#or maybe there are and i’m just fucking stupid

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[anonf1writer]

the reaction after he stands up for his family — single parent universe

second part to this.

text au. ig post. 2k words. drivers: max, charles, oscar and lando.

note: i promised there would be a second part, and here it is. i tried something different, so i hope i didn’t disappoint (although i have the feeling already this wont be everyones cup of tea, so im sorry in advance!).

thank you to everyone who sent requests that led me to create this cute universe. ive had the greatest time with it, and i know it wouldnt have happened without your ideas. so thank you ❤️

──────────────────

MAX

First, came the soft click of Oliver’s bedroom door, and then the lazy thump of Max’s feet making his way back to you. 

Leaning your side against the kitchen counter, you knew a conversation was coming. From the moment you heard the question and turned the TV off, to the moment Max arrived home with a smile on his face, you knew it wouldn’t be something either of you could ignore. 

“Fucking hell,” he murmured as soon as he stepped into view, both hands running up and down his face. “I can’t remember the last time I wanted to punch someone’s stupid face this fucking much.”

You pressed your lips together and shifted on your feet, stepping away from the counter. This was the first moment alone the two of you had gotten after the race, the first moment without a little boy demanding attention, and the first moment Max was finally letting it all out. The anger, the frustration, the disappointment. So you didn’t want to shush him. You didn’t want to tell him he shouldn’t be cursing and swearing right now, that he should be careful, that he should think before he spoke. It didn’t seem fair to him, especially after he had clearly tried his best to put on a fantastic show in front of your son. 

“Did you watch it?” he asked, voice closer than before.

You nodded, removing the whistling kettle from the hob and stepping towards the empty mugs. “Just saw the video. We were watching it live on TV, but I turned it off as soon as I noticed what was happening.”

“Shit.”

“Oli didn’t hear a thing tho, don’t worry about it.”

You took your time filling the first mug, watching how the tea bag floated and swayed in the water, then eventually sank into the bottom. 

“They were so out of line,” Max said, his voice a quiet whisper in the bright kitchen. “I can’t believe that question even crossed their minds.” 

“I know…” 

“But I caught his name,” Max added. “And I had a meeting with the team as soon as I called the interview off. I’ll make sure that guy doesn’t get a fucking word from me anymore.”

You nodded again, and poured boiling water into the other mug. His mug. 

A moment went by before you felt him. Before he wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, and pressed his chest against your back. 

“You ok?” he asked, voice low and too close to your ear. 

You placed the kettle back in place and nodded, one hand resting on his forearm and the other reaching to touch his face. 

“Yeah…” you said, your body instantly leaning into him. “I’m just… I hate that you had to go through that.”

Max nodded, his facial hair brushing your skin as he moved to kiss your palm. Once, and twice. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “For putting you two in this position.”

At that, you frowned. You dropped your hand and shifted on your feet, turning to properly face him. 

Max’s exhaustion was written all over him. But there was also worry there. Maybe a little bit of fear, too. 

“Hey,” you said, hands cradling his cheeks, eyes firm inside his gaze. “Don’t be silly. What you did for us was amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The way you stood up for us… The fact that you won’t let anyone speak about our son like that… That’s what I care about.” 

He sighed, then leaned in. Forehead resting against yours while he closed his eyes. 

“Our son,” he repeated, like he was savouring the words. 

“Mhmm…” You nodded, slightly. Just for him to feel the movement face to face, skin to skin. “It was really hot, y’know? To see you like that…”

Max smirked. Eyes staying close while he listened to you.

“The way you talked about us… How you got all worked up… When you said ‘that kid is mine’?” You sighed. Loudly than you normally would. Your hands moving down to his neck, shoulders, then back to cradle his face. “And then when you stormed off… Damn you, Max.”

A low, amused chuckle escaped from his chest, his whole body shaking lightly against you. “I should’ve figured you’d like that.”

“You should, yeah…”

You leaned in, then. Your lips barely meeting his before you pulled back again.

Max reacted instantly, taking a step forward and fully pressing you onto the counter, his feet slotting between your legs. “Hate teasing,” he murmured, already crashing your mouths together for a much needier kiss. 

You smiled, his lips barely giving you any time before he was capturing them again. 

And again. 

And again. 

──────────────────

CHARLES

──────────────────

OSCAR

──────────────────

LANDO

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Lando said, leaning against the handrail and watching Olivia run around the synthetic grass of the paddock. Just like you had been doing for the past ten minutes or so. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said. “They were the ones who crossed the line.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts,” you said, curling your lips into a smile just in case someone was watching you. “Like I said, it wasn’t your fault. That’s not up for discussion.”

Next to you, Lando sighed. Loudly. 

You heard it, you felt it. 

His unhappiness with your answer.

So you shifted on your feet, crossed your arms on your chest, and kept your eyes ahead as you said, “You stood up for her. That’s what matters to me. I wish these things didn’t happen at all, but it’s not up to us. We can’t control what others say or do, but we can control how we react to it. And the way you reacted… That’s how I want it to be. So as long as you stand up for her, just like you did today, then you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

For a moment, Lando didn’t talk. Didn’t move. Didn’t react. He just stared ahead, focusing on the little girl that had everyone’s attention as she distributed papaya-unicorn stickers all around. And then, when you thought he would finally speak up, he just coughed and looked away. As if taking a break to organize himself before returning his gaze back to her. 

To your daughter. 

Yours, and his. 

“Should we go inside?” you asked. “Talk inside?”

He shook his head. “She’s having fun… I just… I wanna watch her for a while.”

You nodded, but your heart skipped at that, and you couldn’t help but sigh and take a step closer to him. Unwillingly. Without thinking. 

Elbow almost, almost touching his arm. 

Lando’s whole body stiffened. 

He stretched his legs, straightened his back, and pulled his arms closer to his sides. 

And the tiniest gasp left his mouth. 

Once again, you couldn’t help yourself—you snorted, bringing your hand to cover your mouth and lowering your chin to look down at your feet.

“What?” he asked, quietly. But you could hear the smile in his voice. The amusement. Growing just like yours.

“Shut up,” you said, muffled behind your hand. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

Shaking your head, you held back your laughter and looked up, eyes meeting your oblivious daughter. Happy and full of energy amidst so many strangers. 

You dropped your hand back down to cross your arm around your chest, and after a beat, you murmured, “I can already imagine a video going viral…”

You caught the way he nodded. 

Neither of you ever facing each other.

But keeping the conversation for only the two of you to hear. 

“Lando Norris avoids contact with his girlfriend,” he said. 

And then, you cackled. Dropping your head back and laughing to the sky while bringing both hands to cover your mouth. 

