#let him go home and curl up in bed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aeyumicore · 3 months ago

Text

green-eyed and creampied

just the, now, FIVE love and deepspace men being possessive and jealous!

━ ✧.˖ PAIRING: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb (separate) x female reader (afab)

━ .ᐟ✧ GENRE: smut, porn with little to no plot

━ ✧.˖ TOTAL WORD COUNT: 6.1k

━ .ᐟ✧ GENERAL CONTENT WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, jealous behavior, possessive behavior, LOTS of filthy dirty talk, sub!reader, dom!sylus, dom!zayne, dom!xavier, dom!rafayel, don!caleb, pet names, unprotected sex, never pulling out, banter, individual content warnings below with their respective fics

━ ✧.˖ LINKS: ao3

━ .ᐟ✧ A/N: haiiii guys it’s been a while since i wrote for all the guys. now FIVEEEEE guys, call it a burger joint.. .. sorry this is a day late. i know i’ve done a jealous fic before but i wanted to kinda do it again when they’re not drunk + include caleb.

caleb will still get his jealous and drunk fic tho! i’m also working on some stuff for caleb still. if ur a caleb girly u will eat

enjoy friends <3

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

sylus 秦彻

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,213

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight voyeurism, mentions of xavier, mating press, sylus on top, furniture breaks, lots of loud sex, sylus makes reader scream, praising

In the time you’d known Sylus, you’ve had to replace your mattress frame exactly three times.

It had gotten to the point where you refused to let him stay over. Not that that mattered, as you found yourself staying at his base—his home—far more than your own.

But for whatever reason, Sylus had asked to stay at your apartment tonight—insisting that the base was unsuitable to sleep at tonight. Some unconvincing excuse about renovations. You were suspicious, but he wore you down.

And so you found yourself being absolutely fucked into your mattress, thinking about how you’d need to buy yet another frame tomorrow, when this one inevitably shattered.

“Syluus,” you moan breathlessly, “S-Slow—mmngh—slow down. Bed’s going to break.” You wince when you hear it creak, knocking against your bedroom wall.

“You don’t want that, dove,” Sylus purrs, “She doesn’t want that.” He rolls his hips harder, squeezing the plush of your ass so hard that he leaves indents in the shape of his fingers.

“You know I can’t deny her, not when she wraps around me so fucking perfectly,” he groans, hiking your thigh up against his hip so he can angle deeper.

“You’re impossible. W-What’s gotten into you?” you force the words out, your nails clawing into the thick ropes of muscles of his shoulders, whimpering when he purposely drags his pelvis against your clit.

Sylus kisses your forehead, the tender gesture nearly enough to make you forget that he was knee deep in your guts trying to imprint his name into you.

“I haven’t seen you in a week. You’ve been so busy saving the world from Wanderers,” Sylus says simply, his voice calm and steady as if he wasn’t buried inside of you.

Your lips curl, and you tease, “You missed me?”

Sylus scoffs, his rhythm slowing for a brief moment, “Yes, terribly so. I’m not afraid to admit that.”

Your heart skips a beat, looking away shyly. But Sylus brings your face back to his, his grip on your chin gentle.

“What, getting shy on me now, little bird?” Sylus chuckles, almost condescendingly.

”That partner of yours gets to see this beautiful face more than I do. Don’t look away,” Sylus murmurs, eyes trained on your lips. He drags his pelvis intentionally along you, the coarse hair along the base of his cock working literal magic against your sensitive bud.

It’s not enough for you to miss the whiny undertone in his words though.

“You mean Xavier?”

Sylus’s pace falters, but he smirks still, raising an eyebrow at you, “Tch, you should only be thinking of me right now.”

”Y-You’re the one who—o-oh god—brought him up!” you say incredulously, finding the strength to gently smack his solid marbled chest. He catches your wrist before you can make content, bringing your fingertips up to his lips.

He nips at your hand in warning, his pace growing more forceful, as if telling you to watch yourself. His increased vigor makes your bed knock more violently against the wall, your eyes widening in fear.

”Sy, the neighbors are going to hear,” you whisper, knowing he wont listen to you anyway. He’d been forever trying to convince you to move in with him anyways.

“Hm, right. They will.”

You’re about to question his cryptic words when Sylus hoists your legs up, folding you in half. At this angle, he can quite literally hammer into you with an entirely renewed enthusiasm, reaching parts of you that he knew were your absolute weaknesses.

Your eyes roll back with a pleasured squeal, crying his name repeatedly.

Sylus smirks, praising you, your own name sounding like honey as it dripped off his tongue.

“That’s it, my love,” he coos, “Think you can get louder for me?”

You physically can’t respond, eyes squeezed shut as Sylus drives into your g-spot repeatedly and unrelentingly. He’s big enough where the head of his cock brushes against your cervix, a pleasure mixed with just the slightest pain that makes you delirious.

“Sy-lus,” you moan brokenly, unable to stop from practically screaming, “So deep—can’t…”

”You’re doing perfect,” he praises, whispering your name in a way that makes your stomach coil tightly, on the verge of exploding.

“Sh-shit. All you have to do is focus on screaming my name, hm? I’ll take care of the rest.”

You whine at the thought of your neighbors hearing you, knowing first hand just how thin the walls were. Biting the inside of your cheek, you do your best to keep your sounds down.

And of course Sylus notices instantly. But instead of scolding you, he only fucks you harder–physically pulling the sounds out of you. The screams of ecstasy that he wants.

Screams that would undoubtedly be heard across the walls. And the ceiling,

“Just like that,” Sylus grunts, his crimson eyes nearly glowing with approval, “Think he can hear you, sweetheart?”

Your eyes, previously screwed shut in sheer pleasure, fly open as you register the implication of his words—his actions.

Sylus seems to anticipate your reaction, simultaneously bringing his lips over your nipple and his thumb to your clit—rendering you a wordless, squealing mess.

You can’t see the way Sylus smirks against your breast with a dangerous satisfaction, his ruby eyes glowing with adoration and possession.

“He might get to see you every day, but I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. So drunk off my cock that you can’t even open your eyes.”

His thumb moves faster, in perfect tandem with his claiming thrusts.

”He might get to hear them, but these screams are for me, and only me. Right, my love?”

You find yourself nodding obediently, willing to do anything to get him to shut up and give you the orgasm he’s holding just out of your reach.

”Syluuus,” you plead shamelessly, words slurring, “F-Feels s’goood. Please!” Any attempt at being quiet had long been abandoned, your brain clouded only with thoughts of Sylus and the filthy mating press he had you folded into.

Sylus was a man of fierce passion, but this was entirely different. His beautiful eyes held a swirl of dangerous emotions, nearly as intense as the vigor in which his body pounding down into yours. Your nearing climax rings in your ears, blocking out the sounds of your mattress frame snapping, his thrusts masking the feeling of the wood smashing into the ground.

He revels in your cries of pure ecstasy, satisfaction blooming in his chest as you grow louder with every thrust towards your release. Sylus’s vermillion eyes flicker to the ceiling of the bedroom, intrusive thoughts clouding his own building pleasure.

It’d be easier if he lived next to you as opposed to the unit atop yours.

With his lips at your neck, his thick body presses down onto you, angling himself deeper. As he brings your body to unprecedented heights, he whispers into the shell of your ear, voice husky and rough.

”Can feel how close you are” he groans, your cunt attempting to wring his cock absolutely dry, “Want him to hear you cum for me?”

You whine, weakly shaking your head ‘no.’ Sylus only grins, his hips snapping into the plush of your thighs.

”That’s too bad, kitten. Your dear partner is going to have to hear it anyway.”

xavier 沈星回

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,165

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, dark!xavier, mentions of sylus, standing sex, mentions of voyeurism, mentions of cum marking, hitting it from the back, sex against the window, slight choking

“You’ve been at the N109 Zone a lot this week.”

You can hardly comprehend Xavier’s words over the sheer intensity at which he’s driving himself into you, as if trying to carve you perfectly into the shape of him.

“Wh-What?” you pant, your voice pathetically shaky as your palms desperately steady yourself against the window he has you pressed against.

The city lights twinkle beneath you, and you find yourself grateful that you’re more than ten floors up. Because the way Xavier had your naked body pressed into the cool glass pane, his chin digging into your shoulder as his hips snapped harshly into your ass?

If you were on a lower floor, anyone outside would undoubtedly see everything.

But you’re starting to think that’s exactly what he wants.

“The N109 Zone. You’ve been there almost every day this last week,” Xavier says, his words simple but his tone almost threatening. Not enough to scare you, but just enough to have your toes curling in excitement.

“And?” is all you manage, your back arching against his abdomen when he presses you deeper into the window. In response, Xavier’s thrusts slow to a near stop, his hand gently wrapping around the base of your throat. You whine in protest, desperately rolling your own hips backward against him, chasing the pleasure

His tender fingers stroke the sides of your neck, so softly and adoringly. It gives you whiplash when you see how dark his eyes have gotten, almost sinister.

Gripping you gently, he pulls you toward him by your neck until your head rests on his shoulder and you can really see the intensity of his shadowy azure eyes.

“Have you been working with the Onichynus leader?” he asks, his thrusts unbearably slow and shallow.

“Sylus?”

At that, Xavier snaps, his grip tightening and his pace quickening. Except it’s much more violent this time around–enough to have your body pounding into the glass and your head swimming with delirious ecstasy.

The sound of another man’s name on your tongue while his cock was nestled against your g-spot? That fueled Xavier with a jealousy that bordered on insanity.

“You did that on purpose,” he grunts unhappily against your ear. It’s nearly impossible to hear him over the sound of his pelvis pounding into your ass, the wet slaps resounding throughout the room.

“Mnngh…W-What did I do?” you ask, struggling to speak.

Xavier’s breath is heavy against your shoulder, his fingers abandoning your neck and instead cupping your jaw, turning your face towards him, so he can really look at you.

Wordlessly, he pulls your face to his, taking your lips into his–bruisingly and possessively. As his tongue claims every inch of your mouth, his cock does the same, filling you out so completely that you find it difficult to breathe.

“Do I need to be rougher?” Xavier grunts as he reluctantly pulls away from you, his lips shiny and cheeks flushed red. You squeak when his hand roughly cups your breast, kneading just how he knew you liked, but just a tad bit harder to make you scream.

“Do I need to remind you just how much you need me?”

He punctuates his words with a pointed thrust, his cockhead stroking roughly against your most sensitive spots.

“How much you need this?”

The intensity and passion in which Xavier takes you against the window is enough to render you a wordless, moaning mess. The glass is nice and cool against your burning skin, fogging up as Xavier presses you deeper into it.

He maneuvers your chin so that you’re facing the reflection again. He kisses your shoulder, deceptively tender, as he murmurs your name. The push and pull between tenderness and roughness confuses your brain, only making your body more receptive, more pliant, to him.

“Oh god—Xavier!” you moan unabashedly, your forehead falling forward to lean against the window. Xavier smiles, thoroughly pleased at the sound of his name leaving your beautiful lips.

But he was a greedy man and he wanted more.

“Look at me,” he commands gently, saying your name with so much conviction and possession that you're wracked with a violent shiver. He tilts your chin up again, so that you come face to face with him in the reflection, the city lights outside blurring. His fingers are soft against your skin, his grip demanding.

Xavier’s glassy cerulean eyes bore into yours through the reflection, misted with a dark and raw possession that you’d been seeing more and more of lately as Xavier opened his heart to you. A look that made your instincts tingle with the need to escape.

And yet your body only tightens with excitement, sucking Xavier further into you, wanting him harder–deeper.

But it’s still so effortlessly Xavier–pure and soft. It made your heart clench with adoration while your core tightened with desperation.

His intense eyes burn into your naked form, fingers forcing you to watch him, as he speaks again, “The next time you go to the N109 Zone, I’m coming too.”

You’re about to protest but Xavier cuts you off, “I know you’re perfectly capable. That’s not why.” His words come out shaky and soft as you get painfully tighter, inexplicably turned on by his possessive nature.

“If you’re going to be walking around the N109 zone with him, you’re going to do it with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You gasp, your stomach tightening at his filthy–completely serious–words. Xavier smiles into the mirrored window that’s now fogging up with your combined torrid breaths.

“Do you like the sound of that? It feels like you do, angel.”

Xavier glances at you again, looking absolutely ethereal with the city lights twinkling behind his reflection. But he’s starting to look just as disheveled as you, his blonde hair strewn messily, his pale cheeks dusted pink, beads of sweat trailing down his muscles.

As you get distracted in the way his burning cock literally reshapes your gummy walls around him, Xavier grabs a gentle fistful of your hair, forcing you to level with him.

“Tell me you want it, please.”

His commanding words are tinged with just an inkling of insecurity, his blue eyes nearly begging with yours through the damp glass.

You push yourself off the glass, leaning back against him, knees buckling when he gets deeper.

Xavier wraps a secure arm around your chest, holding you effortlessly in place. In this position, he buries his face into your shoulder, his eyes still peeking over, trained on you.

Laying your head back against him, you cradle the back of his head with your hand. Maintaining eye contact, you somehow find the coherence to appease him, knowing he’d go insane without your reassurance, no matter how ridiculous what he was asking was.

“W-Wan’ it Xav,” you moan through the force of his thrusts, “Anything you give me, anything you want.

Xavier noticeably falters, his breaths becoming alarmingly ragged, azure eyes darkening to a deep navy instead.

“Then, let’s start right now.”

zayne 黎深

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,120

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, marking + hickeys, improper evol use, dry humping, mentions of caleb, zayne on top, praising

Zayne wasn’t a jealous man.

At least that’s what you’d thought—what he’d made you and everyone who knew him believe.

He was wildly successful in his career, self-assured in himself, and secure in your relationship.

And yet, the way he was sucking bruises into every inch of your burning skin, with the clear intent to mark and claim–where everyone could see, said otherwise.

“Zayne—!” you cry out as he bites a particularly mind-numbing hickey into your collar, his skilled tongue soothing the sensitive skin as his teeth graze against the forming bruise.

“Hm?” is all he murmurs. But he doesn’t let you continue or clarify, because the next thing you know, he’s rolling his bare erection against your moist slit, purposely letting his own leaking tip rub against your throbbing bundle of nerves.

With your eyes squeezed shut in burning anticipation, you can’t see him, but you can hear the faint smirk in his voice.

“What is it, sweetheart?” his lips are suddenly at the skin under your ear, pressing soft kisses into the spot he plans to mark you next.

“You know what,” you whine, “Not so high up.” Even you can hear how half-hearted your plea is. You loved the rare occasion Zayne made it known exactly what he did to his favorite hunter, his most crucial patient, behind closed doors.

But you’d gotten so familiar with Zayne’s straight-edged professionalism that you were used to him leaving signs of himself on your body that only you’d be able to see. Areas that only the two of you would know he’d been. Where his lips had been.

“And why is that?” he chuckles, letting his lips ghost along your pulse, as if warning you what was to come if you didn’t plead your case.

You gasp when he grabs the base of his cock, purposely letting himself brush against your soaked entrance, but not letting himself enter–much to your dismay.

“H-Have to go to—ngh—go to Skyhaven tomorrow,” you whimper, “Meeting with Caleb and the F-Fleet to discuss Wanderer activity.”

Zayne pauses at your words, his entire body tensing ever so slightly as he presses himself forcefully into you, his muscles twitching against you.

Ah.

He collects himself instantly, his teeth nipping at your pulse in warning.

“Oh?” he says, as if he didn’t already know you’d be seeing Caleb tomorrow, likely having gotten your mission schedule from the Association. Doctors often had access to the files of all Hunters that were under their care.

“Even more reason to send you off with a few gifts for the Colonel.”

If his jealous possession didn’t turn you on so damn thoroughly you might’ve rolled your eyes and teased him. Tease him that he’d said the childhood rivalry between him and Caleb was one-sided. That he’d said he was above that petty jealousy.

But with Zayne’s cock wedged so tortuously between your legs, a burning path of love bites trailing from your neck to your breasts, his warm breath at your ear–you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but moan for more.

“You sound beautiful,” Zayne whispers thickly into your ear, before his lips descend and latch onto the soft skin above your nipple, “So perfect like this. Spread out for me, begging for more.”

He pulls away, a string of saliva connecting from his lips to your heaving chest, his mouth pulling into a faint smirk at the pretty little marks he’s left all over your soft skin. The sense of satisfaction he feels from watching your quivering form, chanting his name like a prayer. The satisfaction he got from knowing that he’d be the only one to see you like this, feel you like this. Now and forever.

The satisfaction from knowing that anyone who saw you would see exactly how thoroughly you belonged to him.

He shifts to give himself better access to you. To the spot between your legs that was reserved only for him.

Zayne positions himself, his tip at your aching entrance, his body coming down to hover over you, his face inches from yours. His eyes bore into yours, the gold flecks shining as he takes in your flushed features. His magnificent woman.

His fingers trace your jaw, carving an icy path down every beautiful mark, every searing claim. You yelp at the feeling of his Evol laced fingertips, body arching at the hypersensitivity of his frosty digits. But Zayne only presses you back down into the mattress.

“Tell me, love,” he whispers, his voice husky and gravelly with need, “Who’s the only one who gets to see you like this?”

Feeling rebellious, you refuse, “I’m not feeding into this ridiculous del–” You’re cut off by your own scream as Zayne’s fingertips close over your nipple, using his Evol to make his skin colder than it normally was. He repeats his demand, saying your name so tenderly–a stark contrast to his unforgiving touch that your body yearned for.

“Tell me.”

“Y-You!” you squeal as Zayne rolls your sensitive tip in his skillful torturous fingers.

“Who’s the only one who gets to hear you make these perfect little noises?” This time he punctuates his question by bringing his frozen fingers to your clit, pressing down, simultaneously holding your body down as it arches.

“Anngh–you. Only you! P-Please–!” you beg, not able to take the hypersensitivity, but not wanting him to pull away.

“So good for me,” Zayne murmurs, pressing his cock into you, just barely stretching you out, “And only me, right beautiful?”

Your eyes widen at the feeling of just his thick tip inside you. Your body arches, trying to receive more of him. He gently pushes you back down, his palm flat against your stomach.

You whine at his blatant denial, using your legs to try to trap his body against yours, pulling him closer so he had no choice but to push deeper.

“Oh g-god, yes!”

But Zayne remains steadfast, his strong muscled body unmoving. Instead, he gently grips your chin, bringing your eyes up to his.

“Say my name.”

Zayne thrusts shallowly, forcefully pulling the words from your lips and making you spill exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Nnngh–only yours, Zayne!” His name rolls off your tongue like music, earning you a low growl of approval from the man just barely inside you.

As if to reward you, he pushes himself fully inside of you, all the way to the hilt. He falls onto his elbows, rolling his hips with a passionate intensity that has you calling his name–over and over. With a torrid groan of your name, he desperately presses another blossoming bruise into your pulse. Right where everyone could see it.

“That’s right sweetheart. And everyone will know it.”

rafayel 祁煜

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,190

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, marking, spanking, kinda mentions of voyerism, raf on top but from the back, messy make out

You were a relatively flexible person.

By no means did you have the range of a gymnast or a professional dancer, but all things considered, you were decently limber for the average woman—dabbling in the occasional yoga and pilates.

But that did little to prepare you for the arch Rafayel was forcing you into, his hand gently gripping your hair for leverage, the other pushing you down lower.

He’d purposely put his massive ornate gold-rimmed mirror in front of his bed, forcing you to watch as he mounted you savagely from behind, his hips desperate to paint pretty flowering bruises into the plush of your ass.

Rafayel normally punished you with the silent treatment, or overt sass. But now?

He was punishing you with his insatiable body.

“You better not do that again,” the purple-haired artist groans from behind you, his voice much more demanding than you normally ever heard from him. His hips snap into you, your combined arousal dripping down the back of your thighs.

You can only moan back, every nerve end in your body burning with the pleasure delivered from Rafayel’s thick length inside of you, rendering you unable to think or speak clearly.

Unsatisfied with your lack of response, Rafayel tugs gently at your hair, forcing you to level with him in the reflection in the mirror. He looks devastatingly handsome, his purple wavy hair tousled, like he’d run his hair through it several times. His soft, blemish free, skin a beautiful shade of coral. The sapphire in his eyes eclipses the soft pinkish corals, as he gives into primitive instinct, making them nearly entirely blue.

