenses and shudders beneath you. “god, it’s not fair how perfect you are.” he groans between heavy breaths. “you’re going to make me lose it, and we just started.” you grind faster than before on his clothes cock. feeling the warm and twitching on his cock make you moan louder, “oh, god. .”

“lose what, baby?” gojo continues to taunt, his voice soft and yet full of a teasing edge to it. “your composure? your mind? your load? i’ve already lost all of those things.” geto growls and nips at your shoulder as gojo continues goading him. “what are you, twelve?” he asks, his voice a mix between annoyance and desire. as you reach your edge you arm wrap another geto's shoulder while the other back to the back of gojo's neck, gripping on his undercut.

“oh, god,” both gojo and geto murmur at your hand in gojo’s hair, gripping his undercut. geto can feel your body start to lose its rhythm, becoming less focused on movement, and more concerned with reaching your peak. “that’s it, baby,” he grunts, his fingers pressing into your hips so hard you think you’ll have marks in an hour. “keep moving like that, for me, please,” he pleads between his moan.

gojo’s hands on your hips tighten at his words. “that’s it,” he agrees, his mouth back on your skin. “o-oh, sugu,” you are crying, begging to reach your peak when your legs start shaking. “oh, baby, look at her shaking like that,” gojo comments lazily against your shoulder. “she must be right there, on the edge, just begging to go over.”

geto can’t respond, he’s simply holding onto you and letting out breathless “oh god, oh god, oh god” between his pants. he’s gripping onto your hips to push you even closer against him. “just a little more, sweetheart” he urges, “a little more for me. you’re almost there.”

gojo’s hand moves to your face, his fingers tilting your chin to the side so that your face is in his eye-line. “you’re so good, princess,” he coos, his voice a low and gentle murmur in your ear. “look at you. so perfect, falling apart just from riding his lap.”

geto’s forehead rests against the crook of your shoulder as he gasps, breathless. “please, baby, so close, just a little more.” your hip moves slower before abruptly moving faster, pulling a string of heavy grunt and moan from geto. with geto holding onto your hips so tight and gojo’s fingers pressing into your skin, you’re so close, so close and almost there. “that’s right, princess,” gojo murmurs, his voice the only soothing presence among everything that’s happening. “you’re being so good for us, so perfect”

geto’s forehead sinks further into your shoulder. “please, baby, i need it, just a little more. that’s it, that’s it.” gojo can see the look on your face, the desperation, the need, the pleasure that’s threatening to overwhelm you and tear you apart. he holds you so close, his teeth nipping at your shoulder. “almost there,” he encourages. “just a little more, beautiful girl. you can do it. i know you can.” geto’s words become more desperate, his breathing more broken and stilted. “baby, please, baby, please, i—”

gojo feels the moment you and geto reach your peak together. his hands run through your hair when he feels your body shudder and then go limp. he lets his teeth graze the side of your neck as you collapse against him. “that’s it, sweetheart,” he says, a smirk on his lips, “look at you. perfect.”

geto’s hands loosen their grip on your hips as he also takes in ragged breaths. the three of you are now sitting and panting on the bed in silence. “that was hot,” gojo finally says after a moment, and there’s a distinct hint of cockyness in his voice.

geto grunts in response as he lets the three of you fall back down on the bed from where you were still seated over top of him. “i can’t feel my legs,” he moans, his hands still gripping onto your hips.

“don’t be so whiny,” gojo scoffs, but he’s chuckling as he says it. his hands begin their gentle movements through your hair again. “we didn’t even do anything.” geto lets out another breathless scoff. “you didn’t do anything, idiot” he protests. “i did all the work.”

“you both did all the work, to be fair” gojo says, still sounding lazy. “i just sat back and enjoyed the show.”

“lazy ass,” geto chuckles. his hands are now gently massaging your hips where he knows there’ll now be marks from his fingers. “you just sat there and watched, while i had to do all the work.” gojo snorts and scoff, “yes, because a beautiful woman grinding against you is such hard work, i’m sure you suffered very much.”

geto lets out a huff of laughter. “just because i enjoyed working for it doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard work,” he retorts. “i’m the reason she was so turned on.”

“i’m the one who set her up for it in the first place,” gojo argues back, chuckling. “i’m the reason she was so eager to ride your lap.” geto lets out another scoff, a smirk on his face. “you’re forgetting who’s an idea this whole thing was in the first place,” he says— it was gojo's idea in the first place, by the way.

“oh, i’m not forgetting,” gojo responds, and there’s a hint of smugness in his voice now. “i’m just saying i’m the one who prepared her for you.” they keep bickering without realizing you silently took a pillow and hit them in the head, “shut the fuck up! i can't even catch my breath in silence, god!” you groan before resting your cheek on geto's shoulder.

gojo and geto stop their bickering immediately at the sound of your annoyed groan, and they both turn to look at you. they’re too shocked and confused to say anything at first.

gojo is the first to speak. “did you just hit us with a pillow?” he asks, his voice a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “damn right, want me to elbow your handsome face too?” you glare at him over your shoulder. gojo quickly holds his hands up in surrender. “no, please don’t!” he pleads, a mock-offended look on his face.

there’s a chuckle from geto, who’s looking down at your face as you glare up at gojo. he pats your hip gently, “you look a little pissed, darling.” his warm hand wraps over you and caresses your back lovingly. “i can't feel my legs and at the same time i think it's still shaking, does that make sense?” you ask, pouting as you still rest your cheek against his shoulder

both of them chuckle again at your pout. geto's hands rub up and down your hips, soothing the skin that his fingers were gripping so tightly. “you’re not used to us yet, sweetheart,” he says, still chuckling. “it’s going to take some time for you to get back on your feet after we’ve given you such a good time.”

you groan as you hide your face on geto's chest. “oh god, we're not even fucking yet,” you let out a heavy sigh. gojo lets out a laugh again, loving the mixture of exhaustion and annoyance in your voice. “damn, princess, look at you already begging for it,” he teases.

geto just chuckles and shakes his head, still massaging your hips. “you’re a mess right now, baby,” he smiles and pokes your cheek lightly. “shut up, i-i'm not begging,” you lightly smack gojo's bare chest before back to rest your cheek against geto's chest to look at gojo who's still sit on the black-haired man behind you.

gojo lets out a scoff of disbelief at the smack to his chest. “you’re not begging? because you sound awfully needy to me,” he teases, clearly knowing what annoys you and relishing in it. geto rolls his eyes at gojo, giving his arm a smack. “stop being a dick to her,” he says with a chuckle.