Next to you, Lando chuckled as well, albeit not as hard. The soft sound making its way to you and adding extra warmth to your already heated cheeks. 

He waited until you had calmed down before speaking again, the playfulness hinted in each syllable of each word. “Little do they know… All along, I’m the one who’s been deprived of love.”

“Oh my God,” you grunted and laughed. A mix between disbelief, but also joy. “You’re so dramatic.” 

“Dramatic? Please. I’m just a boy… Standing next to a—”

You gasped and turned your body, leaning onto your side so you could face him. 

“—a girl… Asking her to hold my hand.”

“Lando…”

“Or give me a hug.”

“You do not get to quote my favorite movie back at me.”

He shook his head, eyes still fixed ahead of him. “Just anything,  really.” 

You pressed your lips together and turned back to Olivia, a sigh leaving your chest while you watched her engage in a conversation with some other kids she had met earlier that day. 

“You know that’s not how it works.”

Lando, on the other hand, simply smirked to himself.

“What I know is that you won’t love me in public.” 

“Because you get way too handsy!” you reminded him. “And you don’t know how to kiss me in public. You always end up going for a full make out session. Why is it so hard to keep it simple?”

“Because it’s you!” he laughed. “Can’t help it if you’re irresistible!”

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “If you can’t help it, then we stick to my rules.” 

“Fine.” 

“No PDA.”

“I know.”

“That’s all.”

“Yep.”

You sighed. 

He sighed. 

Max and Pietra stepped out of hospitality, both of them stopping to chat with Olivia before she pointed straight at where you were. Lando’s best friend looked at you and nodded with understanding, meanwhile his girlfriend waved and lowered her weight to get Livie’s attention. 

You knew, from that on, that Max and Pietra would keep an eye on her. That they would stay around and give you two a chance to take a little break, like they usually did. 

“I never thought I could get so mad at someone,” Lando blurted out. So out of nowhere that you needed to blink a couple times to make sense of it. “I’m watching her right now and it’s just… Look at her… She’s the cutest child around here… She’s kind to everyone… Makes everyone laugh… Always has the funniest, most random comments… And she’s so sassy and bold in such an adorable way… She’s just perfect. How can they… I mean how can they even ask something like that? I don’t get it.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you found yourself unable to reply.

“I meant what I said, y’know? About being proud of being her dad… I know it’s not on the paper… But I don’t mind that… Like it won’t make me love her any differently… What we have now it’s something I’ve earned, y’know? We’ve built it from scratch… I know you wouldn’t have allowed me to be here if you didn’t mean it… So I just… I can’t imagine my life without you anymore… Both of you. And I hate that they tried to use that against me… Because they knew what they were doing when they asked that… They knew they would touch a nerve…”

The emotions in his voice touched your nerves, your instincts, your need to protect him and stand up for him. And before you knew it, you were already walking. Already stepping away from the handrail, turning to him and closing the distance. Until you were standing in front of him and then close enough to crush your body to his. Wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek against his chest. 

“Whoa…” Lando stumbled the slightest, the handrail keeping him in place as he placed both arms around your shoulders and kept you close. Close. Close. Close. “Hold on with the PDA, love.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled. “Just take it.”

At that, he chuckled. Chin pressed on your temple and arms squeezing you tightly. 

“Your favorite words.”

“Lando!”

“What?!”

You pinched his hip, and he flinched.

“Heyyy!” he laughed.

You smiled, cheek all nuzzled onto him while the world kept moving around you. While the public walked up and down the paddock. While curious eyes and intruding cameras watched you. 

“I love you,” you said. “And I’m so proud of you. Really. Thank you, for everything you do. For who you are. I can’t imagine our lives without you anymore, too. I don’t want to know what it would be like to go back to a life without you. So again, thank you.”

“Who are you and what—”

“Lando!” 

“Ok, ok,” he laughed. “I’m shy, I get nervous…” 

“I know, but I had to say it.”

He shifted his arms, his hug getting both gentler and tighter at the same time. 

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear. “And I can’t wait to show you how much. But Livie is running up to us right now, so I’ll keep it to myself for now… Just for now.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

──────────────────

[mooningningg]

notes, I feel like after all that tension ya'll deserve action, ty anon for requesting.

★ Roommate!Sukuna kisses you.

It started with a bet.

Because of course it did.

“You’re bluffing,” you snorted, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “You talk a big game, Sukuna, but you wouldn’t last five minutes in my lecture hall.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think I give a fuck about Western Civ? I could pass that class with a hangover and one eye open.”

You arched a brow. “Oh yeah? Name me one Enlightenment philosopher.”

He blinked. “...Voltaggio.”

“Voltaire, dumbass.”

He scoffed. “Same shit.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly exited your body. “Okay, bet. You fail the next quiz in my class, you'll do my laundry for a week.”

His grin was instant, sharp. “Fine. But if I do—”

“You won’t,” you interjected.

“—then you gotta kiss me.”

Your laugh choked in your throat. “What?!”

He shrugged, completely casual, like he hadn’t just dropped a full grenade into your afternoon. “Scared you’ll like it?”

You scoffed. “No. Scared you’ll start writing my name in cursive after.”

“Bold of you to assume I know cursive.”

You threw a kitchen towel at his head. He caught it. You hated him.

You forgot about the bet.

Sukuna didn’t.

Three days later, he slapped a graded quiz onto the coffee table in front of you, looking like a smug devil in sweats.

A B+. You squinted. “How—”

“I cheated off the nerd in the front row,” he said proudly.

You stared at the paper, then at him. “You don’t deserve this kiss.”

He shrugged. “Wasn’t about deserving it, babe.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Pucker up.”

“Ew. Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, I’m the one making it weird?”

He just smirked. “Let’s get it over with, princess.”

So you leaned in.

Fully intending to do a stupid, quick, no-emotion peck. Something harmless. Forgettable.

But then… something happened.

Maybe it was the way he leaned forward too, just a second before you met him. Or how his hand came to rest against your jaw like muscle memory. Or the way his lips pressed too slowly, too firmly, like he wasn’t planning to stop anytime soon.

And maybe—maybe it was the heat that surged between you two like the air itself changed.

Your chest brushed his. He tilted his head. You kissed back.

Harder.

You didn’t mean to. That’s the worst part.

You didn’t mean for your hands to find the fabric of his hoodie or for him to press you into the back of the couch like gravity lost its damn mind. It just happened.

You both broke apart a breath later, stunned. Breathing fast. Too close.

Your eyes were wide. “...That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sukuna stared at you. His lips were red. Voice low.