“Tell me you won’t do that again.”

You whine, even in your cock-drunk state, you know exactly what he wants you to say.

Rafayel was just wrapping up a guest lecture circuit for the local universities, particularly their fine arts departments. He’d asked you to be his “assistant” to the last one, claiming he needed his precious bodyguard there if any of the students tried to kidnap him for ransom.

During a portrait exploration exercise, a student had asked you to model for his sketch. It seemed innocent enough, and you didn’t want to make Rafayel look bad by denying a student’s genuine request–being his guest on campus.

And apparently Rafayel did not like that.

“Raf–!” you rasp, doing your best to speak through the torrent of passionate thrusts, your broken voice barely audible over the lewd sounds of his skin slapping against yours.

“S-Slow down,” you whimper, unable to speak coherently, answer his demand, if he was fucking you this passionately.

“That’s not what I asked for, pretty girl,” Rafayel murmurs, his own voice nearly broken over how perfect your gummy walls convulse around him.

You squeal when he presses his palm harder down on the small over your back, making your ass arch even higher for him.

“You’re in no position to be making demands,” he pants, the hand in your hair abandoning your head to grab a fistful of your soft ass. He kneads it tenderly, eliciting a cry of pleasure from you, before releasing it.

Thwack!

Your eyes widen, a squeal erupting from your lips as Rafayel’s hand comes down to meet your rear in a harsh spank.

“Come on, baby,” he groans your name, halfway between a growl and a whine.

“W-Was jus’ a portrait sketch,” you reason, catching his heated gaze in the mirror. His perfectly arched eyebrow raises at you.

“You think I care?” Rafayel mutters, smacking your ass again, only this time it’s softer. Not punishing, but rather claiming. With the sole intent to mark you up. His.

“Unngh–you asked me t’come!” you slur, your entire body jolting with the force of his body pounding against yours.

“Yeah, to be my pretty little TA,” Rafayel protests, “Not someone else’s fucking inspiration!”

He slumps over you, forcing you deeper, his chest lightly pressed against your upper back, his lips pressed into your shoulder, nipping gently.

“Ngh–knew I should’ve kept you under my podium,” he grumbles, only half joking.

You give him a pointed look in the mirror, your face covered in sweaty strands of hair. Rafayel props himself above you with one arm, the other tenderly sweeping your hair out of your face. So he can see you properly.

You were his. Only his.

Even if it was just some unsuspecting university student.

Rafayel grabs your chin, turning your face so he can kiss you. You crane your neck towards him, letting him capture your lips aggressively, possessively.

It’s anything but a gentle tender kiss, but rather a dark claiming one. One where his tongue explores every inch of you, his teeth nipping your lips, swallowing your exquisite cries of pleasure.

When he pulls away, a string of saliva connects you to him. His fingers still gripping your chin, he turns you back to the mirror.

“You’re my muse. No one else gets to use you, innocent sketch or not.”

You nod submissively, inexplicably turned on by his jealous and possessive demeanor. Rafayel smiles at you through the reflection, a heated promise in his bi-colored eyes.

“Fuck—just like that, need to memorize every inch of you like this,” he moans, stroking your hair unbearably gently. As if he wasn’t rutting into you so viciously that his entire bed shook, the expensive wood legs of the frame scraping against the silk rug.

“You—mmmf—always say that,” you tease him, “Surprised you haven’t—ngh—haven’t created an entire map yet.”

Rafayel gives you an unamused look, his bottom lip jutting out in that adorable Rafayel grimace.

”A map? No,” he lowers himself back to your shoulder, letting his warm breath tickle your neck. He leans his head against yours, his hips rolling like the tides of the ocean. Except maybe during a tsunami.

He laughs when you nearly collapse, his angry tip hitting your g-spot. He catches you, hooking his arm under your stomach before you can lose that beautiful arch.

“Raf—!” you moan, “Can’t…Can’t take much more.”

“Easy, cutie,” he kisses your ear, slowing his movements much to your dismay. It stifles your impending orgasm, making you whine in frustration.

“D-Don’t tease Rafayel!”

He lets out a breathy laugh, giving you a single languid thrust before slowing again.

“Well I can’t have you tapping out juuuust yet,” he smiles into your neck, taking a deep inhale of your pheromones, the left side of his chest burns as your scent clouds his brain.

“I need more time, if I’m going to commit this image to memory,” he whispers predatorily into your ear, directing your face back to the massive mirror. The image reflected is so unbearably lewd.

Rafayel’s muscles ripple as he quite literally mounts you. You look so filthily undone beneath him, your skin flushed and shining with sweat, lips swollen and slick.

”Going to make a mural of you, exactly like this,” Rafayel grins wickedly, delighted by the way your eyes widen with horror, before rolling back into themselves. “Cheeks flushed, perfect ass up, hair disheveled…All for me.”

He gives you another gentle spank, your poor cheek reddened and marked.

“Think that will inspire him?”

caleb 夏以昼

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,417

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight improper evol use, mentions of zayne, against the wall sex, kinda leash use, caleb puts his dogtag in reader’s mouth, hickeys, brat taming

Against the setting sun, Caleb’s silver dog tag casts dancing flashes of light on the wall of his bedroom. Sunsets in Skyhaven have always been so much more magnificent. The floor to ceiling windows allow the waning sun to paint the entire room in a brilliant orange glow, the light bouncing off the necklace he never took off.

The necklace that was now swinging wildly against your own naked chest with the force of Caleb’s desperate, forceful movements.

”C-Caleb, o-oh god,” you cry, nails digging painfully into him, an angry trail of red welts already littering his muscled back. He hisses at the sting, but it only makes him more feral, his pelvis slamming so violently into yours that the wall behind you nearly tremors with his raw strength.

“Yeah? Finally being sensible, princess? Ready to be a good girl for me?” Caleb grins, his words lacking any real bite, balancing you in one hand as he moves your hair to one shoulder.

You whine in indignation, knowing exactly what brought about his sudden attitude.

A certain raven haired surgeon you both knew all too well.

It would be adorable if it wasn’t making him so damn animalistic right now. But who were you kidding—you loved it. Loved him like this.

“Y-You were in important Fleet briefings all day,” you pant through the moans, his cock spearing up into you as he holds you firmly to the wall.

He presses ravenous kisses to your jaw, his fist balling as it propped himself against the wall. “And? All you have to do is ask and I’ll have someone stand in for me.”

“You’re the Colonel–mmngh–you can’t just drop your duties every time I n-need someone to pick me up!”

“Fuck– so damn tight,” Caleb groans, leaning his forehead against yours as he ruts into you savagely, “and who says I can’t?”

There’s a childish and challenging lilt to his gravelly voice, squeezing your ass with his right hand, leaving flourishing bruises behind. If that arm couldn’t feel you, it’d sure as hell leave reminders he was there.

Your eyes roll back, from the pleasure or Caleb’s ridiculousness, you’re unsure.

“It was right next to the hospital,” you whine, squealing when Caleb takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling it gently between his teeth, “Mmngh–Zayne was a-already there!”

Caleb’s rhythm doesn’t falter for a second at the sound of that name rolling off your tongue. In fact, it seems to only make him more determined. More feral.

He holds your jaw in his fingers, his violet eyes glowing with a cautionary sparkle. The cool metal of his dog tag rattles against your bodies, pressed together and slick with sweat.

“I would’ve been there too. If you called me,” he murmurs petulantly, his face transforming into that classic wet-puppy face that Caleb so expertly used to get his way with you.

But the contrast of his adorable face to his downright filthy thrusts helps you stay clear-minded against his charms. Well, as clear-minded as you could be when he was being like this.

“Caleb, you’re being unrea—oh god!” you whimper, his fingers meanly pinching your clit, purposely trying to make you lose your train of thought, “U-Unreasonable!”

He pulls your chin to him, enveloping you in a feverish kiss, no doubt trying to get you to give in to his jealous little whims. When he pulls away, he tilts your chin up to look into the burning galaxy in his irises.

“You’re my girl. Call me next time, okay baby?” His tone, commanding–nearly a growl, betrays his deceptively sweet words.

You continue trying to reason with him, clawing desperately at the thick ropes of muscles in his back, “You w-were in Skyhaven! Would’ve been—angghh—been waiting for hours!”

Caleb presses warning kisses into your neck, his teeth nipping hard enough to leave marks. He takes one of your hands into his, intertwining your fingers slowly.

”Personal aircraft. Did you forget? Even after you rode me that one t–”

You whine in embarrassment, cutting him off with a poignant roll of your hips, “Ngh–Caleb! Y-You can't possibly fly a whole ass plane to Linkon every time Zayne tries to–”

Caleb interrupts your words with a growl, hips slowing down tortuously. His fingers wrap gently around your neck, his head tilted as he stares down at you.

“Really? You’re going to keep saying his name when you’re crying out for me? For this?”

To punctuate his lightly veiled threat, he ruts particularly viciously, your entire body sliding up the wall. He presses against you so tightly that you shudder, the cool metal of his necklace like ice against your singed skin. His hand brushes along your naval, where he can feel his cock hammering in and out. He presses down, eliciting a beautiful scream from you.

“God, you’re such a brat today,” he growls heatedly in your ear, his hand abandoning your stomach, threading with your fingers again. He raises your joined palms above your head, pushing them into the wall, giving him a bit more leverage as he tries to use his cock to make you forget anyone’s name but his.

Particularly that of your beloved doctor.

“I’m the brat?!” you say incredulously. He cuts you off, hammering until you can nearly feel him in your throat, but you don’t stop, “Y-You’re the brat! Still letting Zayne get under y–mmmf!”

Irritated at your unending talk of Zayne, his dog tag still swinging annoyingly with the force of his thrusts, Caleb cuts you off again. Using one hand to balance you, his free fingers place the tag of his bouncing silver necklace in between your lips. The cool metal brushes against your tongue and you whine as he squeezes your jaw, making it difficult to release it.

“Only name I want to hear from you is mine,” he murmurs, voice deceptively soft. He smirks when your eyes roll back, his tag still between your pouty lips. Something about the sight of you, his claim in your mouth, your eyes nearly white with the sheer force of pleasure only he can give you? It sends him dangerously close to losing all control.

Caleb’s fist slams into the wall next to your head, gasping out a string of expletives, his hips stuttering with the overwhelming emotions he feels when he looks at you. Taking a deep breath, he tries to collect himself, not quite ready to give you your release. His fist softens, stroking the chain of the necklace as it dangles from your mouth toward his chest.

“You gonna be good?” he coos your name, his smooth, heated voice doing little to betray how dangerously close he is to coming undone into your impossibly tight heat.

You give him a rebellious glare, your eyes saying no. You were this close to being cock drunk and giving in to enabling his possessive behavior, but you did your damned best to hold onto your pride.

Caleb chuckles darkly, freeing your chin which lets you drop the metal tag from between your teeth. He catches it in his fingertips, stroking the damp steel, his wordlessness feeling almost sinister.

You yelp when your neck is yanked towards him, close enough that you can feel his threatening breath against your lips, a dangerous glint in his eyebrow-shadowed eyes.

At first you think it’s his Evol, both his hands still occupied–one gripping the dog tag and the other gripping your ass. But at the slight sting at your nape, you realize you’d completely missed him slipping the gifted necklace over your neck. That he probably with his Evol.

And now he was using it like a leash, pulling you toward him like he owned you.

You gasp when he tilts his head, still gripping the necklace gently, your back slamming into the wall as he fucked into you with renewed vigor. He inhales your choked breath as his own, wanting to consume you entirely.

With his Evol, he holds you flush against the wall, using one hand to guide you with the pull of the silver jewelry, the other cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw.

“I hope you don’t have any more plans this weekend. Especially not with Zayne.”

His hand slides from your jaw to your neck again, squeezing in a way that has not only your throat constricting but also your cunt, in pure thrill.

“We’re going to be here until the only name you remember is mine. Now be a good girl and be quiet, yeah?”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

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kurooh · 3 months ago

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☆ US AFTER POUNDTOWN ! — JJK

⊹₊˚. what aftercare looks like with gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, fushiguro toji, & kamo choso.

warnings: 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, intimacy, cleanup, fluff, no graphic smut, pillowtalk, showering, brief discussions of pregnancy and kids. i needed to write this okay

GOJO SATORU.

silky pink ribbons slide off of satoru’s wrists, curling into themselves once they hit the bedsheets. he can’t help but watch you, more wide-eyed and teary than he should be, as you take each wrist between your fingers and rub gently. his skin is flushed where he’d been securely tied to the headboard, and it doesn’t hurt in the least, especially when compared to fights he’s been at the center of.

you hum, thumb kindly sweeping over his pulse point. “you okay, ‘toru? i know that went on a little longer than usual.”

you watch as he blinks, diamond eyes glassy with traces of euphoria. he’s still coming down, he realizes, when your words bounce around his brain after you speak them, echoing endlessly in the space.

“i’m okay, sweetheart,” satoru replies, feeling something in his chest begin to melt when you settle beside him on the bed. the air still smells faintly of sex, though the scent rides away on the breeze filtering in through an open window. it is almost completely dark in the bedroom, to make the strain on his eyes a little easier after a long day—he closes them, automatically wrapping a strong arm around you.

“there’s a new restaurant a few blocks down,” you begin, fingers reverently stroking over the curve of his side, “many of the reviews mention the dessert and sweet treats. it’s supposed to be good.”

fully nude, satoru curls against you, taking note of how easily you fit in beside him. like you were always meant to be here, something whispers in the back of his head. “heh, sounds like you’ve already vetted ‘em. i’ll take a day off next week and we can go.”

“you’re always so busy,” you tease, pulling him closer as though he might just slip away when you fall asleep. as you breathe, satoru feels the swell and sink of your back beneath his palm, and he considers maybe not going to work tomorrow. as if he could take days off on a whim—he might be the strongest in the jujutsu world, but he can’t even make his own choices. then, more quietly, you murmur, “i hope you aren’t overworking yourself too much, satoru.”

when he replies “‘m not,” reflexively, your body momentarily goes rigid, as if he wasn’t meant to hear you. before you can look up and refute him, satoru tugs you closer, making sure to sit his chin atop your shoulder. “really, angel, i’m okay. i can totally handle it.”

he totally can’t, even if he won’t admit it to himself. but satoru doesn’t want you to worry, get caught up with his issues during your day to day—this is simply what comes with the weight of ‘the strongest’ as his title. you huff like you don’t entirely believe him, although you don’t pull away.

“if i don’t pry any further, do you promise to sleep more than three hours tonight? and in this bed, not at work.”

you’re not even asking that much of him. if satoru can wipe out hundreds of curses in less than five minutes, he can definitely try to sleep until sunrise. at home. when there’s work to do. right?

he bites his lip, protesting weakly, “i don’t need to sleep, though, baby. i’ve also gotta get in early to deal with the first years.”

the coolness of sheets in an empty bed flashes through your head, and you decide to push, though there’s a tinge of selfishness behind it all. “please? you still need to rest and let your technique cool down.”

it’s not that difficult to convince satoru to stay after all, especially when he’s feeding off your body heat and you his. the bed does feel more comfortable than his office chair, and just as he comes to this realization, a headache has the nerve to come on, only persuading him further. slowly, like he’s submerging himself in a pool, his body begins to succumb to the comfort of the queen bed, the softness of your skin, the sweet smell of your body wash.

“fineeee. but only because you asked so nicely, angel.”

GETO SUGURU.

“i’ll get the water started for you, honey.”

so he does, turning on the faucet and letting the water heat up as it rushes through the pipes, then out of the shower head in a warm spray. from your seat on the toilet, you can’t help but feel a lovesick, fuzzy warmth building in your chest.

muscle ripples in suguru’s back as he carefully takes down his hair, undoing the band to allow the dark tresses to fall past his shoulders. his hair is impeccably taken care of—he lavishes it in only the best shampoos and conditioners every few days, his side of the shower almost overtaking your own. it’s made up of hair products and a few scented bars of soap, the way a shower should look. (not barren and home to a single bottle of two in one, two dove bars, and a dull razor, like satoru’s.)

when the glass door slides shut and suguru steps into the spray, you hear him exhale with relief. the toilet flushes and you stand, joining him in the shower.

“i’ll wash your hair,” you say, as if it’s second nature. though it seems simple on the surface, he’s allowing you to touch one of the most intimate parts of him—his scalp has only known his own hands, and yours, on the occasion that you help him wash it. “shampoo, please.”

suguru laughs, angling the shower head down so you don’t get too wet. shampoo is squirted into your extended, expectant palm and the ritual begins.

“are we taking more showers after sex specifically so i can wash your hair, suguru?”

there has been an increase in the amount of showers after sex. he’ll make a mess of you on the couch, drink some water afterward, and carry you to the bathroom like a princess to her chariot. you can’t quite place your finger on when, but you’d started washing his hair at some point during your baths.

“the curses really have been . . taking a toll on my arms,” he says cheekily, settling on that excuse just to hear you laugh, “perhaps i’ve been having difficulty reaching back and dealing with my hair.”

suguru’s got quite the mane, which anyone could surmise just from looking at him. but as wet hair slides through your fingers, you can see why he likes your help so much. you’re gentle with him, making sure to never yank on anything as you make your way through his hair. even the light sensation of your nails raking along his scalp relaxes him deeply, and all the tension in his shoulders bleeds out and washes down the drain, along with the suds.

“yeah, okay. if i mess up one of my arms, you’re outta luck.”

“we could take epsom baths together, so then you’d have no excuse.”

it’s endearing, the way he’s able to come up with a solution so quickly. you laugh again, light and airy in the thick steam, and suguru decides he never wants to leave this place.

“wash my back while the shampoo sits, sugu?” you ask, switching places with him to get your back thoroughly doused with water. white suds slip down his temples and he pushes back his hair from where it’s piled on top of his head, looking like a child’s sloppy sand castle on the beach.

“want me to pick the body wash this time?”

“that’s a trick question,” you say, eyes sparkling when you look at him, “you’re just going to choose peppermint vanilla like always.”

suguru already has the bottle in his grasp and is squeezing the wash out into his palm, but he still manages to look affronted. “no, i wouldn’t.”

you turn around, stepping out of the spray to playfully wiggle your ass at him. “i can barely smell it anymore, that’s how much you’ve worn it out.”

“it’s your smell,” he shrugs, shoulders rolling with the motion, “it’s your signature soap scent. you can always cover it up with perfume tomorrow anyway, it’s not that strong.”

“is that why you’re always sniffing me at night?”

you can hear him breathing you in when you’re cuddling at night? embarrassing! still, his eyes crinkle at the corners. “it’s comforting, so sue me.”

you sigh in relief when his hands coast over your skin, palms firmly pressing the soap into your back to both wash you and make the scent stick. a comfortable quiet settles between you, and he continues to lave your back with the wash, fingertips tracing the dents and lines of muscle.

it’s domestic, and entirely him.

he pauses, sputtering and gracelessly coughing on the water. “i’m sorry.”

you turn, helping him rinse the bubbles away from his face. “what’s wrong, sugu?”

“not to ruin the moment, but, well, i got soap in both my eyes.”

NANAMI KENTO.

“i can’t believe you made me breakfast, ken.”

kento returns to the bedroom with one of those lap trays made for eating at the couch, carrying a plate of fluffy waffles garnished with a colorful array of sweet berries. there’s even a full cup of syrup on the side to pour to your heart’s content.

he’s pulled on his boxers, the ones that are tight around his ass, and an apron with kiss the cook in calligraphic script embroidered across the front of it. a smile plays on his lips, the kind he wears when he’s biting back an ear-to-ear grin, and he takes a seat beside you. your excitement is something he thinks he’ll never get tired of. with a creak, the bed dips under the newly added weight, and you carefully slot the tray over your lap.

“how’d you know i was craving something sweet?”

“sweetheart, i know you,” kento shakes his head, laughing around the words. “go ahead and try them, i added something new.”

red blooms around the bite marks littered across his collarbone and around his chest, only becoming visible with his occasional shifts beside you. kento watches you eat with a distinct softness in his eyes, his heart swelling in his chest as your face lights up with every bite.

light and sweet as can be, the waffles burst with flavor, although a small tweak has been made to the recipe. maybe kento’s added finely chopped coconut or a few extra spoonfuls of sugar?

“you’re staring,” you point out, cheeks growing warm. his gaze is obviously lovesick, and strong enough to make you feel the littlest bit shy—a hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, and he looks away with a short chuckle. “we can share, ken.”