gojo lets out another laugh, enjoying that he’s getting a reaction from you. “i’m not being a dick, i’m just pointing out the truth!” he says, still sounding cocky and amused. geto grumbles under his breath and pats your hips again. “ignore him, baby,” he says. “he’s just being a douchebag because you’re paying attention to me.” gojo glares at geto after hearing the words rolling out from his mouth. you giggle and stick your tongue to gojo over your shoulder.

gojo lets out a snort of laughter when you give him the tongue. “cute,” he says, his smile wide. “you’re such a child sometimes, you know that?” geto just shakes his head, hiding a smile behind your head as he kisses it. “shut up,” you giggle again as gojo leans closer until his lips touch yours and kiss you.

gojo’s lips are gentle when they touch yours, a contrast to the cocky attitude he was just showing. he takes advantage of how you’re still leaning against geto's chest on his lap on the bed, and reaches over to hold the side of your face while he kisses you, keeping you steady. geto watches the two of you, one hand still rubbing your hips while the other holds your waist, steadying your position on top of him.

gojo deepens the kiss as his tongue slides over your bottom lip and swipes at it, pushing into your mouth and against your tongue. he’s still leaning over your back from behind, one hand keeping the side of your face steady as his other one moves to rest on your thigh.

geto can feel the way your legs are shifting involuntarily from the way gojo moves, and his grip on your waist tightens to keep you in place. gojo slowly deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping through your parted lips to play with yours lazily. “you’re so cute,” he mutters against your mouth between kisses, his voice barely above a whisper.

geto watches as you and gojo continue to kiss above him, his hands still resting on you. he just hums quietly, enjoying the sight. gojo continues to kiss you, his tongue dancing with yours at a slow pace. there’s no urgency to the way he kisses you, he seems content to lazily move his lips against yours and hold your face in his hand.

geto is watching the two of you intently, his hands still resting on your body as he takes in the sight of you both. he lets out a soft hum, but doesn’t say anything, just watching as gojo’s tongue moves against yours. his kiss moves down along your jaw and then down your neck, his lips trailing over your skin until he reaches the back of your shoulder. as his mouth touches the sensitive skin behind your ear, he presses another gentle kiss there before muttering in your ear.

“do you think you can take another round, baby?” his voice is a mix of teasing and affection.

as gojo whispers the question into your ear, you can feel geto’s arms gently loosen their grip on your hips. he can probably sense that the three of you are starting to transition to the second round.

his hands move so that they are now resting on the outside of your thighs. his palms are flat against your skin, but still holding you in place on his lap. he’s looking up at you, waiting for your response.

“p-please...” you beg, your hand moving slowly to gripping on gojo's hands, giving him another begging through physical. at your pitiful, “please”, both gojo and geto are unable to hold back a reaction. they can both tell you’re getting needy already.

when gojo hears you begging, he hums against your shoulder and bites down gently on the skin there, leaving a light mark. geto’s hands move gently up and down your thighs as he responds to your plea. “please what, baby?” he asks, his voice a mixture of tease and desire. “please, fuck me..” your words come out breathy.

when you gasp out the plea, there’s another soft chuckle from gojo, and he sucked another mark into the skin of your shoulder. meanwhile, geto lets out a low exhale of air at the explicit request. “god, i love your mouth when you say things like that,” he says, and the words are more of a growl than anything. his hands tighten their grip on your thighs.

gojo straightens so that his mouth is no longer at the back of your shoulder. he’s looking down at you now, a smirk on his face. “that’s not very polite, princess,” he teases. “you need to learn how to ask nicely”

meanwhile, geto’s hands rub up and down your thighs. he’s also watching your face, amused at the way you’re already begging. “but i said please..” you let out a soft whining. gojo chuckles at that response. “i know you said please, but you can do better than that,” he says, his hand still on your face. geto hums, and you can feel his fingers digging into your skin. “come on, baby, tell us what you want. say it like a good girl,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

you wrapped your finger around his wrist that is still on your face, “please baby, i wanna feel your dick inside me so bad . .” at the sound of your words, and the pleading tone in your voice, both gojo and geto react. gojo’s hand tightens slightly against your cheek. geto lets out a low, satisfied groan at your request. “you’re such a good girl for us,” he says, biting your shoulder gently

gojo lets out another low chuckle as you wrap your fingers around his wrist. “you’ve got a mouth on you, you know that?” he says teasingly, his smile still on his lips. he’s amused by the way you’re asking.

meanwhile, geto lets out another low exhale against your skin. “fuck, i love how desperate you’re sounding right now,” he mutters, his hands moving to grip your thighs again. gojo pulls your face slightly closer so that he’s looking you right in the eye. “you want it that badly, huh?” he asks, his voice a mix of amusement and a hint of condescension.

geto is still watching your face intently, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. he can feel the way your skin is quivering against his touch. “you’re such a needy little thing right now, aren’t you?” he mutters against your shoulder before leaving another mark on the skin. you nodded, your eyes practically begging as you lost between gojo's azure eyes. “please. . ”

gojo lets out another chuckle when he sees the pleading look in your eyes. “you’re so cute when you look at me like that,” he says. geto still has his eyes on your face, watching the expressions you’re making in your desperation. “look at you, being all needy and beautiful,” he says, the words a mixture of compliment and amused taunt. his grip on your thighs tightens even more.

gojo leans in a bit closer, the smirk still on his face. “you want it that badly, hm?” he asks again, his voice still teasing. geto can feel the way your skin is quivering and shaking in his grip, your body desperately craving more touch and more attention. “god, watching you like this is so hot,” he mutters, leaving another mark on the skin of your shoulder.

gojo’s hand moves from your face to your shoulder, holding you lightly while his lips press against your skin. his other hand is working to pull off his shorts.

when he kicks off his shorts, geto is now holding you by the waist with one hand, his other hand still gripping your thighs. he lets out another low, satisfied hum when he sees gojo now completely naked. “god, you’re so hot,” he mutters against the skin of your neck.

gojo lets out a light chuckle when he hears geto’s mutter. “i take it you’re liking the view,” he comments, his voice still amused. geto just nods, his lips still on your neck. “you look even better naked,” he says, his voice a low, hungry-sounding growl. he’s still holding you and biting your skin, his hand on your thigh gripping you tightly.

in the meantime, gojo has now moved his hands to your waist, replacing geto’s hands on your hips. his hands are firm and steady on your skin, holding you steadily in place on his lap.