“I’m not fuckin’ complaining.”

You blinked. “You liked it.”

He scowled. “You liked it.”

“You’re still leaning in.”

He jerked back like you burned him. “Shut up.”

You grinned, a little breathless. “You liked it so bad.”

He stood up, flustered, grabbing his phone. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“You’re gonna write my name in your diary.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re gonna start calling me baby on accident.”

He was halfway down the hall now. “This is why I should’ve just failed.”

You sat back on the couch, fingers still tingling from where you grabbed his hoodie.

…You liked it, too. Worst of all.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears

[myluckyluv]

“You’re still acting like you don’t want this,” Jinu drawled, voice low and dripping with smugness as he stepped into your space.

You glared at him, arms crossed, lips tight. “Maybe because I don’t.” His smirk grew. “Liar.”

Before you could respond, he grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back gently but firmly. Your breath caught — not in fear, but in the stupid, electric thrill that always came with him.

“You’re so bratty,” he whispered against your cheek. “Bet you get off on pretending you’ve got control.”

You opened your mouth to snark back, but it came out as a gasp when his hand slid down your waist and palmed between your legs — confident, deliberate. “Already wet,” he murmured. “Didn’t take much, did it?”

“F-Fuck you.” “Oh, you will,” he said with a grin, dragging you toward the wall.

Your back hit it hard. His hips pressed into yours. You squirmed, still clinging to the last scraps of dignity as his mouth devoured your neck, hands roaming, teasing, slapping your thigh. “Beg,” he ordered, biting at your collarbone. “Come on, brat. You’ve got such a smart mouth — use it.”

You refused. So he grabbed your throat — not tight, just enough to still you — and rolled his hips. “I said beg.” “I don’t beg,” you hissed as your body bucked toward him.

His palm cracked across your ass, then again between your legs. You gasped. “Try again.”

“Please,” you spat, “just shut up and fuck me.” He groaned at that. Spun you around. Yanked your pants down just enough. No more patience. “Spread your legs. You wanna act like a brat, I’ll fuck you like one.”

The first thrust was rough. Deep. You bit down a cry as he pulled your hair, hips snapping against your ass with perfect rhythm. “This what you needed?” he grunted. “Getting used like this?” You whimpered — not a yes, not a no. Just desperate.

“Say it,” he growled, slapping your clit hard enough to make you twitch. “Say you love it.” You choked, nails clawing the wall. “I… love it.” “Good girl.” He kept going. Harsher. Filthier. Until you were trembling, begging, undone. And still, he didn’t let you come.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Not until you beg like you mean it.” “Fuck!,” you cried.

“I’m gon—oh my god!, fuck—I’m gonna to kill you—”

“Sure you are.”

And when he gave it to you — fast, hard, merciless — your legs nearly gave out. You came with a sob, clenching around him, wrecked. Owned.

Jinu chuckled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he slowed. “You call that resistance?” You were still gasping. “You’re—such an asshole.” “Yeah,” he said, cocky grin spreading again. “But you love that too.”

This movie just came out but I NEED jinu in me like now

[undyingdecay]

Hiiii so I was thinking something about Bob and premature ejaculation? And he’d get so embarrassed but reader holds him and tells him that’s ok—yeah some smutty fluff 😭

- ��

bob is the poster boy for this t sort of thing — not cocky, not smooth, just desperate and overeager and too fucking sensitive for his own good.

it’s not supposed to happen like this though.

bob had all these stupid, sweaty, daydreamed-out ideas about how tonight would go. how he was gonna take his time. be slow and good for you. mayb even make you come first — prove to himself he could handle it, that he could be the kind of man you’d wanna keep around.

but bob’s never been good at controlling himself. not when it comes to you.

becaus the second you get him between your thighs — warm and slick and looking up at him with those pretty, heavy-lidded eyes — it’s over. his brain short-circuits, his breath catches, and suddenly he’s sixteen again, fucking his fist thinking about a girl who never even knew his name.

you moan his name — just a little breathy thing, soft and sweet — and that’s it. it snaps whatever fragile thread of control he thought he had.

his stomach tightens. his hips stutter. and then he’s spilling inside you before he’s even gotten a rhythm going, face buried in your neck with a broken, mortified sound that isn’t quite a whimper and isn’t quite a sob.

“fuck—fuck, i’m sorry, baby—”

his voice cracks around it. his hands trembling where they’re braced on either side of your head, too scared to look at you, already trying to pull out like he can undo it somehow.

“i didn’t—I swear i didn’t mean to, it’s just—you’re so fuckin’ pretty, and you were makin’ those sounds, and—are you mad? i’ll hold it better next time i promise, one more chance”

he’s breathing too fast. going red from his neck to his hairline, damp with sweat, eyes wet in that glassy, embarrassed way he gets when he thinks he’s fucked up beyond fixing.

but you’re already catching his face in your hands, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone. pulling him down into you, keeping him there when he tries to pull away.

“hey, hey,” you murmur, lips against his temple. “it’s okay, bobby. it’s okay.”

and it is. because the way he’s clinging to you now — small, needy, too ashamed to even meet your eyes — is the whole reason you wanted him in your bed to begin with. it was never abot how long he’d last or how many times he could make you come. it was about this. about bob letting himself fall apart in your arms, about him trusting you enough to show you the parts he’s ashamed of.

you feel him shudder against you, the hot, damp weight of his body pressing into yours, and you run your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to get him to meet your gaze.

“was it that good?”

and it’s a tease, yeah — but a soft one. gentle, more fond than mocking.

he groans, hiding his face against your neck again, and you feel his mouth move against your skin. a barely-there “m’sorry,” and you shush him, carding your fingers through his hair.

“don’t be. you’re so good for me, bob.”

you can feel him relax, just a litle. hips still pressed against yours, his softening cock twitching where it’s still nestled inside. you hum, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“c’mon,” you whisper. “we’ll go again. you’ll show me how good you can be.”

and you feel the little shiver that runs through him. because yeah — you both know he will.

[marsdql]

hiii may I request a best friend’s brother fic with jay where reader has liked him ever since they were little and he’s super popular with girls so like reader feels like she’ll never get a chance but one day things change between them 🙈

hehe well well well.. hehehehe okay this one deserves some warnings. Btw to all the ppl in my inbox… Istg I’m getting to y’all!!!!!!!!!! I see u all queens and kings >w<

18+ mdni: smut, angst then fluff at the end, dubcon, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, crying during sex, emotinal manipulation, toxic relationship, READER IS A CRYYYYYY BABYYYYYYY LIKE WAHWAHWAH, mean jay but he redeems himself, soft aftercare at the end, prob more so read at ur own risk. :>

You shouldn’t have come.