“that’s okay, honey. i had some while i was making them earlier. so, how do they taste? have you figured out the extra ingredient yet?”

“i’ve got no idea,” you reply after a large bite, setting the fork back on the tray before gently nudging it away. kento’s forearms flex as he lifts it, placing it on the bedside table for later.

he unties the apron and scoops you into his arms, pulling your giggling form close to his chest. “i decided to add more buttermilk.”

a warm kiss is pressed to the space beneath your ear. through your back, you can feel his heartbeat syncing up with your own—relaxed and content in the presence of one another.

“thank you for this morning,” kento whispers, adding, “was i too rough with you, angel?”

“perfect, ken. you almost put me back to sleep, though.”

you share a laugh with him, curling up in his warmth. kento’s fingers trace mindless, ticklish doodles into your side as he begins to slip further into a state of drowsiness. “i don’t like to make excuses, but i find it difficult to hold myself back with you.”

the admission isn’t inherently sexual, not in the way it’s said so delicately. kento is right, he does have difficulty holding back, but only because he’s so known. you’re essentially on the same wavelength, finishing his sentences for him before even he’s able to conjure up the word he’s looking for; you understand him wholly, in the kind of way that transcends the surface and physicality of it all. unspoken feelings make no difference—kento’s open like a book for only your eyes to pore over.

even now, in this embrace, it’s nearly impossible to tell where one body begins and the other ends.

“all mine?”

“all yours, ken. pinkie promise.”

“pinkie promise?” he sighs without exasperation, letting you loop your pinkie with his own. if this wasn’t something he was doing with you, kento would be the first to ask something like isn’t this a bit childish? but this isn’t like making an agreement with gojo; this is a promise he wholeheartedly intends to fulfill. after all, what would he be if he wasn’t yours?

“pinkie promise.”

FUSHIGURO TOJI.

“on your stomach.”

you turn back to throw him an incredulous look, eyebrows drawing together in surprise. “more? toji, i thought you—”

he scoffs, rolling his eyes and motioning toward the couch cushions. “yes, ya heard me. on your stomach, doll. don’t make me ask again.”

“don’t make me ask again,” you mimic him, flopping forward onto your belly as requested. it’s odd that toji’s even vying for more when he’s the one who tapped out first, panting so hard he could barely form a sentence of explanation beyond a few muttered words.

instead of positioning himself at your ass, toji remains sitting beside you, though he turns to press his hands into your upper back. faint as can be, the scent of lavender curls in the air as the worship begins—toji’s suddenly a professional at effleurage, palms circling upward near your shoulder blades.

slow and firm, his hands seem to iron out any aches that may have taken root there. lotion spans almost the entirety of your upper back, serving as both moisturizer and lubrication for the easy glide of skin against skin.

“really, toji?” you ask, lips curling up in amusement, “you wanted to give me a back massage?”

you completely expect him to retort something sassy and annoying, maybe even call you a damn brat or start torture tickling you. instead, toji’s voice rumbles low and meaningful from his chest. “had ya laid out on your back for a while, and on the couch, no less. jus’ wanted to make sure you’d be able to sleep comfortably tonight.”

toji’s answer does something that it never has before. it shuts you up, and at the same time, makes heat rush to your cheeks. embarrassment and a particular fondness, of all things, stir in your chest at his thoughtfulness. you haven’t messed around on the couch in many months, and yet he still remembers the small, almost unnoticeable hunch of your back after getting up last time.

he laughs at you, feeling proud to have finally ‘won’ all the bantering.

“didn’t expect that, huh?” toji pauses, fingertips lightly dragging down the planes of your back. before he even speaks, you can already hear the smirk in his voice. “anyway, i wish ya could see how pretty you look right now.”

“you can’t even see my face, toji.”

a huff escapes him, and he makes sure to dig his fingers in, just so he can hear you squeal in both laughter and pain. “just can’t take a compliment, huh? you’re such a brat, swear to god.”

“your brat,” you remind him cheerfully, feeling his hands slide to the middle of your back. “as much as i’m enjoying this, i wouldn’t mind taking care of you, baby.”

he snorts. you’re calling him baby like he isn’t 6’3 and nearly 200 pounds of muscle—but there’s something endearing about the idea of being taken care of too. toji actually . . . wouldn’t mind it.

“oh yeah? and what do ya plan to do to me?”

you hum thoughtfully, turning your head around to fix him with a playful look. “i’d turn on one of the movies i’ve been telling you we need to watch and then scratch your back so you wouldn’t get up in the middle of it.”

“this better not be about—”

before he can begin trashing on your favorite movie, the one he hasn’t watched yet, you bulldoze right over him. “as the movie starts, i’d be whispering sweet nothings into your ear.”

“wouldn’t that just make me bend ya over? kinda defeats the purpose of aftercare, doll.”

“the key word is sweet, toji,” even with your clarification, he still looks a little lost, making the same confused face he does when shiu cracks a sly joke at his expense in front of you. “sit down and i’ll show you what i’m talking about.”

the comforting pressure on your back lets up, and for a split second, you almost wish you hadn’t suggested to demonstrate. toji sits down, remote looking dwarfed in his closed palm, and smirks expectantly, like there’s something funny to say. “i was just thinking. what if all the aftercare turns me into a spoiled brat?”

you scoff as he turns on the tv, settling on your knees behind him. “we can’t both be spoiled brats, toji.”

KAMO CHOSO.

“did i hurt you?” is the first thing to come out out of choso’s mouth when you finally return to yourself, a few crystalline tears starting to dry on your cheeks. you hadn’t quite noticed them during the pandemonium, too wrapped up in the overwhelming sensations of sex to focus on something so unimportant. but now, there’s a warm stinging that you trace to your neck—where he’d been biting and sucking the most in the moments before orgasm.

“‘s okay, cho. i’m okay, just tired now,” you laugh breathlessly, watching the worry drain out of his face, “i’ve gotta get up and wipe off, or i’ll end up getting pregnant.”

choso’s eyes are shining. “our kids would be so pretty, all ‘cause of you.”

you sit up on your elbows, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. this is the same look you give him every time he mentions it, and not wanting to nag you too much, he remembers himself. “okay, i know. have to wait more than five years first, i got it,” with the mildest degree of resignation making its way through his huffed words, choso slips off of the bed and pads toward the bathroom.

shortly after, he returns with a damp washcloth and settles on his knees between your thighs. even in the low light, his movements are perpetually delicate and skillful, a direct result of his understanding of your body, built through touch. with the way he’s comfortably wiping cum off your inner thighs, it’s hard to believe that choso had once been so awkward he’d stalked off mid-sex to let out a few tears of embarrassment.

“it’s not too hot, is it?” he checks in, more worried than he should be. it isn’t difficult to imagine him as a father, gasping as your child toddles around recklessly, jumping off of the couch and into his awaiting arms. he’s the type to always come to the rescue, no matter what.

“no, it’s just right,” you murmur, feeling the sweep of the lukewarm washcloth at the top of your thigh. “no need to be so concerned, choso. i trust you, baby.”

pink blooms in the apples of his cheeks at your words, just as it always does whenever you pay him an innocent compliment. he takes comfort in your relaxed sigh, folding the washcloth into itself and setting it on the bedside table before sliding himself up to lay his head on your chest. “you need to stop indulging me so much,” he groans when your fingers slip into his hair, combing gently though the dark strands, “keep up the ‘put a baby in me’ and i might actually do it.”

choso feels his entire face burn once he repeats a line that’s supposed to be yours, a shudder rippling through his body when a memory from earlier flashes behind his eyes.

“i know, cho,” you hum, nails lightly raking against his scalp in your odyssey through his hair. it’s painfully intimate, and impossibly soothing for him—he could say just about anything to you, even confess something deep and dark without the usual constraints of your daily routine. this is just you and him, simple and naked.

then you giggle, “but i also know how crazy it makes you.”

it does make him more wild than it should, the idea of getting you pregnant and then the concept of raising the baby itself. choso pauses meaningfully before he answers you, letting his eyes close. “maybe something’s fundamentally wrong with me.”

a gooey hybrid of affection and sadness races through your veins upon hearing his words. it’s hard to say something—even anything at all—when you know just a little about his struggle being half-human, half-curse. choso is constantly feeling guilty about taking the easier path in life as a human, wondering if someone like him could possibly deserve something greater than himself to love and care for.

it’s quiet now, save for the steady hum of the fan and sweep of your fingers through his hair, loose and languid. “sorry,” choso exhales softly, tilting his face to the side, “i didn’t mean to become so negative.”

“there isn’t a thing wrong with you, choso. i know you’re wanting a family of your own, and i don’t disagree with that in the slightest. i see a future with you, but there’s no shame in taking it slow, is there? we aren’t even engaged yet, baby.”

“engaged?” he echoes quizzically, voice low.

“it’s when two people agree to get married in the future after a proposal with a ring,” it’s hard not to smile at the thought of the two people being you and him, even though choso’s baring his soul to you right now, raw and all himself. he hugs you tighter, arms straining as if he’s trying to prevent you from slipping away. “don’t worry, cho. we both still have a lot to learn.”

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sinkuna · 2 months ago

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୨୧ — Nanami’s uneven footsteps shuffle against the wooden floors, his tie already slung over his shoulder, dress shirt wrinkled. He toes off his shoes with a clumsy thud, muffling a hiccup as he shrugs off his crumpled suit jacket. The bed dips as he kneels behind you, his warmth seeping through the thin sheet fabric before he stills- breath held, as if afraid to wake you.

"Mm... there you are," he slurs softly, calloused fingers brushing aside your hair so that he can press feather light kisses to the curve of your shoulder, "Missed... hic… missed your warmth." breath reeking of bourbon.

"Couldn't... hic... stop thinking 'bout you," a trail of saliva glistening as he licks up your spine, teeth scraping the nape of your neck. His hips grind sloppily into your ass, slacks straining against the swell of his cock, "Just... needed t'feel you. That okay?… 'S been... too long."

You stir slightly with a sleepy murmur, but he shushes you with a nose nuzzled into your hair, "Shh, I-let me... let me just..." A shaky exhale fans across your ear as he continues to grind gently against you, "Mmph, always feels... so good, m’ my perfect little wife."

With trembling fingers, Nanami undoes his belt with clumsy haste, the metal buckle clattering to the floor, a hiss escaping his clenched teeth as he pushes down his slacks. His bare cock nestles between the swell of your ass, hot and twitching and slick with beads of pre cum drooling from his tip.

"Please," he groans, a desperate note in his voice, "I- hic- need to-"

He gasps as his bare cock nudges against your already damp underwear, the fabric catching on the swollen head. "Hah-fuck," he curses, hands sliding down your sides to squeeze at your hips, pulling them back until they're flush with his own, "So wet- so wet for me, dear."

His hands tremble as they slide down your thighs, hooking his thumb under the elastic waistband and pulling them aside, "Can't wait, 'm sorry, I need-" He cuts himself off with a soft whine, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick folds.

Snapping his hips forward, your drunk loving husband buries himself inside of you with a choked moan, his hands squeezing tightly, "Shit- you're so hot and-hic-t-tight." His head hangs over your shoulder as his cock throbs inside of you, twitching and spasming at the sudden heat, his breaths stuttering.

It's slow. Aching. Each shallow thrust accompanied by broken whispers against your skin-"So good... like this. Wanna... wanna hold you." His hips stutter, alcohol making him clumsy, but his hands stay gentle, adoring as they map the expanse of your body, his lips trailing across every inch of skin he can reach. "Love you- love you s'much. Never-mmm, never letting go, I- I swear it," his voice cracks, his pace quickening, desperation bleeding into his movements.

His rhythm fractures- a stuttering, vulnerable push as he bottoms out. You could feel it in your sleep- in your dreams where your mind showed your hardworking husband fucking a child into you- the first tremor through his thighs, the choked "Nngh—!" vibrating against your shoulder blade. Then the pulse before a flood of warmth spills into your fertile womb.

"K-Kento~," you sigh, a dreamy smile spreading across your lips.

He groans out your name, half sobbing, hips grinding in tiny circles as if to coax every last drop before collapsing against you, "My... my love... right here." His wedding band glints in the moonlight, sticky with proof. "Always... always here… always ‘gonna come… home to you..."

By morning you’re curled in his embrace, his tie knotted loosely around your joined hands.

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

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presepohne · 22 days ago

Text

Husband!John Price x Wife!Reader

cw: nsfw, minors dni, 18+ | John Price himself is the trigger warning. choking, p in the v, buff arms, made her recite her wedding vows because the reader was being a brat, married man and filthy married man John Price. 1.15k words

note: you need to know how much i need an older man and that older man needs to be JOHNATHAN PRICE. RAWR. also I'm bad at marriage vows :(

You have been on it for a while. Maybe more than a while.

John is sitting adjacent to you, evening you as you huff and puff around, slamming drawers, aggressively chopping the vegetables for dinner, and snapping at him any moment he even breathed near your direction.

And it has been bothering him a lot. His sweet wife, always calm and composed, easy going most of the time— here, acting as a brat around the house. Almost breaking his favourite mug as you slam it on the counter to pour him some tea.

He cocks and eyebrow at you, as if saying You gonna drop that attitude?

He also knows the reason why you were acting such, as silly as it may be. You had asked him to come back home on time. Asked politely that morning, as every morning you did— with a kiss on his lips and a murmur against them; Be back soon today? Please.

And he did say Sure love, I will.

But he didn't. His excuse was a valid one, got stuck in traffic.

It didn't get a reaction out of you simultaneously, but there were after effects and he was very certain at this point you were acting like a brat on purpose. Brushing off his touches, muttering curses on him, slapping his hands away.

The audacity.

You were pushing him again.

Snapping back. Eye-rolling. Throwing out half-serious insults with that scowl that said, What are you gonna do about it, Captain?

He’d already warned you once.

But now?

Now you've crossed the line.

“I hate you, John. You’re a selfish, arrogant bastard who only knows how to give orders. If I wanted to be married to a dictator, I would’ve signed up for the bloody military myself.”

He stood there for a moment, eyeing you. The silence lingered long enough.

You felt the shift before you saw it.

He was across the room in three strides. You barely had time to gasp before his body was on yours, heavy and hot, pinning you to the counter.

“Oh, is that right?” he said, voice calm—too calm—as his knee forced your legs apart, his forearm sliding up to press firmly across your throat. Not cutting off your breath entirely. Just enough to remind you who the fuck you belonged to.

“You hate me so much you wear my ring to bed?” he murmured, glancing at your hand crushed against the sheets.

You arched up, defiant.

“I don’t wear it for you.”

“Oh, love,” he rasped, tightening the pressure slightly. “You wear it so you don’t forget.”

You struggled—not because you wanted him off—but because you wanted to feel how much stronger he was. How easy it was for him to break you down without even trying.

He dipped lower, lips brushing your ear. “You wanna mouth off, brat? Fine. You’re gonna earn every bloody second of this.”

You squirmed under him, half-laughing through the tight grip around your neck.

“Can’t even talk, John,” you whispered, voice strangled and teasing. “How the fuck am I supposed to mouth off now?”

That earned you a low, dangerous chuckle. “Then I’ll make it easy for you.”

His free hand curled into your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat even more. You were breathless now—but not from fear.

“Your vows,” he growled. “All of them. From the top. Or I won't let go.”

Your eyes met his—dilated, dark, daring. You were burning alive under the weight of him. You wanted to spit something bratty, something cruel—

But your throat clenched when his free hand pushed down the waistband of your panties. You hadn't realised yet, but you were dripping, cunt exposed to the cool air as a defiant pout made its way to your face.

“No”

You meant to be a brat, really. You wanted to piss him off as bad as he had angered you, you wanted to get to his head and fry his nerves away with your mouth and actions. Act like some immature kid just to get him all riled up.

Now you think that might have been the greatest idea because your husband, John Price has never looked so good and so worked up because of you. And certainly turned on because of your behaviour.

His hands unbuckled his belt, a forearm still choking you. You squirm as he increases the pressure slightly. Patience brat, he snaps. He unbuckled his belt, languidly and helped his semi hardened cock out.

Rubbing the tip on your entrance as he pushed in slowly making you whine, Not fast enough. You try to push your hips back at him but he has one leg between yours and you pinned to the counter.

You whimpered.

“Come on brat, speak up” he grunted, the pink head of his tip stick rubbing against your folds to gather all the slick before he pushes in, “Come one don't make this hard for yourself baby girl, just obey” he huffed, softly pushing in and then pulling out again, leaving you empty.

“John please—” you whine, wiggling your hips again. He chuckles before pushing himself in you in one string thrust and pulls back out again, expect the tip, “Come on sweet thing, don't make it hard for both of us”

And you obeyed, nodding with a moan as he pushed in.

Through gasps, half-choked, you whispered them.

“I… I choose you.”

The pressure didn’t lift, his other hands now rubbing your clit in slow circles.

“I… follow you. Trust you.”

Still nothing. He keeps himself inside, deep as you can feel him— he hums praising you a little, urging you to say more.

You reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt like a white flag.

“I love you. Even when I hate you. Even when I wish I didn’t. Even when it hurts.”

Finally—finally—his grip eased, his hand replacing his forearm, rough fingers stroking the flushed skin of your throat. He looked down at you with something like pride. Or possession. He pulls back his hips and snaps softly, a slow rhythm. Nothing close to satisfaction between your legs and in your belly.

“No more of that hate talk, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “You don’t hate me. You just want me to remind you.” He chuckles, increasing pace as his forearms tighten again, making you go lightheaded.

His thrusts are relentless, making you gasp and claw at his shirt. Mouth slack open as you gurgle on your spit and beg with sweet whines and please of John please please please. But to a certain extent, the brat in you still there reveals itself.

Your lips trembled.

“Remind me again tomorrow,” you whispered, lips curling faintly followed by a moan.

That grin—the dangerous one—came back.

“Oh, I will.”

#cod modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod smut #captain price #captain john price #john price x reader #john price #cod john price #cod price #price smut #john price smut #presepohne-writes

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starryeyed-apple · 28 days ago

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subby, pussy drunk caleb overstimulating you

For most your life, you always trailed behind Caleb, his little shadow. But he always looked back at you, always asked you where you wanted to go.

Letting you lead the way was an instinct that blossomed into a beautiful dynamic in this new stage of your relationship. Him, longing for you to direct him in whatever way you wanted. You, guiding him gently with all your love and affection.

Still, you would have never guessed just how far his thirst for your guidance went.

Sometimes the reality of it hits you, all at once and all too much in one singular, awestruck moment. Your sweet, loyal, bright-eyed Caleb—the man you'd always known, always loved better than anyone—now nestled between your legs, flushed face buried in your cunt as if it's the home he's always been seeking. Reduced to a drooling, whimpering mess as he devours every drop of you.

Sunset eyes glaze over and droop shut. His lips are swollen and wet, drenched in his spit and the evidence of just how many times he can make you cum.

Your release drips down his chin whenever he pulls back for a gasp. His half-lidded gaze flutters up to your blissed-out face when he dives back in, moaning in time with each thrust of his tongue inside you.

The familiar whine of his name from your lips, coated now in a wanton need only he'd ever hear, drives him even more insane. Each tug of your fingers through the sweaty strands of hair at the nape of his neck gets him even more pussy drunk, grinding into the mattress from just the taste of you.

Caleb's right hand fists into your bed sheets, cloth tearing between the strength hidden in those fingers. His other fingers skirt along your inner thigh as he grips at it, keeping you spread open along with the steady thrum of his Evol.

“Caleb,” you whimper, tugging harder at his hair, the sweet bite of pain dragging a moan from deep within his throat. “I—I can’t—”

“Just one more, huh?” he pants his desperation into your soaked cunt, eyes wide and pleading while his fingers trace up your thigh to join his tongue in your folds. He slowly scissors those callused digits into your wet heat, and moans when your walls flutter in eager response around them. “Please, please, just one more. I’ve been so good, pips, haven’t I? Haven’t I, baby?”

You’re pretty sure you’re just as gone as him at this point, nothing but adoration and praise in the stroke of your shaking hand against his blushing red, freckled cheek.