“are you ready, baby?” he asks, shifting his body slightly so that you can feel him even more clearly against you. “yes, please..” you nod, your eyes glisten as you look at gojo. gojo lets out another low laugh when he hears your response. “god, you’re so gorgeous when you’re begging,” he says, his voice a mix of amusement and desire.

geto is still watching the two of you intently, his breath hitches when he hears you pleading. “you’re such a good girl for us,” he mutters against your skin before leaving another mark on your neck. gojo lets out a low chuckle at the feeling of your body quivering and shaking in anticipation. “you’re shaking so much, it’s adorable,“ he says, his voice a mix of amusement and desire.

geto, who’s still lying back on the bed, lets out a low hum when he feels how hard gojo is against you. “god, you’re so eager,” he mutters, his breath still coming out in low, satisfied pants. geto shifts his position slightly, adjusting his hold on you. his hand slips down from your hip to your ass, groping at your plump flesh before giving it a light squeeze. the other hand reaches up to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. “ready?” he echoes, his tone low and filled with anticipation.

you nodded, hands gripping tightly on geto's shoulder as you squirm on his lap. “oh— fuck!” a long groan pushing past your lips the moment gojo's cock slowly entering your pussy from behind, fucking you while you on sit top of geto's lap.

geto's eyes darken with lust as he watches gojo enter you from behind. he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, “that's it, baby. take his cock like a good girl.” his hand in your hair tightens, tilting your head to the side to expose your neck further. suguru's tongue darts out, licking a stripe up your throat before his teeth graze over your pulse point.

“fuck, you're so sexy like this,” he groans, his own arousal evident in the growing bulge pressing against your pussy. geto starts to rock his hips in time with gojo's thrusts, grinding his clothed cock against your pussy once again.

geto continues to grind his hardening cock against your slick folds, the friction making him hiss through clenched teeth. his free hand slides down to cup your mound, fingers spreading your lips apart to gain better access. with each thrust from behind, geto rubs his thumb over your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to send sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves. “f-fuck—” you stutter from the pleasure of geto's hand and gojo's dick.

“so wet,” he murmurs, his voice laced with pride and desire. “can't wait to taste you later,” geto leans in to capture your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss, swallowing your moans as gojo picks up the pace, driving into you harder and faster.

“o-oh, god, 'toru. . ” you moan against geto's lips.

geto breaks away from the kiss only to trail kisses down your jawline and neck, leaving a burning path wherever his lips touch. his grip on your hair tightens even more, pulling your head back to expose your throat fully. geto's tongue traces over your collarbone before descending lower, towards the valley between your breasts.

“so good f’ me, s-so fucking good,” gojo whimpering, continues to pound into you relentlessly from behind. geto takes advantage of every movement to tease and torment your sensitive nipples. his thumb brushes over your clit again and again, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins.

“oh fuck— toru. . .” tears are swelling up to the corner of your eyes as geto's grips your hair until you look up and meet with gojo's eyes. gojo's nails rooted on your skin as he keep thrust his cock inside your pussy.

geto's gaze flickers up to meet yours, his dark eyes blazing with raw need. he gives your hair a sharp tug, forcing you to arch your back and push your chest closer to his teasing mouth. “look at me, baby,” he commands softly but firmly, wanting nothing more than to see the pleasure etched onto your features.

as gojo's relentless pounding sends waves of ecstasy crashing through your body, suguru's hands become even more insistent, kneading and squeezing at your breasts mercilessly. he bites down gently on your nipple, a soft gasp escaping his lips as he feels how hard you've gotten for them both.

geto's heart pounds wildly against your cheek as he watches gojo take control, pushing you down onto his lap. he grips your hips tighter, guiding your movements to match gojo's rhythm perfectly. each thrust drives deeper, stretching you deliciously around his girthy length. “so fucking tight,” gojo groans, leaning forward to bite down on the curve of your shoulder. his hands roam over your back, tracing along your spine before sliding up to grasp at your hair. with deft fingers,

as gojo's teeth sink into your shoulder, a sharp cry escapes from your lips. geto's hands leave your breasts to slide down your sides, trailing fire across your skin. when he reaches your thighs, he grips them firmly, spreading them wider to give gojo better access. his thumbs press against your inner thighs, rubbing circles into your tender flesh as he watches gojo's cock disappear and reappear from within you. “fuck baby, you look so perfect taking him like that,” geto murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

geto's gaze fixates on where their bodies join, watching intently as gojo pistons in and out of you. a low growl rumbles in his throat as he observes the way your curves ripple with each powerful thrust. his hands glide back up to your breasts, kneading them roughly once again. geto leans in close, whispering dirty words into your ear about what they plan to do with you once they're done with this.

“ah— i-i'm close,” you whimper, eyes glisten with tears.

geto's eyes flash with excitement at your confession, his hands becoming even more demanding on your body. “come for us then, baby,” he urges, his voice dripping with seduction. “let us feel you fall apart,” gojo added. as if sensing your impending climax, gojo redoubles his efforts, slamming into you with renewed vigor. geto mirrors his actions, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers, coaxing out every last drop of pleasure from your trembling form.

geto can hardly contain himself as he watches you teeter on the edge of release. his fingers dig into your flesh, urging you closer to that blissful precipice. “do it,” he pleads, his voice ragged with desire. “give it all to us.” as if responding to his plea, gojo slams into you one final time, triggering your orgasm. your walls clench around him desperately, milking his throbbing member for everything it's worth.

geto watches, entranced, as your body convulses in pleasure beneath them. he can't help but be moved by the sight of you unraveling under their combined ministrations. “that's it,” he encourages, feeling a surge of pride swell within him. “show us how much you love being used like this.” as your climax begins to wane, geto leans in to claim another searing kiss, tasting the saltiness of your sweat on your lips.

gojo watches as you convulse beneath them, his hands still tight on your hips as he looks down at you. the sound of you unraveling is only adding to his own desire, and he lets out a low laugh of satisfaction. “god damn, you’re incredible,” he mutters, his voice rough.

geto, meanwhile, pulls you into another searing kiss, claiming your lips again. his tongue delves into your mouth, tasting the saltiness of your sweat. as geto’s tongue dominates your mouth, gojo watches the two of you intently, his hands still on your hips, holding you in place. his eyes move back and forth between you and geto, watching closely to catalogue every reaction and expression.