You told yourself that the moment you stepped into Lelye’s house that afternoon, the moment her brother’s car pulled into the driveway like it always did—loud engine, louder ego—and he stepped out like he owned the air you breathed.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Maybe a year. But you knew you hadn’t stopped noticing him.

Jongseong.

Even the name made your throat feel tight. It was humiliating, the way your body reacted just seeing him. That stupid smirk. The cologne that hit you seconds after he passed by. The way he called your name—soft, mocking, always aware of what it did to you.

He looked at you that evening like he knew. Of course he knew.

You’d loved him when you were 16, but that was just a childish obsession. This—whatever this heat under your skin was—this was something worse.

Leyle had fallen asleep with a movie still playing, her room dim and silent except for the muffled dialogue on screen. You couldn’t sleep. You were too full of all the things you never got to say, the way his voice still lived in your bones, the way his girlfriend Karina had once pushed past you in the hall like you were invisible. You remembered the way Jay kissed her neck in the kitchen when you were fourteen. You remembered the jealousy you weren’t allowed to have.

You ended up in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, knees pulled into your chest. Crying. You didn’t even know why exactly—maybe because it still hurt, maybe because he still looked at you like you were breakable. Or maybe because he didn’t look at you much at all.

You thought you locked the door.

“Yo.” His voice came like static in your chest. “Why the fuck are you crying?”

You looked up, and there he was. Jay. Towering in the doorway, messy hair, black hoodie hanging low on his hips, boxers peeking out from his joggers. His jaw was sharp, his expression unreadable.

Your breath caught. You shrank into yourself instinctively.

“Get out,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I-I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?” he mocked, stepping in and pushing the door shut behind him. He didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to. “Then why are you crying in the fucking dark like a ghost?”

You didn’t know what to say. You hated how hot your face was. How your voice cracked. You couldn’t even look at him.

He crouched in front of you slowly, leaning his forearms on his thighs. “Damn. You really cry that easy, huh?”

You flinched at the tone—half entertained, half annoyed.

“D-don’t make fun of me…”

“I’m not,” he said, low, his gaze flicking over your tear-streaked cheeks. “Well, maybe a little. You’re still the same little girl, huh?”

“I’m not a little girl,” you said too quickly.

He laughed—just a small, cruel sound in his throat. “Oh, you wanna be a grown woman now? Is that what this is?”

You blinked, confused, scared, heart slamming. “What are you talking about?”

Jay tilted his head, watching you. His voice dropped, quieter. “You’ve been staring at me all day.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“I notice,” he said. “I’ve always noticed.”

You wanted to die. You wanted to melt into the tile.

“I—I’m sorry—”

“Shh.” He lifted a hand, brushed his thumb under your eye. “You’re so damn soft. Still cry when I look at you too long. But you came here like that, didn’t you? Wearing that little tank top. Walking around my house.”

“I-It’s Leyle’s house—”

He laughed again, darker this time. “You think she doesn’t know you want me?”

You gasped.

“You’ve been obsessed with me since you were in 10th grade,” he said bluntly. “You think I didn’t see that shit in your eyes?”

You couldn’t take it. You turned your head, humiliated, but he caught your jaw in his hand.

“Look at me.”

You whimpered.

“I said look at me.”

You did.

He leaned in. “Say it. Say you still want me.”

Your throat burned. Your eyes filled again. “I… I do.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s what I thought.”

His lips were on you in the next breath—soft at first, like he was testing you, then harsher. Taking. Tasting. His hand cupped your cheek while the other tugged you to your feet.

You stumbled, and he caught you. “So fuckin’ innocent,” he muttered against your mouth. “Don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?”

You shook your head.

He groaned like that turned him on more. “Come here.”

You didn’t remember how you got to his room. Maybe he pulled you. Maybe you followed.

He pushed you down on his bed and hovered over you, hoodie off now, body warm and heavy as he kissed you again—deeper, hungrier. You could barely breathe.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice husky against your neck.

You didn’t. Not a single sound came out of you.

“Say you want me,” he growled, teeth brushing your ear.

“I want you,” you whispered.

He didn’t wait after that. Your clothes ended up somewhere on the floor—soft cotton, pastel lace, completely out of place against his black sheets.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, dragging his hands down your sides. “So fuckin’ scared of me.”

“I’m not—”

“Liar,” he smirked. It’s like he was amused to know that he intimated you.

You cried again—a soft sob in your throat. He paused, cocking his head.

“Oh baby, no. Don’t do that,” he said, voice mocking but low. “What are you crying for now? You wanted this, remember?”

“I-I know, I just— I can’t help it—”

He touched your face again, this time with something gentler in his eyes. “Fuck. You’re really like this, huh? Cry when I touch you. Cry when I don’t.”

You whimpered again.

He kissed you softer then—like he was suddenly sorry for the way he spoke. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head.

He dragged a hand down your chest, mouth following. “Then take it, baby. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He alternated between teasing and mocking you, then babying you when your breath hitched too fast. He told you how warm you were, how tight, how sweet.

He made you cry again and kissed your tears. He told you you were perfect and then called you “his little mess.” He went slow until you asked him to go faster. He stayed inside you until your legs trembled. He kissed your shoulder after like it meant something.

Later, you were tucked under his sheets, his arm draped over your waist. He smelled like sin and soap. You were still trying to catch your breath.

He was still inside you when the first real sob slipped out. Quiet, but trembling.

“Still crying?” he asked lazily, brushing your cheek.

You nodded, just a little.

“Tch,” he scoffed, but his fingers were playing with your hair. “So sensitive. You’re really not made for people like me.”

You said nothing.

He rolled closer, his mouth against your ear. “You gonna fall in love with me now, baby?”

You stayed quiet. He laughed again—quieter this time. “Too late, huh?”

You closed your eyes. His hand slipped under your shirt again, just resting there. Like he wasn’t planning to let you leave.

He kissed your temple. “Sleep. I’ll keep you warm.”

And somehow, you believed him.

Even if you shouldn’t have.

You couldn’t sleep. Your body was shaking. Not from fear. Not exactly. From the ache in your thighs, the overwhelming pressure in your chest, the raw emotion that clung to your lungs like smoke. You were still on his bed —on Jay’s bed— half-covered in his sheets, hair sticking to your face, and your skin burning in places you didn’t know could burn.

His hand, which had been resting lazily on your waist, went still.

“Oh my god, again? You crying again?” he said, breath still heavy and voice husky.

You nodded, barely.

“Shit.”