“One more,” you whisper with a nod, already feeling the impossibility of another orgasm creeping up on you when he sucks your clit back into his mouth, flicking his tongue around it along with the upwards curl of his fingers inside you. “One more, baby. Just—oh, fuck! So good for me, Caleb, so fucking good…”

The bed rocks under his mindless humps into the mattress, and you lose yourself to the sounds of his mewling and desperate suckling of your cunt until he makes you cum again—and again, and again, because you know very well it won’t just be one more.

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb smut #caleb x reader smut #caleb x mc #lads caleb #love and deepspace #lads fanfic #lads x reader #lads caleb x reader #caleb xia #lads caleb smut #lads caleb x you #caleb lads #love and deepspace caleb #first smut I've written in uhhh #over a year apparently #so im throwing this out here and running in the other direction

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rafeovermorals · 2 months ago

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overstimulating joel until he cums. again.

content: oral (m receiving), joel is 61 and has a hard time keeping up with his much younger girlfriends sex drive, use of daddy, slight dubcon

a/n: this is how im choosing to cope with this scene, okay? i can’t help that he looks hot as fuck.

joel was too worn out to move.

chest heaving, mouth quivering, all he could do was lay there and watch you take from him.

you were such a greedy lil’ thing, one round was never enough. so eager and needy. always wanting more, like you wouldn’t last a day without his cock.

he kept up with you as best as he could for a man his age, making sure to stay in shape so he that maintained his stamina, but it only got him so far.

it was a guilty reminder— he was old. you were young. nothin’ he could change about that. he already ran through the small supply of viagra he was able to get ahold of weeks ago, which left him at your mercy.

even after a long day of patrol he came home and fucked you every night, just like you wanted. what was left of his energy he thrusted deep into your cunt with his seed to prove it, giving you a kiss on the cheek before pulling out and turning onto his back to go to sleep.

it had been a while since you went down on him. he didn’t have much control on when or how often he got hard, so when he was he used those moments inside of you.

except joel didn’t realize how much you missed him in your mouth, so badly that you needed it.

as he rolled off of you to his side of the bed, you noticed how his cock was flushed— coated with your juices and his cum. he was softening but stayed big, thick in girth with graying hairs at the base.

he didn’t have the chance to recover before you had his cock in your hand, sitting on your knees and holding him straight as you licked the shaft.

“baby… what’re y’doin?” he asked timidly, still attempting to control his breaths from cumming just a minute or two prior. you simply responded with a hum, looking up at him through your lashes as you swirled your tongue— tasting yourself on him.

you placed a kiss on his tip, his cock reacting with a throb that pulsed in your grasp. “alright, that’s enough.” he spoke low, a quavering warning for you to stop— but his tone lacked in confidence.

“let me have this, daddy.” as if he had a choice.

you took him into your mouth, lips curling around his cock as you watched his face twist from the sensation.

fucking hell, you were going to be the death of him.

he clenched his jaw, teeth grinding while he tried to hold himself back— hold you back. he pushed at your head, attempting to shove you with what little control he had left, but you didn’t budge. you only went further, inching his cock deeper down your throat. he was forced into submission.

joel was so sensitive that he whined from the mix of pain and pleasure, the line blurring the more you swallowed him. “i don’t have anythin’ left in me, honey... gave you of it already.” he told you slow, his voice trembling.

you moaned in defiance, mouth stuffed full of his length. you brought a free hand to his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze which made him nearly whimper. you pull away, spit dribbling from the corners of your lip. “can feel that you still got some in here, just gotta get it out, daddy. it’ll feel so much better.”

he clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as you continued to suck him— bobbing at a teasing speed while you massaged the rest of his length at the same time. he twitched his hips, his body defying his words.

it felt so good that it was hurting him. your throat was beginning to burn due to lack of recent experience, but you were determined for it.

“just couldn’t wait, huh? so cock drunk that y’had to use your old man like this, knowin’ im vulnerable?” you nodded, that familiar ache in your core returning.

he was thinking of all the ways to punish you once you were done— ready to spank you until you cried, maybe edge you if he was feeling mean. he would find a way to make you pay.

joel was determined to give you one more load since you went through all of this to get it. he couldn’t disappoint his girl.

he was so numb that he couldn’t even feel himself getting ready to cum, his eyes glossy and in a state of haze at the sight of you drooling on his thighs.

the warm, soft flesh of your cheeks hollowing in on him brought him to his release, spilling hot, creamy ropes on the pad of your tongue. whenever you thought he was done it didn’t stop— drops still leaking out after you finished.

“better lick me dry honey. since you wanted it so damn bad.”

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller drabble #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #old!joel miller

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syoddeye · 3 months ago

Text

meet your match

price x f!reader | 10k | AO3

cw: dubcon, explicit sexual content, praise kink, daddy kink (mentioned), breeding kink, john price wife-hunting/wife at first sight, perfectionist/workaholic/lonely reader, stalking, manipulation

John spots the ad as he punches a pin through his card.

It’s impossible to miss.

Bright red hearts, pink-and-white checkered borders on glossy paper someone paid extra to print. A heart-shaped tack centered perfectly along the top edge. Big looping letters—MEET YOUR MATCH SPEED DATING.

It looks absurd next to his card. A dull rectangle of plain cardstock, his name printed in clean, unembellished letters, ‘John Price - Handyman’, and his number below. No bright colors, no flourishes. Simple like the work. Honest. Keeps his hands occupied between deployments.

The disgust arrives on a delay, a spark traveling along powder. A twist in his gut, a curl of his lip. His eyes rolling hard in his skull. It’s an affront—not just to him, but to the very idea of how things are supposed to go.

He yanks a trolley free, muttering under his breath.

Who in their right mind would waste time like that? Spinning around, talking to strangers, volleying shallow questions, forcing laughter. Acting like most people don’t make up their minds in the first thirty seconds about whether or not they want someone in their bed.

The whole affair reeks.

He shoulder-checks another man in power tools, too distracted by the voices of his sergeants drifting uninvited through his head, summoned by all his grousing.

Stubborn, cantankerous Price. Twice-divorced, stuck in a year-long dry spell because he’s got a habit of scaring off any decent woman who strays into his orbit. The mean old bastard who always moans about the good ol’ days—when men met women face-to-face, not through some app where you swiped left or right like you were picking out a meal deal.

When he could pick them up right off the street, like the first Mrs. Price. Or the supermarket, like her successor.

The memories leave a bittersweet taste. An ache in his groin. It’s been a minute since he took a girl home. Since he tried.

Through the shelves, the poster shines like a fucking beacon.

He breathes sharply through his nose, shakes it off, and shoves deeper into the store.

He never should’ve looked at the bloody thing.

Four fingers’ worth of amber sloshing around in his belly, he swallows the burn of embarrassment with another glass. Lets it dull his better judgment. The tips of his ears red hot as he punches his bank card into the online checkout, grumbling some half-formed excuse to himself.

The confirmation email arrives in seconds. He ignores it.

He spends the week installing cabinetry, letting the scream of a circular saw drown out his thoughts. Shovels dirt over it when he lays a garden path for a neighbor one afternoon, determined to bury it one stone at a time. Tamping it down along with the dirt, out of sight, out of mind.

But then the reminder lands in his inbox, bright and cheery. Evidence of his lapse in judgment. His mood sours, dragging him into the muck like a boot caught in deep, clinging mud. He knows he ought to ignore it again, chalk it up to a stupid mistake, but—

An itch flares on the back of his ring finger. He scratches it raw, but there’s no relief.

On the night of, he drives white-knuckled to the next town over, pulling into the car park twenty minutes early. He leans against his door, cigar in hand, smoke curling into the cold air as others arrive.

Most of them come in groups, chattering and laughing, familiar. He jumps from one face to the next, cataloging. His finger rests on an invisible trigger, caught between decisions—go in and see what the fuss is about, or make a quick retreat, head home, and catch some pretty face’s stream instead.

Then, a small cluster of girls passes by, giggling behind manicured hands, casting sidelong glances that scream daddy issues. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, watching over the glowing cherry of his cigar.

Whether or not he, by some miracle, finds a match tonight, there’s always the potential for a consolation prize.

As soon as he slaps a name tag onto his chest and scans the crowd, it’s obvious—he’s one of the older men present. Hell, scratch that, he might be the oldest by a fair stretch.

The younger bucks don’t spare him a second glance, too busy puffing out their chests, checking the competition among themselves. The women, though, they’re more forgiving. A few give him passing looks, flickers of intrigue as they clock him standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching.

John knows what he looks like. North of forty, gray threading through his temples, a soft layer of fat settling over the muscle beneath. Dressed sensibly, nothing flashy. Not like the men peacocking around in too-tight shirts, drowning themselves in cologne, preening. He’s here, and that’s about the extent of his effort.

And then the first round begins. He sits across from the first girl, and the second her eyes widen—not in the way he’d like—he knows exactly what kind of night this is going to be.

It proceeds as expected.

The fascination with his years, the curiosity. What’s a man like you doing at something like this? The inevitable prying. Married before? Twice? Oh, well, then. Or worse, the giddy birds, buzzing in their seats with smiles that say, yes, he is the answer to some life-long wound, a stand-in for the attention they never got from their fathers.

Then there are the unbearably shy ones, pulling teeth just to get a full sentence out before the round is called. Good girls. Decent girls. Girls who stare at him as if he’s about to vault the table and sink his teeth into their throats.

Which is absurd.

He’s a war dog. He prefers a bit of fight. Skin in the game. Make it worth his while, tucker him out.

By the end of it, his card is full, but he’s unimpressed.

His knees and back ache from all the repetitious standing and sitting, moving from seat to seat like some wind-up toy. His jaw is sore from clenching, his temples pulsing from two hours of forced patience. Hands itching for a smoke. It’s nothing like sitting and waiting for a clean shot. That always results in at least a job well done. A mission accomplished. This? A lousy scorecard and a couple of numbers he won’t call from girls who don’t have a clue what they’re looking for?

He’s out of his fucking mind for even bothering.

It’s demeaning.

The organizer flicks on the mic, sending a screech of feedback through the speakers, and he rips the name tag from his chest, teeth grinding. He didn’t listen the first time—only a fucking moron would need the rules explained twice. He’s already angling toward the door, ready to make his exit, when he sees you.

The evening turns on its head.

The last hour wiped clean with a look.

Bright red hearts dangle from your ears. A matching necklace rests at the hollow of your throat. A pink-and-white checkered clipboard sits on your hip, a matching pen twirling absently in your fingers. Chipped crimson varnish on your thumb, like you’ve been peeling it off. Chewing, maybe.

Glittery boots lend you height. Shoulders squared, posture straight. Doing your best to exude confidence.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

You prattle on. Platitudes, mostly. How engaged everyone looked in their conversations, a playful quip about how some already seem like goddamn lovebirds. Your voice lilts with charm, a smidge warbly. You must’ve given this speech a hundred times before. Then comes the boasting.

Your agency’s success rate. The numbers, the percentages. How many second and third dates attendees report back. How you’ve helped introduce hundreds of couples. There’s pride in it. Your eyes brighten. But it’s a veneer. Thin as lace.

He sees it. The beads of sweat gathering at your hairline, the faint sheen behind your ear, the subtle tremor in your voice when you get too caught up in your own enthusiasm. A broken-off giggle. The occasional tap of your fingers against the edge of that clipboard, a tic, a tell. You’ve got the confidence, but it’s over-rehearsed. As much of an accessory as the ornament wrapped around your neck.

And he can’t help but wonder.

What would you do if someone called your bluff? If he found you after? Stepped in close, trapped you against one of those god awful stiff-backed chairs, close enough that you felt the weight of him hovering? What would you do if he gave you his honest opinion about your ‘work’, face-to-face?

His mind spins on it for half a second before you say something that derails him completely.

Babies.

It lands like a stone dropped in a pond. Ripples outward in nervous laughter, uncertain shuffling. The younger attendees shift on their feet, casting shy, uncertain glances at each other. You fumble through it, quick and awkward, as if you’ve only realized the present demographics aren’t quite ready for the stork.

He hopes it’s an exaggeration. An offhand comment, a bone tossed out for the older guests in the room.

(Him, because who else fits the bill?)

His blood runs hot at that.

Something stirs in his gut, rising insistent and uncoiling in his chest. A want he thought he’d discounted out years ago, snuffed like a match between his fingers. Delayed by his climb through the ranks and waylaid by fizzling romance.

Children.

Can one ever really bury an instinct like that deep enough?

His own father soured him on the notion—spiteful, unforgiving, malignant tumor of a man. Impossible standards, an intolerance to match. A rage John inherited, honed, funneled into the one bloody release he found in service. An ugliness that made him swear off continuing the line.

Still, something funny holds him back. That itch.

He’s canceled every vasectomy he’s ever scheduled in the last decade. Reversible or not, it’s intoxicating to know what he’s capable of.

With you wandering into the crosshairs, it clicks into place. He understands.

He swallows, jaw clenching, and forces himself to look at your face instead of the hollow of your throat, where that ridiculous necklace rests. Forces himself to focus on what you’re saying instead of the shape of your mouth as you say it.

A-ffirmed. He’s out of his fucking mind for coming here.

He tells himself he won’t hunt you down afterward.

No. You’re insulated. Shielded by a flock of hens who swarm the second you return the microphone back to its stand, all clucking approval, dishing out compliments, asking their inane questions about your services. You nod, smile, say your thanks, gracious and warm, and it’s exactly the excuse he needs to leave.

He should leave.

Instead, he declines to give your colleague his scorecard, stuffing the useless sheet into his pocket without so much as a second look-over. He chews the inside of his cheek, locked on you. Takes what he tells himself will be his last look. Prints you on the inside of his eyelids.

Then he sees your hand.

A short stack of business cards, matching the damned poster that started this whole ridiculous mess. He moves before he can think better of it.

Crosses the hall in a handful of long strides. The younger women scatter in his wake, parted by his low, muttered pardon me’s.

And you, you—

Eyes wide, lips parting around a breath, half a sentence, “Here, sir,” before he plucks a card from your fingers.

Then he’s gone.

Straight out the door. Across the car park. Sliding into the driver’s seat, his pulse thundering in his ears, his hand already reaching for the glove compartment. Lighter. Cigarette. Routine to steady himself. Busy his hands so he doesn’t barge right back inside and drag you out behind him. Fire to distract the caveman clawing at his brain.

He doesn’t look at your card right away, not until the first drag burns through his lungs.

It’s just as garish as the poster. Wine-red lettering. Your name. The dating agency you work for. Your number.

And if that isn’t convenient.

That’s half the battle won.

He should call. Go through the proper channels, hire you for your services like any decent man would. But there’d be no way to lie about what he’s really looking for and what he really wants.

He can’t be too direct, can’t risk scaring you off, but he also can’t leave it up to chance. Experience—and two spousal payments—have taught him better than that.

He won’t make the same mistake a third time.

John does his research.

Your online presence is threadbare, limited to a short bio on the agency website and a sparsely populated profile on a corporate network. Matchmaker, professional hostess. He scrolls, picks apart the scraps. Posts you’ve written and shared, abbreviated comments you embellish with hearts.

Little as he has to study with, it adds up.

You’re all work, no play. Polite, sweet, and a real go-getter, as a former colleague describes you. All butterflies and whiskers on kittens. Sugar-coated professionalism. Your accomplishments and certifications laid out like medals, ambitions clear. Ruthless, in your own way, but the kind with puppy teeth, growing into your bite, he’d bet.

He saw you struggle and the nerves you tried to hide. Maybe others bought it, but he didn’t. If that’s where you are after years on the job, he imagines what you were like in the beginning. Easily rattled, unsteady on your feet.

Still. You’re trying. Look where you are now. Go-getter.

The effort and determination, however clumsy, fascinates. It keeps him searching for a glimpse beneath the polished exterior, but there’s nothing. Not a single mention of friends, family, or, notably, a boyfriend.

It makes his teeth ache.

He needs more.

A hideous, modern building. The very opposite of you—cold, plain, and impersonal. Expensive, not without amenities. His favorite?

The floor-to-ceiling windows.

Blessedly, you are a creature of routine.

Home to work, and work to home. A seamless loop, unbroken save for brief, reasonable deviations. Trips to the shops, a walk through the park near your flat, a community gym. Even then, there’s no idle wandering or wasted time.

Sometimes, when you duck into the market, you emerge with a bouquet of flowers, petals and leaves wrapped in crinkled brown paper, or a bottle of wine, its slender neck peeking out. Small indulgences you buy yourself.

Because there’s no one else to do it for you.

He’s all but confirmed it, watching you ferry yourself between the same points, alone every time. No one welcomes you home. No one goes home to you. Big, lofty place like yours and no one to share it with.

It doesn’t sit right with him, on two fronts.

The first—you pride yourself on your expertise. The training, the certificates, the metrics. It’s all laid out online, your badges of honor, but you’re missing the biggest one, aren’t you? Lacking firsthand knowledge. Quite the albatross hanging around your neck.

The second—it’s self-flagellation, needless and punishing. Pretty, smart thing like you, locking yourself away. A princess banishing herself to a tower. The persistent, cynical part of him wonders if it’s simple snobbery. That you think you’re too good for men like him.

Yet that’s not quite it either, is it?

You shut yourself off from everyone.

Twice in one week, from his spot in the mouth of the alley outside your office, he hears you decline invitations for drinks from your colleagues. The same excuse, too much to do, and a pat to the stuffed tote slung over your shoulder.

You work hard, pour yourself into the gig, and when you manage to unwind, it’s always in isolation. A quiet dinner, a solo glass of wine, a book balanced on the arm of your couch. Those big yoga stretches in the morning and at bed time.

The thought solidifies into certainty: You need someone to step in. Someone who sees you.

Luckily for you, John does.

(You never pull those shades down all the way. A fancy place like yours? It’d be a shame to keep them covered, lose the view.)

Satisfied he’s learned all he can from a distance, John decides to meet you properly, on familiar ground. A lonely, overworked girl deserves at least that much. He isn’t cruel.

Buying another ticket to another fucking night of pointless dating doesn’t taste so bad when he has you to look forward to.

This time, it’s in the back room of a restaurant. Smaller, intimate.

Perfect.

John glides through the song and dance. Sign in, take the name tag, acknowledge your coworker, let them believe he’s another hopeful looking for love.

He is, in a way. Different from the last time. He strides with purpose now, heat-seeking. He sidesteps the idle chatter and growing crowd.

Eyes on the prize, and there you are.

As primped and polished as the first night, dressed in soft colors that contrast the tension strung tight in your shoulders pulled up to your ears. Just as on edge, if not more.

That damn clipboard is back on your hip, clutched like a lifeline, and it takes less than a second for his mind to replace it. A warm weight settled against you. Small hands grasping at fabric. A dark-haired child perched, fingers curled in your blouse.

His throat tightens.

You really shouldn’t have mentioned babies.

You move through the space in a current, pulled in every direction at once. Checking in with your coworker, refusing to delegate. Pointing guests toward the toilets, fielding messages on your phone, juggling it all with a thin smile.

It’s admirable.

Nevertheless, hairline cracks form. The light dulls in your eyes, the stress shakes your hands. You’re tired, and not the kind he wants to see on you.

Not the delicious, drowsy fatigue of a body thoroughly spent, melted into the mattress after he’s wrung you dry. Not the half-hearted whimper of a protest as you nuzzle into his chest, mumbling about your ruined makeup staining pillowcases and how it’s his fault. Not the slow, syrupy exhaustion of pleasure that makes you pliant and warm in his arms. The kind of fatigue that leaves you soft, content. His.

Nor the bone-deep weariness of a woman woken in the middle of the night, cradling—

He blinks, biting down on the thought, and suddenly, you’re within reach.

“Oh, hi again,” you chirp, passing a scorecard into his hand. “You came a couple of weeks ago, right?”

That ugly impulse rises within him again, the desire to drag you away outside and make your problems disappear. “I did.”

“Thought so. Well, good luck,” you check his name tag with a smile. “John. Hope you find someone tonight.”

If only you knew.

“One question, if you don’t mind,” he says, barely keeping his face neutral. “Ever find your own match at one of these?”

Your eyes widen with an almost comical look of confusion. “Excuse me?”

John doesn’t lower his head but instead stares right down his nose. “No ring on your finger,” he muses. “Boyfriend too scared to step up?”

“I–I’m not–”

“Don’t tell me,” he chuckles under his breath, “Miss Matchmaker is single?”