“god, you two look good together” he mutters, his voice rough. his grip tightens on your hips as he watches the two of you make out. gojo is still breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath after pulling out of you. he’s watching as you fall apart on geto’s arm, your eyes closed as you try to catch your own breath.

“you look so beautiful,” he mutters, his voice is still rough. his hand reaches out and brushes the hair off your face. meanwhile, geto is still sitting against the headboard, his arm still around you as you try to catch your breath. he’s watching you intently as you recover, and his hand gently rubs your back in soothing circles. “you did so good, baby” he mutters, his voice soft, “you’re so beautiful.”

gojo gets up from geto’s lap, and gently pulls you to lay you down on the bed, making sure you’re comfortable. he moves so that he’s now lying next to you on the bed, his hand still resting lightly on your hip.

geto watches as you lie down on the bed and moves over so that he’s now lying next to you, too. he rests his hand on your stomach, his thumb rubbing gentle circles in your skin. as the three of you lay there together, there’s a moment of comfortable silence, with the only sound being the evenness of your breaths. gojo and geto are both still touching you, their hands gently rubbing your skin wherever they can reach.

“how are you feeling, baby?” gojo asks after a few moments, his voice soft and gentle.

you give him a weak smile, “perfect.”

“perfect,” gojo repeats, his voice satisfied as he echoes your word. he’s still resting next to you, his hand still gently making patterns on your skin. geto, who’s lying on your other side, also hums his agreement. “you look perfect,” he mutters, his fingers still rubbing your stomach. “you did so well,” he draw another mutter on your skin to kiss your forehead.

there’s another moment of comfortable silence, with the three of you just laying there together and enjoying the afterglow. gojo’s hand continues to gently rub your skin, and geto's hand is still moving in slow circles on your stomach. “can i ask you something, princess?” gojo says suddenly, his voice still soft and gentle.

you open your eyes and turn your head to look at gojo, “what is it?” you ask him, voice soft and dripping with tiredness.

gojo looks down at you as you turn your head to look at him, his eyes lingering on your face. he can see the exhaustion in your eyes and in your voice, which seems to be dripping with tiredness.

“i just wanted to ask…” he pauses for a moment, his hand still rubbing slow circles on your skin. “you enjoyed that, right?” he asks, his voice gentle and concerned. you look at him like he's the most stupid person in the world that makes you confused, “yeah?” you ask.

gojo notices the look on your face and laughs at your question. “okay, well, don’t give me that look,” he says jokingly. geto, who’s lying on your other side, also laughs, his hand still rubbing soothing circles on your stomach. “don't insult him, he’s just checking in, princess,” he says, his voice amused.

gojo chuckles again before continuing. “i know you enjoyed it, i just want to make sure” he says, his voice serious again. he pauses for another moment, still looking at you intently. “i just want to make sure you’re comfortable and happy,” he says, his voice earnest. gojo is still watching your face, waiting for your answer. “you’d tell us if you didn’t, right?” he asks, his voice a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“do you want me to tell you if i didn't?”

“yes.” both gojo and geto answer at the same time. geto glances over at gojo before turning his attention back to you, his hand still rubbing your stomach. “we want to know if you had a good time,” he says, his voice serious.

gojo nods in agreement. “yeah, if you didn’t enjoy something, we want you to tell us,” he says. “your comfort and happiness are important to us, princess,” he adds. you nod, taking their hand to plant a kiss on the back of their hand, “then i will.”

gojo and geto both watch as you take their hands and plant a kiss on the backs. they both smile at the gesture, clearly touched by the small act of affection.

“good,” gojo says, his voice satisfied. “that’s all we want, you to be honest and comfortable,” he adds, his hand gently squeezing yours. geto hums in agreement, his hand rubbing the back of yours. “we value your feelings more than anything, princess,” he mutters, his voice soft and sincere.

there’s a moment of comfortable silence again, as the three of you just lay there together, your hands still intertwined. gojo and geto are both watching you closely, their eyes taking in your every expression.

“you look tired,” gojo finally says, breaking the silence. he’s still holding your hand, his thumb tracing gentle patterns on your skin. you nod, “just a little,” you softly speak before pushing your body away from the bed to sit up. “i'm going to get a drink first,” you tell them. you took gojo's white shirt that he used before and put it on you.

gojo watches as you push yourself up from the bed and put on his shirt. his eyes trail over your body, admiring the way the fabric of his shirt hangs on your figure. he’s about to speak when geto reaches out and grabs your arm, keeping you in place.

“you don’t have to get up, i’ll get you a drink,” he says, his voice gentle and affectionate. “thank you,” you said politely as you smiled at him. “of course,” geto says, smiling back at you. he pats you gently on the head before getting up from the bed.

gojo watches as geto walks out of the bedroom, his eyes lingering on his naked back as he leaves the room. “damn, he’s hot,” he mutters, his voice low enough that only you can hear it. you look at him with your eyebrows knit together softly before rolling your eyes, “god, you're such a horn dog.”

gojo lets out a low laugh when he hears your comment. “hey, i can’t help it if i appreciate a nice body,” he says, his voice still low. he looks over at you, a smirk on his face. “you can’t deny he looks good,” he adds, his eyes trailing over your figure in his shirt.

gojo chuckles and pulls you towards him again, your bodies pressing against each other. “i mean, yeah he's hot but— ah fuck it, let's objectifying him,” you giggle as you wrap your arm around gojo's waist. when he hears you say you’d like to objectify him, his smirk widens. “yeah, let’s do it,” he says, his voice low.

he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you even closer, his hand gently rubbing small circles on your lower back. “his ass is pretty great,” he mutters, his eyes raking over your figure in his shirt.

you nodded, “his dick too.”

gojo laughs out loud at your comment, clearly having not expected it. “god damn, baby,” he mutters, his voice full of humor. “yeah, it’s very good,” he agrees, his eyes still roaming over your body in his shirt. “how’d you fit it all in your mouth?” he teases, using his free hand to gently brush your hair behind your ear. “have no idea,” you shake your head as you laugh.

gojo laughs again when he hears your reply, clearly enjoying the conversation. he moves his head so that it’s right next to your ear, and his voice is a low murmur when he speaks again. “you look so good in my shirt,” he mutters, his breath hot against your skin. “thank you,” you smile at him as you look up. your fingers run across his arm.

gojo smiles back at you, his hand still rubbing small circles on your lower back. he takes a moment to admire your expression, his eyes drinking in how your face looks when you’re smiling up at him.