He pulled back gently, and you winced at the sore stretch. He looked down at you, something unreadable flashing across his face. Sweat at his temples. Jaw tight. Still flushed. But not cocky anymore.

You turned your face to the pillow, ashamed. You hated crying. You cried more than you spoke. You hated that he saw you like this—ruined, aching, pathetic. Like a little girl, not the grown woman you tried to be Infront of him.

“Don’t,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t be mean…”

He blinked. “The fuck?”

You hiccuped. “I know you’re going to say something — something shitty. Like I’m weak, or stupid, or— or—”

He cut you off with a sudden, sharp click of his tongue. “Ayo. What the hell do you think I am?”

You didn’t answer. Your bottom lip was trembling too hard.

He stared at you for a second. Then, to your shock, he sighed — like he was annoyed with himself, not you — and leaned down. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

“It’s been like 30 minutes and you still haven’t calmed down. You’re really crying this hard?” he murmured, quieter now.

You nodded, humiliated.

“You okay?” His voice had dropped, not teasing, not mocking—something closer to careful.

“I-It hurt, it was good but it hurt,” you whispered, barely audible. “A-and I didn’t know I would feel so much— it’s just— I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re sorry for what?” he cut in, staring down at you, like you’d just said the dumbest thing in the world.

“I ruined it—”

“You didn’t ruin shit,” he muttered. “Shut up.”

You flinched.

Then: his hand moved again, softening. He touched your cheek — warm palm against tear-streaked skin—and tilted your face back toward him.

His expression had shifted.

Something in his eyes flickered, as if he were trying to hide something. Not rage. Not cruelty. Something like… guilt? Tenderness? You couldn’t name it.

“You should’ve told me you were a virgin,” he said finally, voice quieter now.

“I thought you’d laugh…”

He exhaled hard through his nose, almost like he was restraining himself. “Dumb little thing.”

More tears. You didn’t know why that hurt more than it should have.

But then—his lips brushed your forehead.

“I didn’t mean that,” he muttered, even softer. “Fuck.”

You didn’t move. Just curled into yourself.

He looked at you, lying there—so small in his bed, wearing nothing but one of his hoodies now, face all blotchy, lashes still wet, lip trembling — and something in him cracked.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling you close.

You hesitated, staring at him with big eyes

“I said come here.”

You obeyed. He pulled you back onto his chest, one arm locking around your waist, the other cradling your head like he was trying to protect you from the world—maybe even from him.

“There you go,” he whispered. “There’s my baby.”

You hiccuped again.

“Shh. You did so good, y’know that?” he added, voice low and warm against your hair. “Took me like a good girl. Even when you were scared.”

You whimpered, and he immediately pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Shh, shh. No more crying, princess. It’s okay now. I got you.”

You trembled. “Why are you being nice to me now…?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, finally:

“’Cause I didn’t think you’d break so easy. And don’t make me regret it.”

You curled tighter against him, his heartbeat loud against your ear.

“I always thought you just had a thing for me. Thought maybe you just wanted attention. But…”

He pulled the blanket up over your bare legs and sighed again.

“You looked at me like I was the whole damn sky. Even back then. Shit’s dangerous.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No, baby,” he murmured, voice low and guilty now. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You looked up at him. His jaw was tense again, but his eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them.

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?” he said.

You nodded slowly.

He leaned in, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“You better not cry for anybody else like this,” he whispered.

And when he pulled you tighter into his chest, brushing your hair off your face and murmuring “there’s my good girl” again and again until your eyes finally fluttered closed, you didn’t feel scared anymore.

Just full. And tired. And his, even if you knew he’d still break your heart.

taglist: @teddybeartaetae @heebear @tinycatharsis @kristynaah @heeseungsbm -> join

[moondustbaby]

“What the Hell Was That??”

bsf!Rafe x bsf!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

cw: cursing, a physical fight (scratching/hair pulling level), reader is tipsy and feral, Rafe is smug and hot, best friend to ohhh this is different, one use of “y/n”

summary: You’re not usually the type to start a fight at a party—but when some girl won’t shut up, you snap. Rafe is equal parts shocked, proud, and kind of turned on.

⸻

You were not planning to fight anyone tonight.

You came for the drinks, the music, and the warm summer air. You wore your favorite little top, let Rafe take cute pics of you on his phone, and you’ve been sipping vodka cranberries since nine. That was the plan.

But of course, she had to show up.

Stupid bitch in a strapless dress, fake tan streaked across her collarbone, mouth running since the second she walked in.

At first, it was passive.

A fake smile. A comment about your outfit. A whisper behind your back that she meant for you to hear.

You let it slide. Two drinks in, you laughed it off. You leaned into Rafe’s side and made a joke about how she’s always been obsessed with you.

But by midnight?

She’s still hovering.

Still talking.

Still looking at you like you’re something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

And maybe it’s the fourth drink. Or maybe it’s the way she calls you “Rafe’s little shadow” like you’re not right there—but your blood boils, and something inside you just snaps.

“She keeps saying it,” you mutter, pacing toward the back patio.

Rafe is following you instantly. “Who?”

“That girl. Madison. Whatever the fuck her name is.”

Rafe blinks. “What’s she saying?”

You spin around. “That I’m only here because of you. That I tag along everywhere. That I’m annoying and desperate and can’t take a hint.”

His face goes blank. Sharp. “She said that to you?”

You nod. “Loudly.”

Rafe’s jaw tightens. “Do you want me to say something—?”

“No,” you say, already turning. “I got it.”

You’re already storming back through the house, weaving through bodies and beer breath and bass-thumping walls. Rafe tries to catch your wrist, but you’re moving too fast, eyes locked on the girl now laughing near the drink table like she owns the place.

You don’t remember what you said.

You just remember the way her lip curled.

The way her eyes raked over you like you were nothing.

And the next thing you know—you’re grabbing a fistful of her hair.

“Oh my god!” someone screams.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea. Drinks slosh. Phones come out. You and Madison crash onto the floor, a tangle of limbs and shrieking chaos.

“Get off me, psycho bitch!”

“Say it again, I dare you!”

Hands are flying. Nails scrape. She tries to shove you off but you’re still yelling, still writhing, still clinging to her like you’ve blacked out on pure rage.

“Y/N!” Rafe’s voice cuts through the crowd, sharp and frantic. “What the fuck—”

He pushes through the circle of gasping, recording partiers and grabs you under the arms, tugging hard.

“Hey— Enough!”

You’re still flailing, still hurling curses over your shoulder as he drags you away.

“I said don’t talk about me! I will end you—!”

“Okay,” Rafe mutters, wrapping both arms around your waist now. “That’s enough murder threats for the night.”