John tucks his chin to his chest and watches your pulse jump under your necklace. “Now that,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “is interesting.”

You freeze like you’ve been caught in a lie. Here you are, a professional playing cupid to the lovesick masses, and yet you’re fumbling. Single.

To your credit, you recover quickly, wetting your lips and pasting on a smile. “I don’t see how my personal life is relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” he insists. “Handin’ out happy endings left and right, and you don’t have your own? How am I s’posed to believe your expertise?”

A line creases your brows. “My job isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? You sell love for a living, but you don’t believe in it enough to keep it for yourself?”

“That’s not—I do not sell love…” You stop yourself, sucking in a breath. “I’m focusing on my career.”

“Right. Too busy pairing up strangers to find someone of your own.”

You bristle, shifting your weight, trying to hold your ground.

He likes that. Likes knowing he’s getting to you, pressing into a tender spot. Chipping away at the outer, painted shell.

Before you muster a response, he breaks into a warm laugh to play up the angle. “Only teasin’.” More like testing, sussing out how much give there is until you crack open and spill. “Well,” he pockets his hands, “guess that means you’re up for grabs, huh?” He winks. “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

He leaves you stuttering, clipboard clutched to your chest.

The night is a blur. He couldn’t name a single woman he spoke to. Unlike last time, his sheet is empty. No scores. If any woman sees it as a loss, he wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t care.

John steps out for air until more bodies trickle out, and then returns inside. He skirts the edges, poking around the tables at the far end where you’re collecting placards, setting the scene.

In his periphery, he sees the moment you realize you’re on a collision course.

“Lose something?”

Fuck, your voice. Your normal voice, not the chirpy affect you slap on for work. Even if there’s a new wariness to it.

“Think I managed to misplace my card.”

Your eyes widen, darting over the tables you cleared. A good and helpful girl, ignoring that little voice in your head.

“Oh no, I’ll help you look. Do you remember what table you ended on?”

He grins. “That’s kind of you, darl.”

He peeks as you check beneath tables, bending and huffing in frustration when you come up empty-handed. The apologetic smile when you finally admit defeat.

“I guess it’s long gone,” you say reluctantly.

John lays it on thick. Shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment, crumpling the sheet hidden in his jacket into a tight ball. “That’s too bad. What a wash.” A wistful sigh. “And you put on such a lovely event, too.”

The conflicted delight on your face is delicious.

“I’m so sorry.” you murmur. “Let me comp you a ticket to another event. I can’t let you go home empty-handed.”

What a turn of phrase.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. You took time out of your schedule–”

“Grab a drink with me instead.” He interrupts smoothly. “Lift my spirits.”

You hesitate, before shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“A friendly drink?” he teases. “Where’s the harm in that?”

Not like you have a boyfriend to make jealous.

“It’s just, I ought to get this stuff back.” You nod toward the neat stack of placards, the tote overflowing with the event’s paraphernalia. “Calculate the scores, check compatibility…”

“Can’t your colleague do that for you?” he presses. “Think you deserve a drink for a job well done,” he adds, watching the way you react to the compliment, soaking it in like it’s the first kind word you’ve heard all day. “I saw you working hard all night. Busy girl, eh?”

Indecision shines behind your curled lashes. The gears turn in real-time, weighing the consequences of saying yes.

His nails puncture the paper in his pocket when you flash yet another sorry smile.

“I’m flattered,” you say, ever so gracious, “but I really can’t. I’ll send that free ticket to your email.”

The dismissal lands like a slap. Indignation sprints across his mind with disbelief snapping at its heels. You don’t give him a chance to tell you where to send that email instead, just the brush-off, slipping away before he can get a word in edgewise. Choler floods the chambers of his heart, draws a bit of blood.

Well, there’s that bit of fight he wanted.

You don’t look back, and he doesn’t blame you. You must feel the weight of his stare between your shoulder blades, on the curve of your ass. You whisper to your coworker, gesturing for their help with you.

His jaw flexes, fingers uncurling from the shredded card in his pocket.

That’s alright.

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t have a backup plan?

The moment unfolds as if coincidence.

John times his approach as you exit the florist, fingers idly stroking the petals of the bouquet in your arms, the same tulips you buy every week. He pictures doing the same to you.

He moves as you step onto the pavement. The collision is gentle, considering, but hard enough that his shoulder clips yours to knock your balance. Enough that you let out a startled gasp, grip faltering, sending the bouquet tumbling from your hands and bag jerking down your arm.

“Shit,” he mutters, crouching before you can. He gathers the flowers, offering them back with a small, sheepish smile. “Didn’t see you there, love. My fault—Wait.”

He tilts his head, narrows his eyes like he’s only just putting it together. Like he didn’t spend the morning in your shadow to ensure this exact moment.

Your attention jumps up to him in pure surprise.

“I know you. Miss Matchmaker.”

Recognition washes over your face, and in the span of a breath, confusion gives way to composure. It’s impressive how quickly you smooth it over, tucking away irritation.

“John?”

“You remember me.”

How could she not?

“Of course,” You take the flowers, clutching them tight. Never without a shield. “What a, um, small world.”

John huffs a short laugh, rocking back on his heels. “‘Fraid so.” He lets the silence stretch, drinking you in. You’re too poised to flinch outright, but he’s trained to catch it anyway. Fingers crinkling the paper, chin tipping a fraction higher.

You’re dressed for errands, wrapped in a trench that frustrates more than it should. He knows what’s beneath—having committed the curve of your waist to memory, the shape of your hips. It’s irritating, really.

Still, he likes the look of you like this. Definitely the type to never step outside without making yourself presentable. The type to live by the mantra you never know who you might run into. Collar turned up against the chill, hair styled meticulously away from your face, not hiding that guarded expression. You’re assessing him the same.

Good.

No catching you on the back foot today, not without a push.

“Draw up any matches since last we met?”

You exhale a short, amused breath. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

He grins. “Ah, right. Can’t have the matchmaker giving away her secrets.”

“Yep. Sorry again about your missing card and, um…” You trail off, and John fills in the blank. The rejection. Your insult is forgotten. Water under the bridge, as far as he’s concerned. “I hope you come next time. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Don’t think you’ll see me there again.”

“No?”

“Don’t think speed dating’s for me.”

You nod knowingly, and hike your bag higher onto your shoulder. “It isn’t for everyone. Some people prefer or have better luck meeting the old-fashioned way.” You lift your wrist and check your watch, the impatient thing that you are. Eager to get home to the hour or two of work you needlessly do every Sunday evening. You start to pull away, already checking out. “Well, I better–”

He steps forward, boxing you in toward the wall.

“Like this?”

Your brow knits, mouth pressing into an unsure smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Polite and strained. You glance at the busy walk, weighing whether it’s worth stepping around or if that would be too rude.

“Like ‘this’? I don’t–”

“Two people, running into each other by chance.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. Smile lapsing, dropping in and out. Curiosity buried beneath skepticism.

“John…”

He likes how his name sounds on your lips. He wonders how it’d sound under other circumstances.

“Have dinner with me.”

You blink and shrink back, though there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” He doesn’t let your words land. He leans into them. No retreat. Not when the unseen thread fixing the two of you together tugs on the knuckle of his ring finger.

You adjust your grip on the bouquet. “I don’t date clients.”

“Haven’t hired you for anything, have I?” He tilts his head, innocent.

“A technicality.”

“But not untrue.” He cocks a brow. “One dinner. No strings. If you decide halfway through you’d rather be anywhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Another beat of hesitation. He’s patient. He knows how this works.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. One dinner.”

John smiles. “That’s all I ask.”

For now.

In the days leading to dinner, there’s not enough work to fill his hands.

Certainly not enough to fill his mind.

His thoughts, however, are consumed by you. Maddening how much of his attention you command, how the brief moments shared echo in his mind long after. A constant reverberation, shaping his thoughts, making him imagine another life. Branches reality in two—one without you, unthinkable, and the other?

A home. A two-storey house with a garden. Kids. Maybe a dog. A do-over. His childhood, but through the looking glass and done right.

A life he’s determined to see the latter into fruition.

There’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

He assembles an outdoor playset for a young family. Decent-sized house and lot. Not unlike the one he sees behind his eyelids. The little ones badger him with questions, tug at his sleeves, chatter away as he carefully fits the wooden frame together and hangs the swings. It’s good practice, what with his plans.

When their mother pops outside to offer water, she compliments his aptitude with children. His patience. Assumes he must have a brood of his own, and he doesn’t correct her. It’s in the works.

Her nails are red, like yours, but perfectly maintained. Despite the slight bags under her eyes, there’s a lightness to her smile that tells him she’s exactly where she wants to be.

And when she steps away to take a call, he imagines you in her stead. Having it all—a home, a family. He’ll give it to you.

She disappears inside. Her children shriek with laughter, and he wipes the sweat from his brow.

Yes. You, standing in the threshold, tea mug warming your hands. Watching a runt or two running wild, belly low with another. Your nails painted that same cherry tint. Chipped, but perfect.

The restaurant’s host recognizes him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t recognize you. How would he?

You’re younger than your predecessors, for one. Smiling, for another. Not on John’s arm as a captive for one of his fruitless, belated apologies. Nor are you clearly hostage to obligation, for a tired anniversary ritual, a repetition of mistakes. No. You’re here as someone new, a departure. John’s future.

He erases the other man’s disapproval with a banknote slipped into his palm. The coward keeps his lips sealed, ushering you to the table you deserve.

Price, party of two.

Maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating a party of three.

If you’re upset over the server’s harmless assumptions about the two of you celebrating a special occasion, you hide it behind the menu. After ordering, you’re forced to relinquish it. Nothing left to hide behind.

The scrape of your finger over your thumbnail betrays agitation. A nervous habit he’ll break after the engagement. Can’t wear his ring without a flawless set.

He doesn’t want to change you. Not much. Not beyond what warrants influence.

As the conversation unfolds—your preferred wine, the rhythm of your day, the idle pleasantries—he studies. His first unobstructed view. No more staring across a crowded room or through your window from his car. Up close and personal.

You are everything he wants. Intelligent, pretty, industrious, and amenable. A woman made to be adored.

A wonder you deprive yourself of it.

John’s old hand at extracting information. There’s little difference between threats, praise, and encouragement. The right pressure and tone—all surface some truth. He’s practiced on plenty of folks with everything to lose.

But this? Far more delicate. High stakes.

And for all your sugar-spun sweetness and girlish, heart-strewn wardrobe, you are no easy conquest. You play coy. Meet his questions with half-answers, sidestep when you can, parry when you can’t. You know you’re being led, but not quite where.

Puppy teeth, but the same sensibility—you don’t know when to give up and roll over.

All the more proof you need him around.

It’s cute when you try to go dutch on the bill, flustering all over again when the server informs you John’s already paid. Damn near insulting, isn’t it? To be taken care of. That insistence on covering yourself, as if you can’t afford even the notion of dependency. A lifetime of self-sufficiency turned reflex.

You don’t know what to do when someone else takes the reins, and does a good job.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Not after he’s played the perfect gentleman. Holding the door. Pulling out your chair. Helping you in and out of your coat. Adamant on following through with escorting you home.

You made him meet at the restaurant. A necessary concession at the time, but a bruise nonetheless.

He acts surprised when he parks outside your building. Compliments the structure, neighborhood, all that. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands tucked into his pockets. Casual, as if he hasn’t plotted out how he’d get you inside.

You tiptoe around a goodbye. Promising.

The nerve comes, eventually.

“Were you…?”

He tilts his head, feigning mild curiosity. “Was I what?”

You square your shoulders in that trumped-up confidence. “Coming up?”

He lets the question hang for a beat longer than necessary to let you hear yourself.

This is a surprise. You pushed back on the date, but here you are asking him up. Lonely, needy creature. You’re probably wet.

Briefly, he reconsiders crowding you into the lift and watching that wide-eyed surprise melt. Years of stratagem hold him in place. The long con is always the smarter play.

“Oh, darl,” he murmurs, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am flattered.”

He injects enough warmth seep into his voice to make the rejection sting without cutting deep. “I was only teasing earlier,” he adds, a playful glint in his eyes, the perfect balance between charm and rebuke. “Think we ought to get to know each other better before that, don’t you?”

The shift is immediate. Your face falls. A flicker of surprise, a flash of embarrassment that you rush to mask with a nervous laugh, waving your hand as if physically brushing it off. That confidence of yours really is paper-thin. Fragile. So easy to poke and prod. Moldable.

“Ah, of course. I didn’t mean—”

No, but you did, and that’s the beauty of it. You want to mean it. You don’t know how to ask for what you want yet. Another lesson to teach.

“Don’t fret,” he soothes, taking a step closer, fingers finding your chin, featherlight, guiding it back. “How about a kiss goodnight instead, hm?” He taps the divot of your chin. “Tide you over until next time?”

He tastes your perfume first, having caught hints of it all night. Now it’s stronger, heady as you lift your chin. He waits until your eyelids flutter shut before leaning in, smelling burnt sugar before he samples it.

John knows indulgence best through cigars and smoke rolling over his tongue. But you? You cut through what that’s dulled, brighter. Red wine, velvet and ripe, staining the sweetness like crushed cherries. It’s Herculean, the effort to not change his mind and hustle you indoors. His mouth presses more firmly, and for one dizzying moment, he imagines the taste of your skin—licking sugar out of the bowl.

You try to get closer, but he cuts it off.

Your lips are wet, trembling when he pulls back, and you wear shame—white-hot and burning. In disbelief that you asked, aren’t you? What has gotten into you?

“Oh, I got lipstick on your mouth, let me–”

“Leave it.”

He pulls over once on the drive home, rummaging through the glove compartment to wipe the smear of your lipstick from his mouth. The sight of the red stain sends a pulse of heat straight down. You’d lose your head if you saw him now, he thinks, flicking open his belt in the dark. What you do to him.

He barely gets a good tug in before he ruins that stain, tasting sugar in the back of his throat.

Home in bed, he pulls up the headshot from your agency’s website and dips a hand under his waistband again.

Just something to tide him over.

You wait a standard three days to text. He calls instead.

You sound breathless, which makes sense. Now’s about the time you leave the gym.

“I’m scoping out a potential venue,” you explain, rushed, coming down from whatever routine you finished. He pictures it. Tight leggings, top clinging to sweaty skin, earbuds half-pulled out because you’re walking home alone. “I was thinking you could help?”

“Help? What do you need me for?”

“The atmosphere’s different when I’m alone. I don’t get a good sense if a space is conducive to dates.”

You’re asking him to play along. To be part of your world. Giving him another opening.

He smiles, unseen but satisfied. “Right. What am I getting out of this?”

There’s a short laugh on the other end, meant to cover your nerves. “Dinner,” you offer. “And the opportunity to let me know how you really felt about our services.”

Clever girl. Keeping it professional and leaving yourself an out.

“How could I refuse?”

The restaurant is a hole in the wall. He’d’ve never found it on his own. A perfect setting, but not for what you said. Testing the atmosphere. John knows better.

You’re staring through the menu, picking your thumb.

“Would it help if I set a timer and moved to the next table in five minutes?”

Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fidgeting, sweetheart.”

You pull your hand away like you’ve been caught, setting it flat on the table.

“Nervous?”

A quiet admission. “Maybe.”

“Don’t date much, do you?”

Your spine straightens. “I told you, I’m focused on my career.”

“Mm.” John hums, leaning back. “Not a judgment, sweetheart. Just an observation. I merely find it interesting. You run speed dating. Introduce people. Help them make connections…”

“I’m good at it,” you murmur, a shield being drawn up.

“Never said you weren’t. Simply curious why someone so good at helping others find their person hasn’t found one of her own. Especially when she’s a catch.”

You don’t answer, not right away. But you don’t look away, either.

Good girl. Let him in.

The silence goes taut. Then, a sigh, and you lift your eyes again. There’s something different in them now. A crack in that carefully maintained composure. Vulnerability.

“I used to date a lot, actually. I had bad luck with men, though.”

John’s thighs flex under the table, hot and hungry pulse running through him. Finally. Finally, some answers.

“Tell me about them.”

It’s not a question. An invitation. One you’re teetering on the edge of accepting. Curiosity wins out in the end. You bite.

“There were…a few. Nothing serious. Not for lack of trying.” You confess, embarrassed. “I attract the wrong kinds of men.”

Funny. “What kind of wrong?”

“A flake,” you start, bitter. “Canceled more dates than he showed up for. I stopped bothering after a while.”

One.

“A man-child. Wanted a girlfriend who was more like his mother. Expected me to cook, clean, take care of everything while he played video games.”

Two.

“A cheapskate.” A hollow laugh escapes. “Took me out on a ‘fancy’ date and made me pay after he ‘forgot’ his wallet. On my birthday.”

Three.

“And…” Your throat works around the last one. The worst one. “A cheater. Slept with one of my friends. I walked in on them.”

Four.

Your four horsemen of the dating apocalypse.

John’s jaw clenches, though he schools his features. He can’t have you seeing what that information really does to him. Can’t let you know how badly it makes him want to hunt them down and fix it.

On top of it all, you tack on how they made you swear off dating for a year. Which turned into two, then three.

“Three years?”

You bite your lip, insecurity crossing your face. “Is that…bad?”

Three years. Three years of no one waiting on you, no one to spoil you. An empty flat, and, he assumes, a cold bed.

“Not at all. Only been on a few dates in the last year, myself.” ‘Date’ is a strong term for tossing part of his pay at pretty girls on screen for a chat. “Is that what this is, then? A date? Could’ve sworn I was here to help scope out the space.”

“No, I–I did ask you here to help with the venue, John. That’s all. Really.” A lie that twists you into knots, wrings your hands, fiddles with your necklace. It’s short-lived. “I suppose, if you want, it can be a date.” The words come out shy, testing the waters. “But so we’re clear, I’m not looking for anything serious, alright? I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Another lie. A thousand nights alone? You’re ready.

He smirks. “Well. Regardless, y’know how to make a man feel wanted, sweetheart.”

And if that doesn’t make you preen.

The conversation shifts when dinner arrives, treading into gentler waters. John alludes to his job, a morsel, and you, sweet girl that you are, don’t press for more. Content to gnaw on the bones he offers, easy details meant to keep those puppy teeth of yours busy. His parents. Where he’s from. How he wasn’t much of a student. How he worked under the table as a kitchen porter at a golf club until he joined up.

It works better than the wine, softening you bit by bit. The prick who poked at your insecurities earlier? He’s dissolving into someone else entirely. Someone you’re trying to figure out. Someone you might even like.

Your eyes linger longer when he speaks now. Your smile turns natural, less forced. You lean in when he talks, hanging on his words.

John knows exactly what he’s doing, feeding you enough to keep you intrigued, to have you looking at him through softer eyes. Because if you’re trying to piece him together, trying to understand him—you’re already invested. That’s how he’ll get you.

One crumb at a time.

It’s necessary groundwork. Sooner or later, details’ll come out. After all, you’re going to marry him. Certain things will have to be—

“Any, um…notable girlfriends? Since I told you about my four awful exes.”

Innocent. Fair. It still puts him on edge.

A big test for both of you. He told himself he’d lie weeks back. A fabrication to allow him to censor the truth and leave his past behind. See if he couldn’t get out of his payments and wash his hands completely of his ex-wives, call in a couple favors, push papers.

Yet now, now that you’ve bared your heart to him like a good and honest girl, he suppose it’s only right to tell the truth.

That’s not the plan, though.

He’ll phone a few names tomorrow. Get started on the paperwork.

“No one worth mentioning.”

The rest of the evening is easygoing from there. You remain relaxed, the earlier stiffness gone, but you’re still holding back. You let him toy with one of your rings for a few seconds before pulling away. Your feet bump under the table, and you tuck yours beneath your chair. Your eye contact’s better, but you find reasons to look away.

You’re resisting what’s building between you. He can see it clear as day. For one simple reason, John bets.

You don’t believe in love. Don’t trust it, at least.

Not anymore. Maybe you did once, back when it was uncomplicated, hadn’t soured in your mouth, and burned you down into the frazzled woman he’s observed. Before it became studied instead of felt. A series of points and calculated risks, a numbers game that you understand better than most. An expert on what works for everyone else but never quite trusting enough to let it work for you.

It’s why you throw yourself into your work. Why you obsess over climbing a ladder built on the successful couplings of others, measuring fulfillment in repeat dates and engagement announcements. If you can’t have it for yourself, at least you can manufacture it for someone else.