“i like it when you wear my clothes,” he admits, his voice low, “it reminds me that you’re mine.” gojo looks deep into your eyes for a moment, taking in your expression and the soft smile on your lips. he then presses his lips against your forehead in a gentle kiss, his lips lingering against your skin.

“you’re adorable, you know that?” he mutters, still holding you close to him. just then, geto walks back into the room, holding a glass of water in his hand. When he sees you and gojo cuddled together on the bed, he raises an eyebrow. “did i miss something?” he asks jokingly, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“we're objectifying you,” you said, giggling.

geto lets out a chuckle when he hears you say you’re objectifying him. “oh, is that so?” he asks, his voice amused. he takes a few steps closer to the bed, a small smile on his face. “anything interesting being said?” he asks, looking over at gojo who’s still holding you against him.

geto walk over to the other side of the bed and hand you the water as he takes a seat beside you. gojo looks over at geto, a smirk on his face. “oh, just talking about how good you look,” he says casually, his hand still rubbing small circles on your lower back.

geto lets out a low laugh when he hears gojo’s comment, clearly somewhat amused by it. he watches as you take the glass of water from his hand, and takes a moment to admire your pretty face before pinching your cheek. “just my looks?” he teases, his voice low and sultry. “not my skills?” he asks, his hand coming to rest on your thigh.

gojo smirks again when he hears his comment, his hand still idly rubbing small circles on your lower back. “oh, your skills are definitely being appreciated too,” he says. he looks over at geto, his eyes trailing over his body. “a very important part of you,” he adds, his voice low.

they both stop talking and watch as you take sips from the water, both of them clearly enjoying the sight. gojo's hand is still rubbing your lower back, his eyes never leaving you as you drink. meanwhile, geto's hand is still resting on your thigh; his eyes are looking at the way your throat moves as you swallow.

“what?” you look at them as you hesitate to pull the glass away from your face. gojo and geto both look at you when you look at them, both of them still admiring your pretty face. “just enjoying the view,” gojo says simply, his hand still rubbing circles on your back. “you look very pretty while drinking,” geto adds, his hand still resting on your thigh.

after finishing, you hand the half-empty glass to gojo and cast a questioning glance at geto. “what’s so pretty about drinking?” you ask, slightly puzzled. gojo takes the water glass from you and sets it down on the bedside table. both gojo and geto are still looking at you, their expressions amused by your question.

“just the way your neck moves when you swallow,” geto says simply.

gojo nods in agreement. “yeah, it’s pretty hot,” he adds, his eyes trailing over the smooth line of your throat. you just rolled your eyes at your two boyfriends horniness before placing a pillow behind you and pulling a blanket over your body as you lay down.

gojo and geto both chuckled at your eye roll, clearly amused by your reaction to their horniness. gojo watches as you place a pillow behind you and pull a blanket over your body, his eyes trailing over your form as you get comfortable. geto leans over and pats your head gently, a smile on his face. “comfy?” he asks, his voice soft.

you nod and smile at him before turning to gojo, who is still eyeing you with a hungry gaze. “go to sleep, dickhead. it’s almost three in the morning,” you say, giving him a nasty look.

gojo laughs at your comment, amused by your words. “but i’m not tired,” he says, his eyes still roaming over your body.

“yeah, i’m not tired either,” geto agrees, his hand still patting your head gently. “but, i am,” you mumble, pulling the blanket until it reaches your chin.

as soon as you mumble that you’re tired, both gojo and geto’s expressions soften. they both look at you for a moment, taking in your sleepy face and the way the blanket is pulled up to your chin. “okay princess,” gojo says, his voice gentle. “we’ll go to sleep,” he assures you, his hand still rubbing gentle circles on your lower back.

they both eventually join you, lying on their sides as you shift to face them as well. gojo pulls you closer, so your back is against his chest, while the two of you face geto. as soon as all three of you are lying down on the bed, gojo pulls you closer to him, your back pressed against his chest. he wraps his arm around your waist, his hand resting on your stomach.

geto watches as you and gojo get comfortable, a small smile on his face. he shifts so that he’s a little closer to you, his eyes roaming over your pretty face. despite all three of you being tired, you don’t close your eyes right away. instead, gojo and geto both continue to talk softly, their voices quiet and drowsy.

gojo’s hand is still resting on your stomach, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on your skin. meanwhile, geto’s eyes are still fixed on your face, a small smile on his lips as he watches you listen.

gojo and geto continue talking quietly, their voices low and drowsy as they converse. meanwhile, you pull your phone out from under the pillow and start using it. gojo glances down and sees that you’re using your phone, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “what are you doing, princess?” he asks, his voice soft.

“just scrolling,” you mumble, the light from your phone illuminating your face. they don’t say anything and continue their quiet conversation. both gojo and geto glance down at your phone, noticing how the light from it illuminates your face, making you look even prettier under the dim lighting of the room. “what are you scrolling through?” gojo asks, his voice sounding just a hint too interested.

“just some tiktok videos, baby,” you reply softly. they nod and allow you to continue, not really focusing on your phone as they keep chatting. gojo and geto both nod as you tell them that you’re just scrolling through some tiktok videos, their focus more on their conversation rather than what you’re doing on your phone.

“that’s cool,” gojo says, his voice absent-minded as his hand keeps rubbing small circles on your stomach.

after a few minutes, gojo notices that the sound from your phone keeps repeating as if a certain video is on a loop. he glances down at you and sees that your eyes are closed, your breathing slower and more steady.

when he realizes you’ve fallen asleep with your phone still on, a small smile forms on his face. he reaches out and gently takes your phone out of your grasp, setting it down on the bedside table. geto also notices that you’ve fallen asleep and looks down at you with a soft smile on his face.

he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle so as not to wake you up. “she’s asleep,” he murmurs to gojo, his voice barely above a whisper.

gojo nods in agreement, his eyes still fixed on your face. “yeah, she’s out cold,” he says, his voice just as quiet as geto’s. he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his hand gently stroking your stomach.