“She started it!”

“Oh, I believe you.”

“I wasn’t done!”

“You were definitely done, baby,” he says through a breathless laugh.

You don’t stop until he yanks you fully through the back door, pulling you into the cool summer air and slamming it shut behind you. It’s quiet out here—except for the party still raging inside and the sound of your furious breathing.

He’s still holding you.

Your chest heaves against his, face flushed, fists clenched.

Rafe’s staring at you like he’s never seen you before.

“What the hell was that?”

You glare up at him. “I don’t know.”

“Was that a full-on girlfight in the kitchen?”

“She had it coming.”

Rafe blinks.

Then laughs.

Like, laughs.

You yank away from him. “Are you laughing?”

He holds up a hand. “No—yes—I’m just—holy shit. I’ve never seen you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Feral,” he grins. “You were throwing hands.”

You shove his chest. “She was talking shit!”

“I know,” he says quickly. “And I’m not mad. I’m just—baby, you almost took her scalp.”

You pause. “You’re not mad?”

Rafe looks you up and down, eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks, the wild look in your eye.

“No,” he says, voice suddenly low. “I’m kinda proud.”

You blink.

“Like…weirdly turned on,” he adds.

You stare.

He stares back.

And then something shifts.

His hands are still on your arms. Your chest is still heaving. And he’s looking at you like he wants to kiss you, but isn’t sure if he should.

“I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” you mumble.

Rafe steps in, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve never caused a scene in your life.”

“Exactly.”

“Which makes this,” he gestures behind him, “fucking iconic.”

You bite back a smile.

“I didn’t like what she was saying,” you admit softly.

He nods. “I didn’t either.”

“She said I’m just your shadow.”

“She’s stupid.”

You look up at him. “You don’t think I’m clingy?”

Rafe exhales a laugh. “If you are, I must be too—since I literally follow you around like a damn puppy.”

You smile.

“You’re not my shadow,” he says, voice softer now. “You’re my person. And anyone who doesn’t get that can shut the fuck up.”

You look at him.

His hands are still on your waist.

Your heart is pounding.

And before you can even think to question it—he’s kissing you.

It’s not hard or rushed. Just slow. Certain.

Like he’s wanted to for a while.

When he pulls back, his voice is low and playful.

“You’re kinda hot when you’re violent.”

You smack his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He grins. “I’m serious. That was, like…weirdly life-changing.”

“Don’t make this your Roman Empire.”

“Oh, it already is.”

You groan, hiding your face in his chest.

He just laughs again, arms tightening around you as the chaos fades into something warm and steady.

And yeah—maybe you weren’t planning to fight anyone tonight.

But you’ve never been pulled out of a kitchen brawl into a kiss like that before.

So maybe it was worth it.

a/n: hi hi!! this one was based on a request and i had way too much fun writing it lmao. reader going full feral, rafe dragging her out like “baby what the hell was that” and then being all smug and proud?? yes pls. this is unhinged best friends to lovers energy at its finest and i hope you love it! thank you as always for reading!! 🫶🏻

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests! 💌

Masterlist

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉:

@psychicnatural @superlegend216 @rafesbabygirlx @raineshua @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @angelofcigs @tiaajosephin

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

Hey I have a request! What do you think about Girlfriend reader hanging up on rafe multiple times during an argument and then he comes over w smut? 🫶🏽xx

THE ARGUMENT . . .

the argument starts over something dumb—rafe’s pissed because you left a couple of coffee mugs in the sink at his place, and you’re firing back that he’s got no right to lecture you about messes when his truck’s a disaster zone of empty beer cans and gym clothes.

it’s one of those fights that’s more about being annoyed than anything real, but you’re in a mood, all bratty and sharp-tongued, and rafe’s not backing down, his voice loud and clipped over the phone. “you’re actin’ like a damn kid,” he snaps, that outer banks drawl thick with frustration. “just clean up your shit, it ain’t that hard.”

“oh, please,” you scoff, rolling your eyes as you pace your apartment, phone pressed to your ear. “you’re not my dad, rafe. maybe if you weren’t such a slob yourself, i’d listen.”

you’re being extra, you know it, but you’re not in the mood to play nice, so you hang up on him, thumb jabbing the red button with a little too much satisfaction.

your phone buzzes almost immediately, his name lighting up the screen, and you let it ring a few times before picking up, just to make him wait. “what?” you say, voice all attitude, and he’s already heated, you can hear it in the way he’s breathing hard.

“don’t fuckin’ hang up on me,” he says, low and tight, like he’s trying to keep it together. “we’re talkin’ this out.”

“are we?” you shoot back, smirking even though he can’t see it. “’cause it sounds like you’re just yelling. i’m not in the mood, rafe.” and you hang up again, tossing your phone on the couch, feeling that petty thrill run through you. it’s childish, sure, but he’s been on your nerves all day, and you’re not about to let him win this one.

he calls back, of course, and this time you let it go to voicemail, watching the screen flash until it stops. a text comes through a second later:

you’re bein’ a real brat, you know that?

you ignore it, flipping on the tv, trying to distract yourself, but there’s a tiny part of you that’s waiting, knowing he’s not gonna let this slide.

later that night, you’re curled up with a glass of wine when there’s a knock at your door, hard and insistent. you don’t even need to check to know it’s him, and when you open it, rafe’s standing there, looking like a kicked puppy. his hair’s a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his eyes are softer than you’ve seen in a while, all red-rimmed and desperate.

“baby,” he starts, voice low, almost broken, and it’s so unlike him it throws you off. “i’m sorry, aight? i fucked up. i shouldn’t’a yelled about the damn mugs, it’s stupid.”

he steps closer, hands twitching like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “been sittin’ at home, and it’s… it’s fuckin’ empty without you. i hate this shit. i need you, okay? i’m losin’ it.”

you cross your arms, still holding onto that bratty edge, chin tilted up. “you didn’t seem sorry when you were yelling at me,” you say, voice sharp, but you’re already softening, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re his whole world—chipping away at your resolve.

“i know,” he says, stepping into your space, his hands finally landing on your hips, tentative at first, then tighter when you don’t pull away. “i was bein’ a dick. i just… i miss you when you’re not there, and i got all fucked up thinkin’ about you bein’ mad at me.”

he’s practically begging now, his voice rough, needy, and it’s so pathetic, so unlike the usual cocky rafe, that you almost feel bad for him. almost.

“you should be sorry,” you say, but your voice is softer now, and he catches it, his eyes lighting up with a glimmer of hope. “i don’t like fighting over stupid shit.”