The problem is, he does believe in love.

He’s just never been any good at it.

It’s one of the few things he’s never let go of, even if he’s never known how to hold it properly. He’s always been better at destruction than construction—an arsonist, never an architect. He sets the foundation only to strike the match and burn it to the ground. That’s why his ex-wives only speak of him through intermediaries. That’s why his relationships have been more like wrecking balls than anything resembling stability.

It’s why he throws himself into his work.

It’s why you’re perfect for him, even if you fuss about it and tell yourself otherwise. Insist you want nothing serious to do with men again.

He knows better. Knows that under all that steel and sugar, there’s a heart that wants and aches, no matter how stubbornly you try to deny it.

This time, you surprise him. The dinner is pre-expensed on a company card. The grief that stirs with his ego ends smothered by the victorious look on your face when he pockets his wallet.

It makes you bold.

You suggest a pub a street over for afters, and he lets you lead. Men shrink away on the walk with him beside you, a hand on the small of your back.

The tables are smaller here, giving your legs nowhere to go when he spreads his underneath and cages them in.

Another round comes. Time slips by. The noise of the pub hums in the background, but his focus never wavers. With every sip, the distance narrows.

Inevitably, the conversation returns to speed dating and its apparent science. You try to stick to your principles. Too bad he has years of experience in bending those. It doesn’t take much more prodding.

“I can’t tell you what your dates said, word for word.”

“Then summarize.”

“You were…” You vacillate, searching. “Largely described as, um, curt, reserved, and distracted.”

Not inaccurate. He’s had worse appraisals and assessments.

He chuckles. “Must’ve had my eye on someone already.”

“Oh?” you say, trying for nonchalance, but it falls flat, hovering awkwardly in the air.

John shifts, stretching his legs out and closing them back into your space like he owns it—owns you.

God, you are so close. Skirting his reach.

You’ve reached a critical juncture. Make or break. Two dates, that’s all it takes, isn’t it? Two dates, and life itself stretches out with endless possibilities. Weeks of wanting have led to this. All the work he’s put in to get you here, to this goddamn table, where he can almost taste what could be.

His ring on your finger. His baby on your hip. Your own success story.

No one’s ever gotten anywhere worth going without a push. Without a nudge to take that last step and get over that line they’ve drawn for themselves.

John licks his lip. “Think you know who, sweetheart.”

It will take time, he realizes on the way to yours, to fully tear down the walls you’ve built around yourself. He feels it in the tentative kiss you place on the corner of his mouth at your building’s door, and again in the lift.

He’s no stranger to controlled demolition. This time, he won’t half-ass it. No more mistakes or half-hearted efforts. Third time’s the charm, and he’s ready to make sure of it.

Whatever backsliding occurs between the pub and your front door, he erases mouth-first. For a split second, he catches that flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the subtle hesitation that says you’re not sure whether you should give in, but he doesn’t give you the luxury of doubt. You’re here. He’s here. It’s inevitable.

With both of you starved for something—anything—there’s no room for second-guessing. The barren years of your dry spells? Tinder, piled high.

Between fervent kisses, he steals glances at your place, cataloging details. Every corner of your world is his to explore now, but the bedroom is the prize. The view is better here, inside. No longer looking up at some unreachable, untouchable version of you from the outside. He has access now. Control. It’s a quiet triumph that settles in his chest, a thrill he can’t quite suppress. It seeps into his touch, his hands finding the hem of your dress, claiming inch after inch as if he’s laying claim to the territory he’s finally breached.

All it took was a little patience—and a hell of a lot of persistence.

John pushes you until your legs hit the bed, hands dimpling into your hips, half-tucked under your dress. He tugs at the fabric. “Want to take this off f’me, baby?”

“Yeah, okay…”

While your view is obscured by the dress, his eyes roam your bedroom. It’s exactly as he imagined—sophisticated and cozy with shades of rose, peach, and marigold. A collection of framed photos on the bureau he’ll study tomorrow. On your nightstand, a tray with jewelry and lipstick tubes. Dog-eared books—romance, unsurprisingly.

The dress pools at your feet. John takes in the sight of you, his smirk widening. Rubs circles with his thumbs on the skin exposed by the high arches of your deep plum panties.

“You wear this for me?” He abandons the bottoms, touch drifting up to cup your breasts through the matching brassiere. “All dolled up, planning on getting lucky?”

His thumbs roll over your hard nipples, coaxing a gasp from your lips, and your hands fly to his wrists. Not to stop him, but to steady yourself. Your legs tremble, barely holding you up.

“No, it’s not–I didn’t want to assume–“

“Mm.” He hums, eyes half-lidded. “But you hoped.”

Your weak denial dies on your lips when he guides you down, gently but insistently. He maneuvers you like he owns you already, coaxing you to sit, then easing you back until your spine meets the mattress. His hands work their way down your legs, kneading the goose-pimpled skin of your thighs and calves. Each press of his thumbs is purposeful, a silent reminder of who’s in charge now.

And then he sinks lower.

John shoulders between your legs, prostrating himself on the floor, knees hitting the carpet as if this—you—are worth worship. His head dips, lips grazing along the inside of your thigh.

“Easy, love.” His hands are steady as they hook behind your knee, lifting and folding one of your legs over his broad shoulder. The angle opens you up to him and reveals the damp staining the cotton. He sets your other foot on the edge of the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s when he sees it. The moment you let the reins slip.

“Good girl,” he praises. His grin, hidden between your thighs, stretches with a kiss.

Candyfloss sweet, with a pinch of salt.

He called it like he saw it then. He’s smug that it’s true.

Even filtered through the thin barrier of the gusset sopping up its share, you are a wonder on the palate. A delight on the senses. He noses over the slight springiness of the curls trapped underneath, tongue laving over every dip where the fabric clings. Everywhere but where you want him.

“John, John, please,” You’re gasping on the bed, bright whines spilling out. Hands strangling the duvet.

“Need somethin’?” He puffs over your drenched panties, rubbing his rough, bearded cheek on your thigh deliberately. “Gotta ask.”

It’s another minute of torture for you to work it out. It comes out in a whisper. “Take them off, please.”

“There’s a girl. Lift up.”

The panties come away and promptly disappear. In the low light, your cunt’s a mess, shiny with a mix of soaked-in spit and arousal. Perfect like the rest of you.

“Oh,” the single word you manage when John gets his mouth on you unimpeded.

Victory tastes like burnt sugar melting on his tongue, slow and rich, heating into syrup. He groans into your cunt, digging one hand into your thigh to keep it hooked over his shoulder. His other hand wraps around your ankle, anchoring your other foot in place.

You twitch, moans pitching higher and higher, trying to press yourself closer into his mouth. He doesn’t let you. He keeps you right where he wants you—pinned open with every tremor and gasp fueling that molten heat rolling down his spine and thickening his cock.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing skin. His thumb strokes soothing circles over your ankle, a mockery of tenderness compared to the ruthless way he’s devouring you. His tongue works with intent, coaxing you to the edge.

His grip deserts your thigh, and you clench around the finger he slips in while you’re nice and distracted. Lets off your clit with a pop, pulling back to admire your face scrunched in pleasure.

John kisses the crease of your thigh. “This what you’ve been doing all by yourself, baby?” His taunts, dripping with satisfaction as he works you open. “Bet they weren’t enough, were they?”

His smirk deepens when he adds a second, savoring the way your pussy almost sucks them in. When you don’t answer, he stills. “Were they?”

You’re a quick learner. “No, no, they weren’t.”

“Thought so. Gonna give you one more before I fuck you, gonna need it.”

You take the third with a quiet thread of praise. His cock’s pulsing hard against the zipper of his trousers, aching to switch places with his hand. It’s magnetic. The whole world centers on your weeping cunt, squeezing three of his fingers to death with how badly you want to come. It’s a miracle you still haven’t yet, given how you circle the edge. He’s an inkling of what you need, but he won’t let you backpedal.

You speak in front of rooms of lovelorn strangers. You will speak to your man.

He gingerly pumps his fingers into you as deep as they’ll go, curling and petting in all the right places. Your clit twitches, abandoned.

“John–” Yes. “–will you–mouth, please.”

“Hm?”

“My clit, please, need your mouth–”

He’ll work on articulation another time. He dips his head and licks a broad stripe over your neglected bud, then molds his mouth to it. Grunts around it when your fingers thread into hair and tug down.

That’s when the floodgates open, and you finally give into everything you’ve held at arm’s length for too long. Toes curling, muscles tensing, a heel digging into one of his vertebrae. Must be a relief.

John rises to his feet as you come down, knees popping in the silence. He licks his lips, wiping them off on the back of his hand. He towers, intentionally overwhelming and blocking out the room as he looms. Casts a shadow he hopes you feel on every inch of your skin.

He works his belt open while you piece yourself back together, though there’s no point in that. It’s a bright spot when you awkwardly reach behind your back and free your tits without being asked.

A wild look in your eye. Smudged makeup, hair coming unstyled. The loss of composure he’s waited for. Naked hunger in your gaze, eating him up as his clothes hit the floor. You’ve been with boys, sure, but John knows what he looks like. And he looks like a man.

He doesn’t ask about a condom. Gentleman enough he has one in a pocket, but not enough that he’ll do the decent thing and remind you about it.

You squeak in his neck when the steel wool above his cock scrapes your inner thighs. He grinds against you lazily, holding you in the band of his arms to kiss and share your taste.

“It’s a lot, baby,” John warns, rutting himself through the mess between your legs. He swallows hard when he prods your hole with the tip, squeezing the base to warn himself. It notches, your body yielding despite your squirming. Skittish even now. From there it’s a smooth, slow glide.

Still knocks the breath out of the both of you.

“Oh god, John, f-fuck, it’s so–”

Your cunt’s hot as an oven. Wet and fitted for him. Gives in easily now that the right man’s filling it. Knows he’s it for you, meaning it’s only a matter of time for your head and heart to catch up.

His chest and belly meld to yours as he keeps you pinned, hips pushing until they’re flush, and he’s sunken to the hilt, grinding in to claim whatever space is left. “Good girl. Let me in.”

“S’good, big,” you sound delirious, slurring as nonsense tumbles out in a breathless rush.

He barely lifts his hips those first minutes. Warming you up for what’s coming, what he’s been starving for this whole time. Getting an eyeful of your sweet, dumbfounded expression, coming to terms with it. Figuring it all out while your pussy stretches around his cock and greedily swallows it whole.

John readjusts, peeling his sweaty skin from yours, keeping himself pressed deep into the spot that’s got you strangling his cock. His hands wedge under your knees and push, allowing himself to finally build up to his desired pace. An urgency that speaks to his need to usher in the future and slip a ring on you.

“Feel like a dream,” he pants, staring down at the bounce of your tits through half-shut eyes. The smell of sweat and sex and your cunt under his nose. “You’re so pretty like this, sweetheart. Yeah, look good under me.”

You struggle to breathe around his thrusts.

“Knew the moment I saw you, y’know. Took one look and knew. Knew that not a single girl I’d speak to would measure up to you.” His rhythm never faltering. “But you made me work for it, didn’t you?”

You pant, fingers clawing the pillow above your head. “You–You made me work, too–you didn’t come up–ah, that night.”

John laughs, the sound rough as sandpaper, deep and throaty, and it rattles through you. It drives him to push a little harder, to coax more of those desperate sounds out of you. “And look where we are now, baby.”

Tears slip out of your eyes, painting black streams of mascara on your cheeks. You’re wrecked and he’s barely scratched the surface.

You shouldn’t have ever mentioned babies if this isn’t where you wanted to end up.

Your second orgasm builds similarly to the first. Shaking legs, head sinking into the mattress, spine arching. Stars appear in your pupils, shiny under the glass of tears, and lock onto him, transfixed. A whole mess of big feelings. Uncertainty, confusion, disbelief. Fury, ardor. He can tell, despite everything, a part of you does not want to want this. But gravity doesn’t ask permission before it pulls.

He fishes spit out of his cheek and drops it under a thumb on your clit to bring it home.

“Gonna come on my cock, pretty girl? Squeeze me tight?”

“John, I’m gonna–I’m gonna–”

“You can do it, too good of a girl not to–Christ.”

Whatever plea you utter gets lost in a feverish rush and a full-throated moan. You go tight as a vise, clamping down on him as you come. Liquid heat rolls down his spine and his pace turns choppy. Fingers slipping from your knee and clit, taking bruising handfuls of your hips he’ll kiss better later.

He plugs himself deep, coming to a sudden halt to spill. Every muscle in his body goes rigid as he plants himself at the root, filling you in hot, desperate spurts. It goes on longer than he thought it would. You milk it out of him, and it leaves a stringy, sticky mess, tagging over your folds when he reluctantly withdraws.

A whimper sputters from your bitten lips when he lets his drooling tip spew its last over your winking, fucked hole.

The two of you catch your breath in silence.

You said—I don’t know if I’m ready.

He wonders what you’ll say in the morning.

John coaxes a third and final orgasm out of you as he massages his cum back into you, shushing when you cry a little more on his shoulder about it. Whining about it being too much. Same as when he wipes you clean and you go shy on him. Only cracking your legs open again when he reminds you how proud he is of you for taking him so well. For everything.

He waits until you’re deeply asleep, mouth slightly open, completely immovable, to climb out of bed.

He pads through your flat bare like he owns the place. A glass of water to keep him company as he leisurely tours.

Your work bag sits, still packed, next to your desk at the window. He kicks it under. This will be the first weekend you don’t lift a finger if he has his way.

At least. Not in the service of others.

John stares at the pill case on your bathroom vanity as he empties his bladder. His next hurdle.

He’ll let you keep your job. It makes you happy, and he’s not so cruel to take that from you. But if you ever change your mind, if your investment in it wavers, he won’t stop you. Between his pay and benefits, the handyman business—he’s more than capable of providing for the two of you. And when the time comes for more, when you need to feed, clothe, and house his whelps, he’ll take care of that too.

After all, there’s very little he’s set his mind to that he hasn’t achieved.

#price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x you #price x you #f!reader #meet your match #posting and blasting off

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ineveryfandom · 3 months ago

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“so what’s your favorite batfam trope?”

“bruce calling his kids sweetheart/sweetie/baby/any petname”

“what—“

Dick, accidentally scraping his knee: ow

Bruce, worried: you okay, dear?

Dick, a 30 year old man:

Dick, tearing up: no…

Cass: 😐

Cass: *period cramp*

Cass: 😐

Bruce, knocking on her door: cass?

Cass, suddenly on the floor curled up and sniffling: dad, period hurts 😢

Bruce, slamming the door open, picking his daughter up then tucking her back in her bed: i’m sorry baby. i’m here now, what do you need?

Red Robin, cranky and stressed, having been awake for 120 hours: ugh! why can’t you people do anything right!?

Wonder Girl, also sleep deprived: you arrogant piece of—

Red Robin, suddenly walking away, grabbing his civilian phone: *angrily dials a number*

Bruce, in a WE meeting, answering: hello? tim?

Red Robin, voice breaking: dad?

Bruce:

Batman, requesting access to Mount Justice:

Superboy, eye bags darker than black: what’s batman doing here

Red Robin, packing up, speed walking out the door:

Batman, out of sight: oh, don’t cry sweetie, let’s go home hm?

Bruce, washing the dishes:

Damian, entering the room: baba?

Bruce, smiling: yes?

Damian, shuffling towards him, holding something behind his back:

Bruce: what do you have there?

Damian, embarrassed but determined, holds up a drawing of him and Bruce:

Bruce:

Bruce, tears streaming down his face: it’s beautiful habibi

Bruce: *sleeping*

Jason:

Jason: b

Bruce: ?!

Bruce: j-jay?

Bruce: what are you- oh.

Jason, laying next to him, face hidden in his chest: fuck you.

Bruce:

Jason:

Jason, quietly: i take it back. love you…dad.

Bruce, crying again: i love you too, sweetheart

now with a part 2!

bonus: captain marvel

#✍️#batman #bruce wayne #batfam #batdad #dick grayson #cassandra cain #jason todd #batfamily #damian wayne #tim drake #me and the batkids when bruce is a soft dad: 😭😭☹️🥺😭#me and bruce when the batkids are little babies: 😭😞☹️😭🥺😭

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snail-day · 2 months ago

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You swear Geto ends up on his tummy more often than not. Draped across the bed like a lazy cat, broad back rising and falling with each breath, that beautiful inky dark hair tied half-heartedly in a low bun that’s already slipping loose. A few strands fall against his cheek, casting a shadow over those long lashes and the lazy curve of his mouth. He’s so annoyingly pretty like this - it’s tempting to attack him.

And he lets you.

One hand lazily typing on his phone, sending a message to Satoru asking when he’s going to be home. So you pounce while you have the chance. (Not like he'd stop you.)

You straddle him, smack his ass a few times, knead your fingers into the plushest parts of him as if he’s your own personal stress toy. And he just hums with every little assault. Sometimes you bite him, sink your teeth into his shoulder, just to feel the sharp intake of breath, to catch the subtle twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Getting it all out of your system?” he drawls, unbothered, sending a help gif to Satoru. A message that receives a heart react.

You slip cold hands beneath the hem of his dark shirt and he doesn’t even flinch. Just lets out another low hum, close to a purr, amused and warm. His chest is stupidly firm under your palms, radiating heat, and you swear he could flip you over and trap you beneath him without even trying.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s patient. Always has been, out of the two of you. He knows that eventually, you’ll wear yourself out, that you’ll end up curled right where he wants you. And so he lets you play, lets you giggle and wiggle and bite until your energy runs thin, until you’re soft and sleepy against his side, cheek pressed to his bulky shoulder, body tucked beneath the weight of his arm.

Then he turns. Just his head at first, those wine-dark eyes cutting to you through thick, heavy lashes. That slow, feline smile starts to curl across his lips. He watches you for a moment, messy, warm, half-limp beneath him, still letting out the occasional spurt of giggles.

And then he drawls, voice syrup-slow and honey-soft, just enough to make your stomach flip. For your giggles to turn nervous:

“My turn.”

#Brief satosugu mention #I think Suguru just lets you do whatever you want #Just know there is consequences for every action #He will be pushing you into a mating press and whispering “was it worth it?”#and also says that you're so cute for trying to attack him <3 #don't you know he's bigger than you?#and god does he let it sink deeepppp as he coos praise at you softly #suguru geto #your honor I love him #suguru geto x reader #suguru fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #geto suguru #jjk geto

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sleepdeprivedfrfr · 4 months ago

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obsessedbf!toji who loves when it’s cold outside because he knows you won’t try and push him away for being too clingy because he’s so so so sooo warm.

obsessedbf!toji who loves when you curl up to him or wrap yourself around him at night in the middle of your sleep, he thinks it’s so adorable.

obsessedbf!toji who doesn’t go to bed until you do, even if it means he’ll wake up grumpy the next morning for work.

obsessedbf!toji who complains to you one night about your sleeping schedule, “Why the fuck are you still up?”

“I’m watching asmr.”

“Turn that shit off and c’mere.”

“Shh this is a good part.”

He snatched your phone out of your hands and turned it off, “Toji what the fu-”

“Pay attention to me ma, not the fucking phone.” He whispered in a gruff sleepy voice as he pulled you to his chest and engulfing you completely. You huffed into his chest. "Stop acting like you don't love this," Toji grumbled lowly, you could hear the smirk in his words.

"Your tits are suffocating me Toji. No complaints though."

"Fucking freak."

He couldn't help but smile though after hearing your sweet little giggles.

obsessedbf!toji who picks up extra missions just so that he can spoil you, he literally refuses to let you work and truly believes that he should be the sole provider while you don't lift a finger. Also having you care for him when he comes home exhausted is a plus :3

obsessedbf!toji who lets you do skincare on him when he comes back home, he claims he hates it but he loves how relaxing it is and how much attention you put on him while doing it.

obsessedbf!toji who constantly teases you for watching asmr but slowly starts getting into it once you do it to him.

You were propped up against the pillows on the bed, while Toji walked out of the bathroom. He was moody from being at work all day, only to come home to you already showered, leaving him to have to shower alone. "C'mere baby," you patted your lap signaling for your big grumpy boyfriend to lay in it.

He let out a soft grunt and quickly placed himself into your embrace, his head on your lower stomach and hands resting on your hips while his body between your legs. You began tracing patterns up and down his back with your nails, and up and down his large biceps.