“we should go to sleep, too,” gojo whispers.

geto nods in agreement, his eyes still fixed on you sleeping. “yeah, we should,” he says, his voice soft. he shifts closer to you so that he’s a little nearer, his body warm and comfortable against yours.

geto gently presses a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “sleep well, my love,” his voice tender and soft as he brushes his lips against your skin. he then turns to gojo, leaning in to give him a warm kiss as well. with a loving smile, he says, “good night, baby,” his tone is full of affection and care.

gojo smiles when he hears geto’s soft words, enjoying the gentle tone of his voice. “good night,” he murmurs, his voice low.

he reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. then he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him, your back pressed against his chest.

[disneyprincemuke]

randomantic * op81

it's just oscar being randomly romantic, because that's the type of person you make him

pairings: oscar piastri x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

notes: noelle don't write an oscar fic that's not entirely filled with silliness and nonsense fluff challenge

(f1 masterlist)

you close your eyes and suck in a deep breath. you stand at your front door, having just inserted your key into it. you let out a shaky breath as you stare down at the door knob.

you’ve just had what felt like the longest day in a while. it feels like nothing has gone right for you at all — it’s so overwhelmingly irritating. you just know that the smallest thing will set you off and on the other side of this door is the most loving and doting man you’ve ever met in your life.

a man who doesn’t seem to have had a bad day in years, always donning a wide smile on his face with a composure you could only wish you had. you don’t want him to be the scapegoat that gets the brunt of your bad day.

you compose yourself with one last deep breath before unlocking the door. you try to sport a small grin as you push the door open. “i’m home.”

oscar’s grin meets you right at the kitchen door, leaning against the door frame as he wipes his hand on a towel. “i was wondering when you would come inside — i heard you fumbling with your keys a few minutes ago.”

“oh,” you try to laugh it off as you kick your shoes off and walk over to him, “i was trying to recall if i’d forgotten something at work.”

which, now that you think of it, is very possible. did your water bottle ever make it into your bag before you left the office?

“you’re back there in a couple of days,” oscar mutters, arms spread wide as you walk further into your apartment, “if not, i’ll go over and pick it up for you.”

he wraps you into a tight and firm hug, making you feel relieve, even if it was just a little. he grabs either side of your cheek and mushes his lips onto yours. “i made us dinner.”

you hum and furrow your brows as he takes your hand to lead you in. “what? but it’s my turn to make dinner.”

oscar shrugs with a small smile. he looks over his shoulder and gives you a quick wink. “i was feeling inspired.”

you almost burst into tears when the dining table comes into view — two plates with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers on the clean table. you’d been wrecking your brain for dinner options tonight. you’d considered ordering in, but it’s oscar’s crunch time right before the season so he has to watch his diet.

“do you like it?” oscar beams, puffing his chest proudly. he grabs the bouquet and reaches out to you. “and some flowers — we can’t have a date without that.”

“i love it, oscar,” you smile, reeling him in to press a kiss on his lips. “thank you so much.”

you wake up alone in your bed. oscar had an early morning, heading into a busy day.

you briefly remember sitting up for 5 seconds, long enough for him to give you a quick kiss and a tight hug before bidding you goodbye. though you wish you’d have woken up slightly earlier or stayed awake for longer to be with him.

you feel a sense of dread at the empty day ahead of you, working from home in an empty house is daunting for the week you’re having. you can almost tell how much you wouldn’t get done at all with the pit in your stomach and the numbness at your fingertips.

you wanted to send him a text, asking him to take the day off and come home to be with you. but you refuse to be that person.

you can’t simply ask your busy boyfriend to drop his obligations just to spend time with you because you’re a little under the weather. it’s not always about you.

sighing, you turn over to face oscar’s side of the bed. you pull the blankets around your body a little tighter.

you flinch at the stuffed bunny sitting upright, probably put there by oscar before leaving, with a bright orange post-it loosely stuck to its paw.

‘good morning, my love :)’

you smile. these little post-it’s are rare to find during this off-season, but they are always appreciated wherever they are.

the good morning note, however, is a first. oscar’s made a habit of leaving a few as reminders for you for days that he has to separate from you at the crack of dawn. they are often sweet, usually just reminders, but always in such a loving manner. how he manages to make simple post-it reminders sound so thoughtful, you’ll never know.

when you make it to the kitchen, there’s another stuck to the door of the fridge.

‘left some documents behind and had to u-turn. i got you breakfast on my drive back <3 fridge, second shelf’

you open the fridge and sure enough, there’s a sandwich with a cup of iced coffee sitting pretty on the second shelf. there’s another post-it.

‘eat well, pretty’

you proceed to eat breakfast with the biggest grin on your face.

oscar walks into the room, in the midst of dressing up for his busy day. you’re sitting by the edge of the bed, slouched as you type away on your phone. probably answering some emails before you head right back to sleep.

he grins to himself and creeps across the bed over to you. when he realises you hadn’t acknowledged his presence, he softly hums and gently presses his lips on your bare shoulder. his other arm is slung over your stomach as he pulls you in.

“what’s got my girl so busy this morning?” he hums against your skin, reluctantly pulling you back down to lie with him in bed. “it’s too early for you to be up.”

you groan and throw your head back, throwing your arms back. “answering a silly important email that was sent at 3am.”

“ridiculous,” he mutters. he tightens his arms around you and sigh. “i wish i could lay in bed with you all day. i’ll miss you today.”

“i’ll miss you too. i hate working from home when you’re not around.” you wiggle in his arms to face him, grabbing the sides of his face. “i should shrink myself so you could put me in your little pocket.”

he laughs at the absurdity of your idea. though, he doesn’t entirely hate it. he leans forward and nudges your nose with his. “i told you: quit your job. follow me around all day — i promise i’ll treat you like a princess.”

oscar jokes about this often: getting you to quit your job so you could simply be by his side all the time. while it sounded fun and relaxing, it simply is never as easy as just quitting and being his fulltime wag that watched him in the garage every weekend.

it’s just not a life that sounds like it would be for you at all.

“don’t be silly,” you whisper. you nuzzle your face into his shoulder with a soft sigh. “i can’t just do that.”

“ah, i know.” he squeezes your hips, thinking of a way he could somehow manipulate his day into ending earlier. perhaps there’s something he could forgo so he can come home earlier to you? maybe he’ll skip the gym and go tomorrow instead. “you know what?”

you hum, “what?”

“let’s go for a fancy dinner outside tonight,” oscar giggles. “i’ll call in for a reservation, okay? just show up and i’ll take care of the rest.”

you raise an eyebrow. it’s not that you don’t often go on dates with oscar in a week. in fact, you would love to argue that you and oscar go on more dates than an average couple does.

this week just feels different. perhaps you’re just having a worse week than usual. you start to wonder if he can tell that you’re having a hard week.