“me neither,” he murmurs, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “lemme make it up to you, baby. please.” his hands slide up your sides, and he’s so close you can feel how much he means it, how desperate he is to fix this. “i’ll do whatever you want, just… don’t shut me out.”

you let him kiss you then, soft at first, like he’s afraid you’ll push him away, but when you kiss him back, it’s like a dam breaks. his hands are everywhere, pulling you against him, and he’s murmuring apologies between kisses, his voice thick with that drawl.

all “i’m sorry, baby” and “love you so fuckin’ much.” you’re still a little mad, but it’s hard to stay bratty when he’s like this, all needy and pathetic, like he’d fall apart without you.

he backs you toward the couch, and you let him, your hands in his hair as he kneels between your legs, tugging your shorts down with a kind of reverence that makes your heart skip. “gonna make you feel so good,” he says, voice low, almost a growl, but it’s not cocky now—it’s desperate, like he’s proving something. “my girl deserves everythin’.”

you’re still a little huffy, arms crossed as you look down at him, but the way he’s kissing up your thighs, soft and slow, makes it hard to keep up the act. “you better,” you say, voice sharp, but he just nods, like he’s agreeing with everything you’re saying.

“i will,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, and when his mouth finally finds you, it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s worshipping you.

his tongue moves in lazy circles, teasing, drawing out every sound you try to hold back, and you can feel him watching you, gauging every reaction. “fuck, you taste so good,” he says, voice muffled, and it’s not his usual dirty talk—it’s raw, like he’s pouring himself into every word.

you’re trying to stay composed, but he’s too good, too focused, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you in place as he works you, slow and deep, until you’re squirming, your brattiness melting into something softer, needier. “rafe,” you whimper, and he groans, like hearing his name is enough to push him over the edge.

“that’s it, baby,” he says, lips brushing against you as he speaks, his tongue never stopping. “let me take care of you. my perfect fuckin’ girl.” he’s relentless but gentle, building you up until you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair, your breaths coming fast and shaky.

when you finally come, it’s with a soft cry, your body shaking as he keeps going, drawing it out until you’re oversensitive, pushing at his head. he pulls back, kissing your thighs, your stomach, murmuring, “so good f’me, always so good,” and when he crawls up to kiss you, his lips are wet, his eyes soft and desperate still, like he’s not done proving himself.

“forgive me?” he asks, voice low, his forehead pressed to yours, and you can feel how much he means it, how lonely he must’ve been sitting in that big house without you.

you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “maybe,” you tease, but your voice is soft, and he smiles, kissing you again, like he’s never letting you go.

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

𓂅 taglist ― @littlelamy @dollyfiles @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt @urcoolgf @camercns @pointocean @dsfault @rafestoothbrush @huhidontknowstuff @drewssgirl

[jj-one]

thinking about getting on my knees and grinding on channie’s boot or him pressing it against me maybe even kicking a few times 🥺

OMG I LOVE THIS?!;&:@/@/ i’m totally normal ab this i swear >< but ok so i’m imagining like idol!chan x stylist where there’s a power imbalance between you but you’re willing to do anything to keep this job sofkdkss ok i’ll shut up let’s get into it cw: dubcon, power imbalance, heavy degradation, mean dom!chan (guys pls remember that this is fiction and this doesn’t represent the real him in any shape or form !!)

working as a stylist for one of the major big 3 companies meant you were constantly surrounded by artists, bright, fluorescent lights that are almost headache inducing, long hours— and the quiet pressure of keeping your pathetic crush on chan buried under the guise of professionalism. usually, he made it hard in the worst way with his sweet voice and soft glances, teasing you without even trying, rolling up his sleeves while making small talk that made you weak in the knees.

but today? he wouldn’t even meet your eyes.

he was dead silent, face stone-cold while you touched up his outfit, muscles tense beneath your fingers as you fixed the hem of his blazer. and when you finally dared to speak, something innocent, like asking if he needed anything, he looked at you like you’d just snapped a thread inside him.

“come with me.” his voice was sharp, hand clamping around your wrist, tight enough to sting. you barely had time to react before he’s dragging you down the hallway, past the set, and into one of the vacant storage rooms, filled with racks of old stage outfits and mirror-lined walls. he kicked the door shut behind you and locks it.

you stood there frozen as he looked you up and down, his eyes dark, breath uneven. unsure of whether to speak in fear of agitating him even more. obviously he didn’t come in here to “chat” but you were still confused on what his intentions were.

“you always look at me like that,” he says through gritted teeth, “like you’re just begging to get fucked stupid right in the middle of hair and makeup.”

your lips parted out of shock by his words, but nothing came out. you couldn’t deny it. he could see it written all over your face.

that’s when he grabbed your jaw roughly, forcing you to look him in the eye. his thumb brushed your lip, but there was nothing tender about it.

“you wanna help me take the edge off?” he cocks his head to the side. “then shut up and do exactly as i say.”

before you could even protest, he stepped back and shoved his boot between your legs. the toe of it hitting your inner thigh, parting them with unrelenting force.

“now ride it.” he orders, “make yourself cum on my fucking shoe.”

you whimpered, thighs trembling already. the leather was stiff, unforgiving— and so wrong, so dirty, you felt the rush of heat to your face instantly.

but you did as you were told.

hands bracing on his thighs for anchorage, you ground your soaked cunt against the toe of his boot, your panties already sticking to you, the seam pressing between your folds. the boot’s laced ridges rubbed against your sensitive clit as you rocked forward, desperate and aching.

“fuck,” you breathed, forehead dropping to his chest. “fuck, chan—”

the polished leather curved between your thighs, pressing perfectly against your swollen bundle of nerves with each desperate roll of your hips. you weren’t supposed to like it. you weren’t supposed to moan like this. your body grinding shamelessly on the leather boot of the man whom you thought could do no harm.

chan was watching intently. breathing hard. staring at you like you were some pathetic, messy thing meant solely for his pleasure.

“what a slut,” he murmured, looking down at you like you were so beneath him. “look at you. getting off on my fucking boot. where’s that pretty pride now, huh?”

you whimpered as you rutted against it, slick coating the exterior, thighs twitching with every stroke over your throbbing cunt.

“chan… please—”

“you’re enjoying this aren’t you?” he hissed, yanking your hair so your back arched deeper. “you wanna cum like this? fuck yourself dumb on the same shoes i wear to practice?”

you weakly nodded, hips stuttering with need.

“then earn it,” he snarled, his boot suddenly pulled back, just enough to make your clit miss the pressure. your body jerks at the sudden loss. “i wanna see you ruin yourself on it. cry if you have to. fucking beg.”

and you did.

whining. pleading. hot tears spilling from your eyes as you rode his boot again, rocking your cunt down on the solid leather, against the worn toe cap like it was the only thing that could make you feel human again.