"Fuck that feels good ma." he whispered, causing you to let out a soft giggle.

"You still mad at me you big baby?" Your hands moved up to his scalp.

"Tch, whatever. Jus' keep doin’ what yer doin'." Was all he said while his thumbs lightly brushed back and fourth over your hips. His breathing began to slow and he let out soft snores.

obsessedbf!toji who surprising plans really romantic dates for you two, but as soon as you walk out of the bedroom all dressed up his hands are all over you, making you guys late to whatever reservation he booked.

"Babe we're gonna be late."

"Fuck you look so good mama, I can't help it." He says between kisses. Safe to say y'all were definitely going to be late again, that is if you even left the house.

another toji drabble/oneshot bc y'all loved the last one sm, might do an nsfw ver soon so yuh. Also thank you guys so much for 500 followers, I know im behind on a lot of stories rn so js bear with me pls 😭

also I’m so tired of seeing people canon toji as a bad husband/bf bc like y r we acting like he didn’t take his wife’s name?!? Like sure he may be broke in the show but that’s js bc his ass was gambling all his money away, anyways hope u enjoyed ;3

Likes, comments, and rebloggs appreciated!!

divider creds: @cafekitsune

#jjk #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji fushigro x reader #jujustu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fluff #jjk toji #toji smut #toji x you #sleepdeprivedfrfr #k writes #sleepdeprivedfrfr writes #k:3 writes

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missdynamighttt · 4 months ago

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hehehe sooo.. pro hero, husband! katsuki not being able to spend time with you took a toll on his agency, so someone said... you two needed to bone.

it had been weeks since katsuki had a proper night at home. pro hero work never let up but lately, it felt like it was eating him—late nights at the agency, barely any sleep, reports, patrols, meetings.

you understood. it was his job, his responsibility, but his stress showed in the way he snapped at people more often, his fuse shorter than usual.

and today? he was especially pissed.

the whole office refused to confront dynamight about it, until some dumbass sidekick, probably sick of his rage-fueled outbursts, muttered under his breath, “tch. man just needs to go home and bone his wife.”

the room went silent.

dead silent.

katsuki stopped mid-step, shoulders going rigid. his head turned slowly toward him, eyes burning like he was about to set the entire building on fire.

"the fuck did you just say?"

the sidekick, to his credit, had the audacity to look innocent. "i mean, you’re obviously tense, and i'm sure she’s—"

he lunged at him. it took three other sidekicks to hold him back as he damn near flipped his desk over.

“YOU'RE FUCKIN' DEAD! BONE?!” katsuki roared, struggling against his coworkers like a wild animal. "say that shit again, i dare you! you think i’m pissed ‘cause i ain’t fucking my wife enough?!”

the whole agency floor collectively held its breath.

the poor sidekick scrambled for an excuse. “n-no! i-i just meant—uh, stress relief! yeah! y’know, intimacy is good for—”

katsuki grabbed a random clipboard and hurled it across him. he missed by a centimeter. “you think i don’t wanna fuckin' go home to her?! huh?!”

“sir—”

“i wanna go home so bad! i wanna see her, i wanna kiss her, i wanna lay on her tits and sleep for the whole fuckin’ day,” he ranted, voice cracking from pure frustration. “BUT NOOO! i’m stuck here writing reports and dealing with dumbasses like you!”

the office was dead silent.

it took a solid ten minutes for him to cool down, grumbling and seething as he rubbed his temples.

but his mind did wander.

to you. to the way he missed your voice. to how fucking long it had been since he held you properly.

to the way he always found you asleep by the time he got home, curled up on his side of the bed, waiting for him.

… fuck. maybe the sidekick did have a point.

katsuki inhaled sharply. then, with wild determination, he grabbed his his stuff, and stormed toward the exit. the agency could handle itself for the night. he had better things to do.

“fuck this. i'm goin' home to my wife."

meanwhile, you had barely settled on the couch, ready to enjoy a quiet evening alone, when the front door slammed open. you jolted, turning toward the entrance just in time to see katsuki storming in—looking like a man on a mission.

“katsu—” you barely got his name out before his mouth crashed onto yours, hot and urgent, like he’d been starving for this. you gripped his shirt as he pulled you impossibly close, practically lifting you off the floor.

you gasped against his lips as his hands cupped your cheeks, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, pressing his body against yours.

strong hands cupped your face, rough but desperate. his lips were everywhere—your cheeks, your nose, your jaw, the corner of your lips—like he was making up for lost time.

and when he finally let you breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, panting slightly, his hands still gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

you were breathless, blinking up at him in shock. “what the hell?”

katsuki exhaled sharply, his forehead resting against yours. “i missed you.”

your brows furrowed. “you left for work this morning.”

“exactly,” his lips brushed against yours again, softer this time. “should’ve come home sooner.”

it was then you realized—he was home way earlier than usual. normally, he'd get caught up in work, buried in reports or dealing with patrols, but tonight…

“wait, why are you home so early?” you asked, still dazed.

katsuki huffed. his fingers slid down to your waist, gripping you tightly. “tch. dumbass sidekick at work said i just needed to fuck my wife to fix my attitude.”

your jaw dropped. “excuse me?”

his lips brushed yours again, softer this time. “so i left early to prove ‘em right.”

your face burned. “katsuki!”

but he was already leaning in again, smirking against your lips. “better get comfortable, sweets. i’m makin’ up for lost time.”

and when katsuki stepped into the office that morning, something was… off.

for the first time in weeks, he didn’t stomp in with a permanent scowl, barking at everyone the second he crossed the threshold. his usual sharp glare was dulled, his shoulders weren’t tense as tense.

instead, katsuki looked, dare they say it—relaxed. his jaw wasn’t clenched, his brows weren’t furrowed, and the usual aggressive boom of his steps was noticeably tamer.

hell, the man even had a post-nut glow so obvious. skin clear, posture loose, and zero unnecessary shouting.

no explosions. no immediate death threats. no one getting yelled at for breathing too loud.

everyone noticed.

by the time he made it to his desk, his coworkers were already exchanging looks, whispering amongst themselves like they’d just seen a miracle.

"uh…" one of his sidekicks was the first to cautiously approach. “sir. you good?”

katsuki just grunted, rolling his shoulders before cracking his neck. “feelin’ great, actually.”

and that’s when it clicked. a murmur spread through the office as realization slammed into them.

“you boned last night,” he stated, like it was the discovery of the century.

katsuki just smirked, grabbing some files off his desk. “what’s it to ya?”

the room erupted.

“holy shit, i forgot he could be normal—”

“i haven’t known peace in months.”

“oh my god, mrs bakugo katsuki, if you can hear this—thank you for your service!”

someone started clapping.

then, the entire office cheered.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ i think y'all know where this is inspired from but js in case, its from a sitcom named brooklyn 99 where this girl tells her boss he needs to bone his husband lmao😭 hope yall enjoyed!!

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iixch · 4 months ago

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☆ iixch production

Simon and the great cockblock

synopsis: Titan (simon’s great dane and everyone’s favorite canine) is pushing boundaries, and there is only so much Simon can allow. But when Titan becomes an official cockblock, his owner has had enough.

warning: curse & smutty

more Titan shenanigans: pt.1 - pt.3

He wanted it to be special, it was your second year anniversary of being with you and he needed it to go just the way he knew you would love it. He made all the necessary reservations, arrangements and plans so when they day came everything would go as planned.

and everything did in fact, go as planned,

almost.

You had just made it back to his home from your

dinner at the restaurant. You both dined wonderfully, and wined just enough so that you were both loose and relaxed than before.

Coming in he closed the door and was instantly on you, having you cornered between himself and the front door.

“Can’t believe you wore this dress just for me,” He says with a dark grin as his hands go to your waist. Pulling himself closer against you, and in turn your back on the door as he goes to press his lips against your neck. “Such pretty wrapping paper for the gift underneath,” He murmurs between kisses.

Your hands wrap around his shoulders, baring your neck to a side, inviting his affections. “Mm, I know I hit the nail on the head with this years gift,” You say with a chuckle.

“Every year with you is a gift, sweet girl.” He says pulling back from the skin of your neck to your eyes, his right hand slithering up your side to then hold your jaw. “Can I kiss you, love?”

You smile and chuckle to his chivalry. “You better kiss me,” You tease as you pull yourself tighter against him, your dress and his dress shirt the only material between you two as he leans down kissing your lips.

Every thought in his mind is a thought of you. Every desire coursing through his body is desire for you. Every breath he breathes, is in need of you.

So of course he’s oblivious to the fact he forgot to put Titan in his cage. But he’s reminded when as you’ve just opened your mouth enough for him to delve deep-

Bark!

Followed by Simon grunting as Titan pushes him behind the back of the legs.

“The fuck-” Simon pulls away from you and immediately scowls at the appearance of the canine. “I forgot to put the big shit in his cage.” He huffs.

“Awww, hi Titan,” you say going and bending down to pet the big loving dog. “You missed me?” Titan of course sits politely so you can pet him, tail wagging and eyes wide.

Simon glares at Titan as you slip away from his hold to pet the damn dog.

“I’m going to put him in his cage,” Simon says grabbing Titan by the collar to guide him.

“No, don’t do that. He’s a good boy, just let him be. You and me can just close the door to the room.” You tell him as you give Titan a kiss on the head before standing up. “Be nice to him.”

Simon rolls his eyes, before pulling your hand and guiding you through the house to his bedroom. Muttering annoyed by the canines presence, as Titan follows you two. When you both enter the room and Titan tries to follow, you gingerly close the door before he can enter.

Simon, trying to push the interruption behind him, sits down on the edge of his bed, before calling you over, “Love, get over here.”

With a smirk and a smile you walk over before sitting yourself down on his lap. “You should just focus on me, ignore the distractions,” You tease as your hands behind unbuttoning his shirt.

Simon huffs at the remark, his hands sat on your thighs as they gently knead and glide deeper under your dress. His lips curling into a smirk as he watches your breathes become heavier, your eyes fluttering and grip just a tad tighter.

“You should focus on cumming when and only when I have my cock in that needy pussy.” He whispers harshly in your ear, as his hands meet the lacy material of your panties, and traces your outline with a tantalizing finger. Your hips shifting against the spine shivering touch. His finger slipping past the lace edge and he groans when he’s met with your wet squishy entrance. “Ain’t no better way to celebrate than fucking you good, huh”

You were going to respond but you have to close your mouth to avoid moaning so deprivingly when he pushes through his thick middle finger and curling it up inside you, his thumb you your clit.

“Ha- you call this..fucking?” You push him on as you feel your hips twitch under his touch.

He pushes another finger, the stretch burning so good, a soft gasp leaving your lips. His other hand goes to the zipper of your dress, and in one harsh swift movement he unzips it completely, the material falling down and collecting at you hips.

BARK BARK BARK

The sound of scratches to the bedroom door and repeated barking interrupts the moment.

Again.

This time Simon in physically irritated, and you wouldn’t had been bothered to care until you feel Simon remove himself- leaving you feel empty and needy.

“Si, come back,” You huff and pout when he softly turn to leave you on the bed, but standing up himself.

“Let me put that damn mutt in his cage so that I can properly take care of you, love,” He says as he walks over to the door. Before he can walk outside, Titan rushes in.

Immediately going to the bed, where you’re sat in the middle. Despite your need you have to laugh and the dynamic between the two boys.

“Your such a big clingy baby,” You say watching as the Great Dane comes up to you in the bed, snuggling into you and resting his head on your thigh. Your hand goes to his head and pets him.

“Y/n i’m trying to get him out of the room.” His voice agitated. He would had been more patient with the situation if he didn’t have a painful hard on strained under his clothes.

“He doesn’t wanna.”

“To hell with what he wants, I want you.”

You laugh, “Ok, ok,” you hop out the bed, becoming Titan. “Come on boy.”

And as if an invisible leash connected him to you, he obediently follows you to the room. Tail stuck high as he passes Simon. To which Simon sneers, “Cockblock.”

Titan had allowed you to cage him, with a handful of treats, and a good amount of head pats. Letting you and Simon finally indulge in each other without the worry or distraction of Titan in the way.

Simon swears Titan plans and coordinates his interruptions and disruptions, little does he know how right he is.

4K notes · View notes

dakusan · 1 month ago

Text

C H A I N B I T E R

bang chan x reader | silver chain. pouty moans. and the lesson he teaches you when you act up.

🔞synopsis: he comes home from tour. you pout, you ignore his texts, you act up—because you want him mean. he keeps the chain on. and when you bite it? he folds you in half, fucks you dumb, and doesn’t let you cum until you’re crying, drooling, and begging for the cock you’ve been bratting for. he ruins you. then holds you like you’re breakable. because you are—and you’re his favourite thing to break.

💌a/n: welcome to filth friday, sluts. 🧷this fic is dedicated to the chokehold that silver chains + pouty brattiness + missionary with a vengeance have on my brain. chan keeps the chain on. you bite it. he loses his mind. we all win. p.s. reblogs = love. comments = spit in my mouth. tags = my new religion. p.p.s. missionary is not vanilla when he growls in your ear and denies your orgasms p.p.p.s. if you reblog this while still recovering? i see you. i respect you.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY. minors do not pass go, do not collect the chain | explicit sexual content | dom!bang chan, soft menace energy, and a very smug mouth | sub!reader with brat tendencies that get corrected | jewellery kink (chain stays ON. you bite it. he breaks.) | missionary sex but feral — folded position, deep strokes, held down, no escape | denial / edging | cockdrunk reader | dirty talk, degradation + praise mix (“mine.” “good girl.” “you don’t get to cum yet.”) | aftercare | breeding kink tones | crying & tears of pleasure | pouty!reader energy (literally the reason this entire fic exists. pout responsibly.)

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » TASTE — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The apartment feels colder without him.

It’s not actually cold—you’re curled up on the couch in nothing but his oversized hoodie, bare legs tucked beneath you, a mug of tea half-drunk on the coffee table. But it’s the kind of cold that seeps under your skin when the bed’s too big, the silence too loud, and your vibrator’s not doing the fucking job.

Your phone buzzes again. You don’t look.

You already know it’s him.

You’ve been ignoring him all day—not completely, just... enough. Left him on read once or twice. Gave him one-word replies. Didn’t answer the FaceTime this morning, even though you’d woken up with your hand between your thighs, aching from a dream you couldn’t finish.

It’s not fair, you know that. He’s on tour. He’s busy. He’s doing everything right—checking in, calling, sending those stupid audio messages that make your stomach flip when he whispers, “Miss you, baby. So much.”

But you’re needy.

Touch-starved. Cramps in your hips from curling up in bed alone. Horny to the point of irrational.

And the worst part? You can see him. Online. Onstage. Living in your phone like some cruel ghost. There he is at rehearsal. Dripping in sweat, shirt half-off, silver chain swinging with every breath. There he is in a fan-captured clip, laughing, flexing, biting his lip while dancing to your favorite track like he’s not out here ruining your life. And now? Now he has the audacity to send a mirror selfie. In the fucking studio. With the chain. The bracelets. The goddamn veins.

You nearly throw your phone across the room.

Instead, you sink deeper into the couch, bite the sleeve of his hoodie, and scream into the fabric.

“Fucking menace,” you mumble against your wrist.

He didn’t do anything wrong. That makes it worse.

Because now, every time you shift your hips, every time you think about his hands pinning you down and that cold metal chain slapping your chest while he fucks you stupid—

You can’t breathe.

You glance at your phone.

Three new messages.

[CHAN]: baby [CHAN]: don’t ignore me please [CHAN]: did i do something? talk to me

Your lip wobbles. Goddammit.

No. No. You’re supposed to be mad. Not real mad. Just pouty. Irritated. Like a girl whose boyfriend hasn’t been around to wreck her properly in over two weeks.

You don’t want sweet texts.

You want teeth on your throat. Fingers in your mouth. You want him to press your legs up and fuck the attitude out of you until you’re crying and clinging to his stupid chain like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.

Your gaze flicks to the bedroom door.

Then to the drawer.

You reach for the vibrator. Pause. Throw it back in.

“Fuck it,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

If he were here, you wouldn’t even need it. He’d just look at you, and you’d be done for.

You bury yourself deeper into the cushions, grumbling, annoyed with the world. The room smells like him. The hoodie smells like him. Your whole body aches from missing him—not emotionally. Physically. Raw, feral want.

So you ignore the phone again.

Because if he really misses you? Let him come get you. Let him walk through that door and make it up to you with his chain swinging and his hands on your throat. Let him see what happens when he makes a needy girl wait too long.

The keys hit the lock at 1:37AM.

You hear them before you see him—metal clinking, a shuffle, a low curse. You barely manage to mute the TV before the door swings open.

He’s here.

And he looks like sin.

Black hoodie half-zipped, chain glinting just above the collar. His damp hair is pushed back with one hand, the other dragging his suitcase inside. His duffel slumps to the floor. Then he sees you—curled on the couch, one leg bare, still in his hoodie, sleeves covering your hands.

For a second, he just stares. Then that mouth curves. “You’re still up.”

You shrug, trying to look casual. You are not casual. Your thighs are clenched under the throw blanket, and your heart’s pounding like you weren’t just imagining that exact chain slapping against your collarbone while he fucks you into the mattress.

“Barely,” you say, voice too innocent.

His gaze drops to your bare thighs. Then back to your face. “Didn’t answer my texts.”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

He huffs out a soft laugh. That cocky, knowing one. “Oh. It’s like that?”

You don’t reply. Just stretch with an exaggerated yawn, lifting your arms enough for the hem of his hoodie to ride up. No shorts. Just skin. His tongue runs across his bottom lip. The chain shifts with the way he breathes, catching the lamplight.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Not really.”

“Mhm.” He drops his hoodie onto a chair. “So the blanket, the hoodie, and no pants—that’s just what you wear now?”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“All smug.”

He grins. Oh no. He knows. Of course he knows.

“Baby,” he says, stepping closer. “You’ve been bratting out all week. You think I can’t tell?”

Your breath catches. Heat coils instantly in your gut.

“Didn’t say anything when I sent you that mirror pic. Left my voice note on read. Ignored the one where I said I wanted to fuck you through the floor.” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Nothing to say now either?”

You stare up at him. Slowly pull the blanket off your lap. “I missed you,” you admit, soft.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I missed you too.”

A pause. Then—

“I also know that pout’s not about feelings.”

“What’s it about, then?”

He’s standing over you now, hands on his hips, chain resting just beneath his throat. “It’s about the fact that you haven’t been fucked in two weeks.”

You look away. Cheeks hot. “And?”

“And you’re soaked just from seeing me walk in the door.”

You shoot him a glare, but it’s weak at best. He sees right through it. And worse? You see his jaw flex—barely—before he lets out a dark, low laugh.

“Get up.”

You blink. “What?”

“Up.”

You rise slowly, confused. He reaches forward and lifts the hoodie—his hoodie—up and off your body in one smooth motion. You shiver at the loss of warmth. Now you’re just standing there in panties and nothing else.

He steps back. Eyes dark. “You waited for me like this?”

You nod, shy now. “Wanted to be ready,” you mumble.

His lips part just slightly. His gaze drops, lingers on your hips, then snaps back up.

And then—

His hands are on your thighs, fast.

“Jump.”

You don’t think. You obey.

He catches you with ease, arms firm under your thighs, the chill of his bracelets biting into your skin. Your breath hitches as your legs wrap around his waist, chest flush against his. His chain presses cold between your breasts, and he’s not even trying to hide the way he grinds against your panties on instinct.

“You think I don’t know what that look means?” he murmurs, voice brushing hot against your cheek. “Little pout. Ignoring my calls like I wouldn’t drop everything to ruin you the second I walked through the door.”

You squirm against him, but he tightens his grip—just enough to pin your hips in place.

“Could’ve told me, baby,” he breathes, walking toward the bedroom. “Could’ve just said, ‘Chan, I’m wet and I miss your cock.’ I’d have flown home yesterday.”

He kicks the bedroom door open without a pause. Keeps walking until your back hits the mattress in a controlled drop. You bounce once, hair a mess, legs open, breathing ragged.

He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s starving.

Then he peels off the hoodie.

His shirt follows. Then the pants. He leaves the jewelry. Every bit of it. Rings, bracelets, and that fucking chain.

You swallow hard, mouth dry.