“are you sure? aren’t you busy?”

“never for you,” oscar smiles. “so, i’ll pick you up at 7, okay?”

not a lot of people could have guessed that oscar is one of the biggest perpetrators of hogging a karaoke mic.

your week has finally ended, and oscar has dragged you along to a small outing with his group of friends for a quick hang out before the season starts. you don’t even remember who suggest the thought of renting a room to do some karaoke; could have been fred, or maybe even oscar himself.

“oh, man,” logan throws his arms into the air when a familiar beat comes on. he holds his head in his hands in defeat. “who let him have the mic?”

“i swear i didn’t let him queue this many songs!” fred defends himself with a soft cry, pointing at the central machine in front of him. “they’re all love songs too!”

his friends’ groans echo in the room as oscar picks up the mic proudly. he puts his cocktail down on the table in the centre of the room before he turns over to you, sly smile and the mic pointed over at you. “this one’s for my beautiful girlfriend.”

logan scowls. “gross.”

“shut the fuck up,” oscar mutters, before walking over to you. he holds a hand out to you and grins. “don’t mind them, they’ve just never been loved the way you love me. get up, you’re the lucky girl i get to serenade for the rest of our lives.”

fred scoffs, a hand over his chest. “okay, ouch.”

@foreveralbon

[woninggg]

girll i crave, I CRAVEEE opposites attract, rival coworkers enemies to lovers typa smut with cheol and i think you are only one who can write this. i love your work and live for your work. thank you sooo muchhh for decide to write here💖

🐇:ahhh ty so much my love this made my day also this was so fun yet so hard to write(since English is not my first language) but I kinda love the result hehe

bite back~ 崔胜澈 Rival!Coworker!Choi Seungcheol × Rival!Coworker!Reader

Warnings: office AU, smut, degradation, dom cheol, desk sex, unprotected sex, minor choking, and mutual obsession disguised as hatred.

ᶻᶻ..more content under the cut┈✦

The worst thing about Choi Seungcheol wasn’t that he was good at his job.

No, that wasn’t it. If anything, you would have respected him for that. You didn’t mind competition—in fact, you thrived on it. But Seungcheol was a different breed of competitor. He wasn’t just good, he was arrogant about it. A smug, self centered, insufferable bastard who made sure you knew exactly where he stood in the company hierarchy.

And unfortunately, that spot was right next to yours.

The rivalry started the moment you joined. He had been the golden boy of the company, the one everyone looked up to, until you showed up. You weren’t intimidated by his reputation, nor were you interested in playing second to anyone. And from the moment you went head-to-head in your first project, you knew neither of you would back down.

It wasn’t just competition. It was war.

You challenged every one of his ideas. He shot down every one of yours. You undercut his suggestions in meetings, he made sure to find flaws in every pitch you presented. He stole deals right out from under you, and you made sure to return the favor.

And somehow, despite your mutual hatred, the company refused to separate you.

“You two work well together” your boss had said once, completely ignoring the way you and Seungcheol were glaring daggers at each other across the conference table.

Work well together. Right. If by “well” he meant in the same way oil and water did, then sure.

And tonight was no different.

You were stuck in the office well past midnight, both of you hunched over your respective desks, working on a last minute client proposal. Management had assigned it to both of you, because of course they had—insisting that your “combined talents” would deliver the best results.

You could barely focus with him in the room. every time he shifted, every time he sighed, every time his damn pen scratched against the paper, it grated on your nerves.

“Can you stop breathing so loud?” you snapped, eyes shooting daggers at him.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize my existence was such a burden on you.” Seungcheol’s voice dripped with sarcasm, not bothering to look up from his own paperwork.

Your eyes narrowed at the sound of his voice, your grip on your pen tightening until you feared it might snap.

“Don’t call me that,” you spat back. The last thing you needed was for him to think he could get under your skin. But it was already too late.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound irritatingly deep. “You’re really in a mood tonight, huh? What’s wrong, project not turning out the way you wanted?”

You gritted your teeth. “My project is fine.”

“Mm. Sure about that?” He finally looked up from his laptop, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk you wanted to slap off his face. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re struggling.”

Your eye twitched. You had never hit a coworker before, but tonight might be the night.

“For fuck’s sake” you muttered, shoving your chair back and standing abruptly. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

He mirrored your movement, standing as well, and you hated that he was taller, and that he could look down at you like he was amused.

“I don’t know” he mused, taking a slow step closer. “Do you ever get tired of trying to prove you’re better than me?”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t have to prove anything. I am better than you.”

His smirk widened, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

The way he said 'sweetheart' was like nails on a chalkboard, and it made something snap inside you.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the way the tension between you had been building for so long, thick and suffocating.

Or maybe it was just him.

The unbearable way he looked at you, like he was daring you to break first.

So you did.

You shoved him—both hands pressed against his chest, pushing with all your strength.

He barely stumbled.

Instead, he grabbed your wrists before you could pull away, spinning you around and pressing your back against your desk.

“What the hell are you—”

“You’ve been waiting to do that, haven’t you?” he murmured, voice low.

You refused to back down. Your chin lifted defiantly. “What, shove you? Yeah. Since the day I met you.”

His fingers tightened around your wrists. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

The air grew thick with something you hadn’t noticed before—or maybe you had, but had ignored it because acknowledging it would mean admitting that you felt something other than pure hatred for him.

“You hate me, right?” he murmured, pressing in closer, his thigh sliding between yours. “So tell me to stop.”

Your nails dug into his wrists, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Fuck you.”

His lips curled. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you could protest, his mouth was on yours. His hand moved, fingers wrapping around your jaw, grip just tight enough to make you suck in a breath.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent, all teeth and dominance and raw frustration.

His hands slid down, gripping your hips so tight it hurt, lifting you onto the desk as his body slotted between your legs. You yanked at his shirt, pulling him even closer, biting down on his lip just to make him groan.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you panted against his mouth.

He laughed darkly, his fingers already working the buttons of your blouse. “Of course not.”

And yet, the way he dragged his hands down your body like he needed to memorize every inch, told a different story.

Your skirt was shoved up, your underwear pushed aside, and then— a sharp gasp left your lips as his fingers slid inside you, finding you embarrassingly wet.

He groaned, his forehead pressing against yours. “Fuck. This whole ? You’ve been this soaked, and you’ve been acting like you hate me?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, but he wasn’t having it.

“Tell me,” he murmured, curling his fingers, dragging a moan from you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

You shook your head, breathless, defiant. “You don’t get to win.”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I already won the moment you let me touch you.”

Your cheeks burned with fury, and you bucked your hips, trying to dislodge his hand. But it was too late. His thumb found your clit, circling it in a way that made your knees tremble.

You wanted to slap the smug grin off his face, to wipe the victory from his eyes. But as he continued to kiss you, all thought of anything other than the heat between you disappeared. Your hands moved of their own accord, reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. You didn’t want this, you told yourself, but your body had other ideas.

Seungcheol’s other hand reached up his thumb brushing against the swell of your breast, making your breath hitch. The friction of his trousers against your thighs was agonizing, the fabric rough against your sensitive skin. You could feel his erection pressing into your stomach, demanding attention.

“Say you hate me again,” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and tickling. “Say it while you’re dripping all over my fingers.”

You bit back a moan, hating how much his words affected you. But you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing how much you craved this.

So, you spat out the words with all the venom you had left. “I fucking hate you, Choi Seungcheol.”

His eyes darkened, his smile turning feral. “Keep saying it” he murmured, his thumb moving faster on your clit. “Let’s see if you can convince either of us.”

Your body betrayed you, arching into his touch, a whimper escaping your throat. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

Seungcheol’s eyes burned into yours, he cut you off by sliding another finger inside you, stretching you out, as you felt the beginnings of a climax building.

His pace was brutal, pumping his fingers into you with no hesitation, curling them just right until your legs threatened to give out.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Bet you touch yourself thinking about me.”

You swallowed down the moan rising in your throat, your eyes squeezed shut. You clenched around his fingers, making him chuckle. “That’s what I thought.”

You were so close, so fucking close, but you’d be damned if you gave him the satisfaction of knowing it.

“Fucking asshole,” you bit out, even as your body begged for release.

His fingers pulled out of you instantly, leaving you empty, and you were about to curse at him until he grabbed your hips, yanking you back against him roughly.

“You want it rough?” he taunted, the sound of his belt unbuckling making your stomach tighten with anticipation. You didn’t answer, your breathing ragged.

You hated him for making you feel like this, for reducing you to this quivering mess of need. You hated him, hated the way his hands felt on you, hated how badly you wanted more. God, you despised Choi Seungcheol, and yet here you were, letting him do whatever he wanted to your body.

He slammed into you, all at once, stretching you open so suddenly that all you could do was gasp. The words died on your tongue, your nails digging into his arms, and his low groan against your ear sent a shiver down your spine.

“Look at you” he murmured, as he pulled out just enough to thrust back in, the force pushing you further up the desk. “So fucking cocky in the office, but now? You’re letting me fuck you open without a fight?”

You smirked, breathless. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t fight.”

And just to prove your point, you lifted your leg, wrapping it around his waist and rolling your hips deliberately. He cursed, his fingers flexing against your skin before he retaliated, grabbing the back of your knee and pushing your leg higher, forcing you open even more.

“You really wanna test me right now?” he growled, punctuating the words with a brutal thrust that had your head falling back against the desk.

Your moan echoed through the quiet office, and you knew the moment he heard it that you’d lost the upper hand.

"That’s more like it,” he muttered, dragging his lips along your jaw before biting down just enough to leave a mark. “All that attitude, but at the end of the day, this is what you really wanted, isn’t it?”

You refused to give him that satisfaction. “Fuck you.”

“You are.”

Your glare was half-hearted at best, especially when he pulled back just to watch himself sink into you again, a low groan slipping past his lips. “Shit. You’re squeezing me so tight. You sure you hate me?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, but the way your body responded to him told the truth.

Seungcheol knew it. And he was eating it up.

“I could make you cum just like this, couldn’t I?” he murmured against your ear, rolling his hips in a way that had you gasping. “Just from my cock stretching you open, fucking you deep, making you feel exactly how you’re supposed to?”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, your pride hanging by a thread. You couldn’t let him win. But then he moved his hand from your thigh to your throat, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

His grip wasn’t tight—just enough pressure to keep you grounded, and make your head spin with something you didn’t want to name.

“Say it.” His voice was a low command, rough and dripping with dominance. “Say you need me to make you cum.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing against his palm. Suddenly his other hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease.

Your entire body jolted at the contact, a choked moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. The overstimulation of his cock driving into you, his hand wrapped around your throat, and now his fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles—it was too much.

“Seungcheol—”

“Say it.” His lips brushed against your jaw. “Or should I stop?”

You gasped, shaking your head immediately. “Don’t.”

He smirked against your skin, but his movements slowed, teasing. “Then say it.”

Your pride was shattered, as your body trembled with need. You couldn’t hold out anymore, not when the pleasure was coiling so tight in your stomach, threatening to snap.

“Fuck—I need you,” you whispered, barely audible.

Seungcheol groaned, his cock twitching inside you, but it wasn’t enough. “Louder.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, your face burning“I need you to make me cum.”

The satisfaction in his chuckle made you want to slap him, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Because the moment the words left your mouth, he was relentless. His thrusts turned brutal, his fingers pressing harder against your clit, his grip on your throat tightening just slightly.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, possessive and smug.

The way he said it sent you spiraling, making the pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your entire body tensed, your walls fluttering around him as your orgasm hit you like a truck. You were barely aware of the sounds you were making—half moan, half desperate cry, until you felt him groan against your skin.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he whined, his rhythm faltering. “Look at you—fuck—so pretty when you cum for me.”

His hips stuttered, his hands gripping you even tighter as he thrust deep one last time, his own release hitting him with a guttural groan. You felt, the warmth, and the way he pulsed inside you—and fuck, you shouldn’t have liked it as much as you did.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both of you catching your breath, the only sound in the room the ragged inhales and exhales of two people who had just crossed a line they could never uncross.

Then, slowly, Seungcheol leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven.

“Still think you don’t need me?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Your glare was weak, your limbs too spent to push him away. “Shut up.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through your chest, “So, are we going to pretend like this never happened or...?”

his fingers brushed along your thigh almost absentmindedly as he pulled out, leaving you feeling cold and exposed. You reached down to fix your skirt, your cheeks still flushed with the intensity of your orgasm.

And that’s when it hit you.

This wasn’t the end.

This was just the beginning.

more.┈✦