“Want me to take it off?” he teases, watching your eyes follow the chain.

You shake your head. “Keep it.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nod. Voice barely a whisper now. “Wanna see it dangling, wanna bite it.”

That does something to him. His jaw flexes. His cock twitches against the band of his briefs. “Fuck.” He climbs onto the bed like a man possessed. Cages you under him in one smooth motion, his hands planted firm beside your head, chain dangling just above your lips.

You glance up at him, pupils blown wide.

“Say it again.”

“I want to bite it.”

“While I’m inside you?”

“Yes.”

“While I’m ruining that little attitude?”

“Please.” You barely finish the word—“please”—before he’s kissing you like he’s making up for every second he’s been gone.

It’s not sweet. It’s hungry.

His mouth claims yours with a groan, hot and wet and open, tongue sliding past your lips like he already knows what you taste like. His chain swings between you, brushing your throat every time he shifts, a cold contrast to the heat pouring off his skin.

You moan into the kiss. He drinks it like oxygen.

Then he sinks down fully, settling between your thighs with the kind of weight that makes you feel pinned—owned. His cock presses hard against the soaked fabric of your panties, still trapped behind his briefs, but thick enough to make you gasp when he grinds down. “Fuck, baby,” he groans into your mouth. “You’ve been holding out on me. This pussy’s starving.”

Your back arches. You’re soaked, the wet patch obvious now—heat meeting heat as he rocks against you, slow and punishing, like he’s savoring every drag of his cock over your clit.

“Thought about this every night,” he whispers, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “This exact spot. These hips. The way you whimper when I press right… here—”

He thrusts just right. Your head falls back.

He kisses down your neck, slow and greedy. The cold metal of his chain follows, dragging like ice down your collarbone, between your breasts.

“Missed this fucking body,” he breathes, licking a stripe along your throat. “Missed the way you twitch for me. How you bite your lip to keep quiet.”

He grinds down again. And again. Until your hips start chasing his, until your nails dig into his back.

“Chan,” you pant, “I—I need—”

He shushes you with another kiss, deeper this time. He kisses you until you can’t think, until all you can do is cling to him, his chain brushing your lips like it wants to be bitten.

You’re pulsing through your panties. You know he feels it. You feel the smirk when he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.

“You gonna make a mess before I’m even inside?”

You glare. He chuckles darkly. “Go on then, baby. Rub that pretty cunt all over my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

You moan—needy, wrecked—and tilt your hips up into him, grinding against the thick ridge of him through both layers of fabric. “Fucking please,” you whimper. “Want you so bad.”

“You’ve got me,” he growls. “You have me.”

His hand slips between your bodies, pushing his briefs down just enough for his cock to spring free—hot, flushed, already leaking. He swears low under his breath.

“God, baby. Look what you do to me.”

Then he presses himself against your soaked panties again, bare cock against soaked fabric, and grinds. Slow. Deep. Purposeful.

“You feel that?” he grits. “You feel how hard I am for you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes, yes—Chan, please—”

“You want me to rip these off?” You can barely speak. “Or you wanna be good and ask nicely?”

You can barely speak.

Your whole body is tense—writhing beneath him, soaked and shaking and on the edge of sobbing for it. He sees it. Loves it. The way your breath catches. The way your thighs twitch around his waist. “C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek. “One sweet word, and I’ll give you everything.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “Please,” you whisper. “Take them off. Please, Chan—need you…”

That’s all it takes.

He groans softly, like the sound is pulled from deep in his chest, and finally—finally—hooks his fingers in the sides of your panties. He drags them down your legs like he’s unwrapping you. Not fast. Not greedy. Just slow, like he’s enjoying every second of you bare and spread beneath him. When they’re off, he kisses the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Then higher.

But he doesn’t go where you want. No. He climbs back up your body, and you think—thank God, he’s going to fuck me—But instead, his mouth goes to your chest.

“So fucking pretty,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours as he kisses just above your heart.

His hand palms one breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaks under his touch. His mouth follows—hot, open, wet—and he sucks, slow and deep.

You gasp. He groans. The sound vibrates through your chest.

Then he pulls back just enough to nip—just a little—right over the mark he made. “That feel good, baby?”

You nod, breathless. “Y-Yeah—more—”

He moves to the other breast. Does the same. Tongue first. Then lips. Then teeth. Your back arches into him, hands twisting in the sheets. The chain dangles against your sternum, cold and perfect, catching in the valley between your tits as he worships you. “Could spend hours right here,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your nipple. “Could make you cum just from this.”

“Please,” you pant. “I need more—Chan, please, I—”

He hushes you again with a kiss.

Then he trails down. And down. And down. Mouth dragging over your stomach. Teeth grazing the curve of your waist. He settles between your thighs, breath warm and heavy against your dripping cunt.

But he doesn’t lick. Not yet.

“God, baby,” he groans, almost reverent. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimper. Try to lift your hips. He holds you down. “Be good,” he warns softly. “Be still.”

You try. You really do.

But then he spits—just a little—hot and slick onto your clit, and you jerk like you’ve been shocked. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, smirking as he leans in.

And then—then—he licks. One slow, torturous stripe up your cunt. Flat tongue. No mercy.

You moan, loud, thighs clamping around his head.

He groans into your pussy, pressing his mouth harder, licking deeper, like he’s starving. His chain dangles against your inner thigh now, cool and maddening with every pass.

And just when you start to build—just when your toes curl, your body tenses, and you’re right there—

He pulls back. “Nuh uh,” he says, voice thick and smug. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You sob. He kisses your thigh, then blows softly on your wet, throbbing clit just to be cruel. “You’re gonna cum with me inside you,” he murmurs. “With this chain in your mouth, and my cock so deep you forget your own name.”

Your hips twitch. Your eyes roll back. He grins at the sight.

And his mouth returns to your cunt like a man addicted—like he’s missed this more than sleep, more than air, more than the stage itself. His tongue licks deeper now, deliberate, dragging slick through your folds and sucking gently at your clit like he knows exactly how much you can take.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans against you. “Tastes like you missed me.”

You cry out, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. He lets you. For now. Then—

His fingers join the party.

Two of them, thick and slick, pressing at your entrance and sliding in with no resistance. Your walls clench instantly.

“Oh my God—Chan—!”

“Shhh. You’re fine.” He curls them. “You’re so fucking fine.”

His lips wrap around your clit again just as his fingers start thrusting—slow at first, then deeper, firmer, building rhythm. Every drag hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

You’re so close it’s shameful. Your hips roll into his face. Your moans are embarrassingly loud now. And just as you hit that edge—

He pulls away again. His mouth gone. Fingers stilled inside you.

“Wha—why—” you gasp, blinking through the haze.

He looks up from between your thighs. His lips are slick, his chin glistening, the chain glinting as he rises slightly, his fingers still buried to the knuckle in your fluttering pussy.

“Brats don’t get to cum without permission.”

You whimper. Physically ache. “Channie, please—”

“You gave me attitude. You ignored me. You made me wait.”

He slides his fingers out slowly, watching them glisten in the low light. You’re dripping. He presses them back in—just one knuckle—then pauses again. “Now you’ll wait.”

“I said sorry—”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes—”

“Then you’ll be good.” His voice is soft, dangerous. “Keep those legs open. Take what I give you. And you don’t cum until I say.”

You nod frantically.

“Say it,” he demands, pushing his fingers in deep again.

“I won’t cum,” you gasp. “Not unless you say.”

“Good girl.”

And just like that—his mouth is back.

He fucks you with his fingers while he sucks your clit with precision. Every moan you make only spurs him on. He watches your body unravel, his chain swinging between your breasts with every jolt of pleasure.

You’re shaking again. So close it hurts. Your eyes roll back—your legs tremble—your whole body’s about to give out—

“Don’t,” he warns, pulling his mouth off just enough to speak. “Don’t even think about it.”

Your hips jerk. He curls his fingers and presses his tongue harder. “Not until I say.”

You’re crying now. Wrecked. Gutted. Desperate. And still, he doesn’t let you have it.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips wet against your thigh. “You feel that? That’s what brats get.”

“Channie, please,” you sob. “I need it—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll—”

“I know you will,” he coos.

Then he withdraws completely.

You scream.

“You’re gonna be so fucking good for me now,” he mutters, climbing back over you.

His cock, thick and flushed, brushes against your inner thigh. You’re slick enough he could slide right in. But he doesn’t. Not yet. He leans in, chain swinging.

“Open your mouth.”

You do. He places the chain between your lips. “Bite.”

You bite. The chain presses cold between your teeth, sharp metal on your tongue, a mouthful of him. Of ownership. Of need. You moan around it as he grips your thighs tighter, spreads them wider, and finally—finally—guides his cock to your soaked, twitching entrance.

“Look at that,” he breathes, staring down between your legs. “You’re begging for it.”

You are. Your pussy flutters, aching, empty for so long you can barely think. His tip nudges your entrance, hot and heavy and thick, and just the brush makes your whole body tense.

“Been saving this for you,” he murmurs, dragging his cock slowly through your folds. “Didn’t even jerk off on tour. You know how fucking hard that was?”

You whimper around the chain.

He grins. “Yeah, you do.”

Then—without warning—he pushes in. Just the head. You sob.

“Fuck, baby…” he groans. “So tight. So wet. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically, teeth clenched on the chain. Your walls spasm around him, already trying to pull him deeper. And he gives it to you. Inch by inch. Stretching you slow, deliberate, merciless. You feel everything. Every vein. Every ridge. Every twitch and pulse.

By the time his hips finally press flush against yours, you’re shaking.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He stills. Deep. Thick. Fucking perfect.

You can’t breathe. You can’t move. You’re so full it borders on painful, the burn and pressure delicious in its cruelty. He leans down over you, forearms braced beside your head. The chain swings, slipping from your perfect lips but brushing them.

You’re clenching around him—helpless, desperate—and he doesn’t move.

“That’s right,” he breathes. “Hold me. Grip me tight like that.”

He pulls halfway out. You sob. Then thrusts back in. Hard. And stills again. You’re drooling at this point, chest heaving, vision blurred.

“You think you can brat your way into getting fucked?” he growls, mouth brushing your ear. “You think this pussy deserves to cum yet?”

You shake your head. Tears well.

“That’s right. Not yet. Not fucking yet.”

Then he starts to move. Slow. Deep. Devastating.

His hips roll with purpose, like every stroke is a lesson, a punishment, a promise. His cock drags against every swollen nerve inside you, hitting that spot so precisely it almost feels cruel. And he doesn’t let up—not even a little.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice thick. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You nod, barely. You’re breathless, moaning with every slow, relentless thrust.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “You’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re gripping him like a vice, your legs trembling around his waist, the chain now hanging loose across your chest—dragging over your nipples every time he fucks into you just right.

He leans in, kisses your jaw, then your throat. His hips grind at the end of each thrust, pressing his cock even deeper, and you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“This pussy’s mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

You gasp, voice wrecked. “It’s yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours—Channie—it’s yours—!”

His pace picks up. Not fast, but harder. More pressure. More control. He’s fucking you like he owns you—like he earned this. Like he waited two weeks for the chance to bury himself so deep in you, you’d never forget what it felt like to be full of him.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, sweat dotting his temple. “My bratty little baby. Thought you could tease me, huh?”

You whine—shaking beneath him, overstimulated already, toes curling with every thick, slow stroke.

“Missed this cock so much,” he murmurs, voice rough as he licks the sweat from your neck. “Should’ve begged. Should’ve dropped to your knees the second I got home.”

He pulls out just slightly—just the tip—before slamming back in, hard.

You scream.

He does it again. And again. Punishing. Precise.

“But no,” he growls. “You wanted to act up. So now? You get fucked how I say.”

Your hands claw at his back. Your nails leave marks. Your eyes roll back when he grabs your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod, crying now.

“You wanna fall apart all over my cock?”

You sob, “Please.”

He leans down. Mouth at your ear. Voice like a fucking curse. “Then earn it.”

He lets go of your throat, pulls your legs up higher around his hips, changes the angle—and fucks into you so deep you see white. Your hands shoot up, grabbing at his chain again. You yank it between your teeth, moaning around the metal like it’s your only lifeline.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Bite down. Be good. Take every inch.”

He’s fucking you hard now. Relentless. The bed slams against the wall, your cries muffled by the chain in your mouth, your body trembling under his. You don’t know where he ends and you begin. All you know is his voice, his cock, his chain, and how fucking close you are.

He knows it too.

Your body is a mess beneath him—shaking, leaking, barely holding on. Your mouth is full of chain and nothing else makes sense. You’re right there.

So he changes it up. Again.

Without warning, he pulls out—just for a second—and grabs your thighs.

You whimper in confusion, but he’s already moving.

He presses your legs together, tight, then lifts them up and folds them toward your chest, locking your thighs against him with one arm. The angle is obscene—your pussy now swollen, dripping, needy, completely exposed to him like a fucking feast.

He lines up again.

“Hold still.”

You can’t move anyway. He thrusts back in, all at once. You moan.

“Oh my god—”

“Yeah?” he growls, voice cracking. “That’s what you wanted?”

His arm flexes as he locks your legs to his chest, other hand gripping the headboard for leverage as he slams into you—deep, brutal, unforgiving.

Your mouth falls open. The chain slips from your lips, damp and clinking against your chest as your head tips back, jaw slack.

You’re drooling. Literally. You don’t even realize it. And still—still—he doesn’t let you cum. “You feel that?” he pants. “Hear how fucking wet you are?”

Slap slap slap—your pussy sounds obscene, slick gushing down your ass, pooling beneath you as he fucks into the tight, hot mess he’s made of you.

“You fucking live for this cock, don’t you?”

You nod, eyes rolled back, moaning like you’ve already cum three times.

“Say it,” he snaps, thrusts slamming into you. “Say you’re cockdrunk. Say you need it.”

You try.

Nothing comes out.

You’re babbling, lips trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“What’s that, baby? Can’t talk?” he mocks, voice half-gone, fully feral. “Already gone and I haven’t even let you cum?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and angry, twitching with the effort to hold back—but he doesn’t break. Not yet.

He wants you ruined.

He wants you begging.

“Not yet,” he growls. “You’re not there yet.”

You choke on a sob, head thrashing, arms reaching up to grab anything—his wrist, his chain, the sheets—but it’s not enough. The pressure in your gut is unbearable. Your cunt’s fluttering around him like you’re already mid-orgasm. You’re leaking down his balls, dripping from the stretch, absolutely wrecked.

And he loves it.

“You’ll cum,” he promises, fucking deeper, harder. “But not until you break. Not until you’re drooling and sobbing and begging for it with that pretty little voice I own.”

Your brain’s gone fuzzy.

Nothing left but heat and pressure and the sound of him—filthy, brutal, mercilessly deep. Your body isn’t even yours anymore. You’re limp in his hold, legs pressed together and pinned to his chest while his cock splits you open over and over, dragging against that spot inside you with every punishing thrust.

And you still haven’t cum. You can’t cum. Not until he says.

“Come on, baby,” he growls, his voice wrecked with effort. “Where’s that sweet little voice now?”

You sob, drooling down your chin, lips trembling around broken words that won’t form. “Nngh—Ch-Chan, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he moans. “Beg for it.”

Your hands claw uselessly at the sheets. “P-please,” you cry. “Please—I n-need—I can’t—Channie, please—your cock, I need it—need to cum—please—”

Your cunt clenches around him so hard it nearly makes him lose rhythm. He grunts, digging his fingers into your thighs, pace faltering just enough to grind deep before resuming that relentless rhythm.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he snarls. “Dripping all over me, baby. You’re gonna ruin the bed.”

“I-I don’t care—please, please—”

Your body twitches, helpless under him, tears leaking into your hairline, mouth open and glossy, his name the only thing you know how to say.

“Say what you are.”

“Wh—what?”

He thrusts hard, knocking the breath out of you. “Say what. You. Are.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m yours—I’m your fucktoy—I’m cockdrunk, I—”

“You’re what?”

“I’m cockdrunk, Channie—please—please let me cum—”

He slams into you so deep you nearly scream, chest arching into his grip, your vision flickering to white. “That’s right,” he moans, voice unravelling. “That’s my baby. All mine. This pussy—mine. Say it.”

“Yours—yours—yours—!”

“You wanna cum?”

“Please—”

“Then fucking do it.”

Your body shatters. It’s not even an orgasm—it’s a detonation. You clamp down around him, sobbing, your whole body convulsing as wave after wave crashes through you. You can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t even scream. All you can do is feel.

Feel him. Feel the stretch. Feel your pussy gush around his cock as you cum so hard it feels like it might kill you.

He doesn’t stop.

“That’s it,” he groans, fucking you through it. “Fucking soak me, baby—fuck—fuck—you’re milking my cock—”

Your mind’s gone. You’re nothing but a trembling, cockdrunk mess, tears and drool smeared across your face, still whispering “yours, yours, yours” under your breath like a prayer.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he pants, voice cracked and breaking. “Gonna fill you up—fuck—can I, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes fluttering. “Give it to me—want it—want all of it—please—”

And then he breaks.

He fucks into you one last time—deep, desperate, final—and lets go with a raw, shuddering moan as he empties inside you, cock pulsing, hot cum spilling into your still-clenching pussy.

“Fuckfuckfuck—baby—”

He collapses over you, chain dragging across your chest, both of you soaked, panting, trembling messes.

And still…

You whisper, barely conscious, lips ghosting his ear: “Yours.”

Your body is done. You don’t even register the moment he pulls out—all you feel is the warmth spilling down your thighs, his cum leaking out slow and heavy as your pussy pulses in the aftermath.

You try to speak. Nothing comes out but a sigh and a tiny broken whimper.

He huffs a soft laugh above you, lips brushing your temple as he shifts just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth. You’re too wrecked to return it—eyes fluttering, fingers twitching in the sheets, hair a sweaty halo around your face.

“That’s what my pouty baby gets, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and too smug. “Act like a brat, get fucked stupid.”

You let out a soft, slurred noise.

He kisses you again—this time on your nose. Then your forehead. Then both cheeks. “You did so good for me,” he whispers, hand cupping your jaw. “Took it all like my perfect girl."

You blink up at him. Barely coherent. “Mmhnn…you’re…annoying.”

“Aww,” he coos, grin wide. “You sound so mad for someone who just came like her soul was leaving her body.”

“You ruined me.”

“Damn right I did.”

He kisses your lips, slow and deep, like he’s trying to pour himself back into you. His tongue licks into your mouth with lazy heat, but now it’s tender. Now it’s grounding. His chain is still resting against your skin. You reach up, weakly tug it.

“Still on,” you whisper.

“You earned it,” he says softly. “Might keep it on since you like it that much.”

Your thighs twitch. He notices. Of course he notices.

“Oh, now you’re getting greedy again?” he laughs, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’re leaking my cum and still trying to start something?”

You whine. He grins and kisses you quiet again. Then he finally shifts—gently—lifting your legs, helping you unfold from the wrecked, folded position. You hiss when your body relaxes, muscles trembling. He hushes you instantly. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

He eases you onto your side, tugs the blankets up, and disappears for just a moment.

You hear the faucet. The soft clink of a glass.

He returns with a warm towel, cleans you carefully—between your thighs, over your stomach, around the curve of your ass where the sheets are soaked. You flinch at first, but his touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “My messy, fucked-out girl.”

He kisses your knee.

“My perfect pouty baby.”

Then he tosses the towel aside, climbs into bed, and pulls you into his chest like he’s never letting go. You curl up instantly—limp, warm, safe. His arms wrap around your back, one hand stroking your spine. His lips stay near your temple.

You nuzzle in deeper. “Gonna sleep for a week,” you mumble.

“Gonna feed you first,” he murmurs. “Then let you sleep. Then fuck you again.”

“Chan—”

“What?” he grins. “My baby was hungry. I provided.”

“Provided a near-death experience.”

“You’re welcome.”

You laugh—weakly. He presses a kiss right over your pulse. “You okay?” he asks, quiet now. Real. “Too much?”

You shake your head against his chest. “Perfect.”

“Good. ‘Cause next time, I’m making you cum around my tongue five times before I even think about fucking you.”

Your breath catches. He just smirks.

“Sleep now, sweetheart,” he whispers, grinning against your hair. “You’ve earned it.” And you do—out like a light, drooling on his chest while he smirks like the menace he is.

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