“you thinking about sitting on it?” he mocked, his voice sickly sweet, “bet you’d take it too. bet i could make you cum just from this, without ever touching my cock.”

you sobbed, fingers clawing at his thigh, humping more erratically now, chasing a high you couldn’t quite reach.

but of course, chan wouldn’t let you.

he kicked forward— enough to make your hips jolt, letting out an elongated sigh.

“c’mon,” he coaxed. “be a good little toy. show me how much you love humiliating yourself for me.”

your body spasmed, right on the edge. orgasm hitting you like a wave of fire, and you screamed his name, shaking and twitching as slick gushed down your thighs, coating the laces of his boot with a luminous shine. you collapsed, body quaking, chest heaving, feeling disgusted with yourself yet too lost in pleasure.

he just laughs, speaking to you in the same condescending tone he’s been doing all day.

“good girl,” he whispered, crouching beside you as you lay there spent. “we’ll shine them with your mouth next time.”

[saintormentor]

dirty voicemails c. s

in which . . . chris sends you voicemails of him fucking other girls after the breakup, but why did he call out your name?

content warnings . . . voicemail-style formatting, sexual content involving third parties, emotionally manipulative behavior, degradation / humiliation, possessiveness / jealousy, toxic relationship themes, crying during sex ( implied emotional breakdowns ), references to alcohol and intoxication, masturbation / audio voyeurism, implied dubcon ( in tone, not literal non-consent) , heartbreak / emotional distress, gaslighting / obsessive ex behavior, self-destructive language, graphic language, suggestive audio description breakup aftermath / longing

voicemail #1 . . . 1:24am

“mhm… fuck, yeah, just like that—shit, baby.” panting. soft moans in the background.

he laughs. smug, loose. definitely drunk.

“you hear her? she sounds better than you ever did beggin’ for it.”

a wet slap. another moan. his voice dips—low, cruel.

“i’d tell you to block me, but we both know you won’t.” click.

voicemail #2 . . . 11:09pm

music in the back. maybe a party. girls giggling.

“she’s got a tongue ring. you ever think about getting one?” he’s chewing gum.

a girl moans again. muffled.

“she’s gagging all over me. you’d probably cry.”

another voice, asking who he’s talking to.

“don’t worry ‘bout it, baby. just an old friend.” click.

voicemail #3 . . . 3:32am

quiet. rain pattering outside. just his voice this time.

“y’know, i woke up and reached for you. stupid, right?”

he sniffles. sighs.

“i miss the way you’d hum when you brushed your teeth.”

a pause. his breath hitches.

“whatever. fuck you. i’m fine.” click.

voicemail #4 . . . 9:14pm

“she doesn’t talk back. you’d hate her.”

a sharp breath. skin hitting skin again. he groans, dragging it out.

“she lets me do whatever i want. that’s what i wanted. someone more… obedient.”

silence.

“but she doesn’t make me feel shit.” click.

voicemail #5 . . . 1:47am

laughter. his. and a girl’s. slurred, obnoxious.

“nah, don’t worry, baby—she can’t hear this. but you can, can’t you?”

wet, squelching sounds. breathy moans.

he gets close to the mic. you can hear the bass in his chest.

“miss the way you used to sob for it. fuck. that was art.” click.

voicemail #6 . . . 4:56pm

“saw your new post.”

he sounds annoyed. possessive.

“you wore that top on our second date. what, tryin’ to send a message?”

“you looked good. like… too good.”

“i bet you’re fucking someone. he fuck you like i l do?” click.

voicemail #7 . . . 2:11am

there’s crying. not his.

“she’s crying. i told her i couldn’t stop thinking about someone else.”

a door shuts. a silence. then he breathes out.

“you fucking ruined me.”

long pause.

“you win.” click.

voicemail #8 . . . 5:03am

he sounds wrecked. raspy. low and drunk and unraveling.

“baby… fuck… fuck, you always took me so good—shit—i keep fucking them like they’re you.”

he moans. clearly jerking off.

“miss you. miss your thighs. your throat. your smart ass mouth. tight fucking cunt.”

a growl. a desperate groan.

“god, [your name]—fuck, i—”

click.

a / n . . . credits to whoever first came up with this! couldn’t find out who, but this is not my original idea! also, this series depicts an unhealthy, obsessive dynamic. not a romantic portrayal — read with caution and take care of yourself.

[bloomseishiro]

gogo + “i thought you were my friend (geto) so i slapped your ass in greeting” ₊˚ෆ⊹.ᐟ

before you read. if it’s not obvious from the prompt, reader has long dark hair like geto's lol; dare i say pervert!gojo ?? 

It wasn’t your proudest moment, that was for sure. But in your defense, how else were you supposed to react when a random stranger you’ve never met randomly slapped your ass in the middle of the street?

You stared down at the man you had just judo flipped as he blinked in confusion, lying flat on his back.

“Hey,” you gritted out, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He raised his hands up in surrender. “I can explain. I wasn’t trying to slap your ass.”

You glared at the liar in disbelief. “I’m literally going to kick you—”

“Hey, hey now!” he got up swiftly, avoiding your swinging foot with ease.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Let’s not resort to violence,” he chastised, plastering a sickeningly angelic look on his face. Your eye twitched in annoyance. “From the back, I thought you were my friend. He hates it when I do that, so I wanted to annoy him.”

Folding your arms across your chest, you shifted your weight onto one leg and scowled at this white-haired pervert. “Sure, and I can fly.”

“I’m telling the truth! Look!”

You eyed him warily as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened up his camera roll.

“See, I thought you were this guy from the back. Suguru’s his name.” He pointed at a tall man with long, black hair wearing a billowy robe.

You blinked. The only similarity was literally the long, dark hair. Was this pervert seriously stupid? Or maybe just blind.

“Really?” you asked dryly. “Almost fifty percent of the entire population of Tokyo must have hair that shade and close to that length! Are you delusional? Or do you go around slapping everyone’s butts then?!”

The stranger shrank back at your scolding. “...No?”

You were ready to flip him onto his back all over again.

He squinted at his phone and glanced back at your body before saying, “Well, now that I look closer, I guess you don’t really look alike. Your ass looks way better.”

“What the fuck!?” you yelped in surprise. “You are really such a pervert!”

He chuckled loudly at your reaction. “Most people just call me Gojo, but I guess that works too.”

You shot him another disdainful glare. 

“Listen, let me make it up to you then,” the stranger—Gojo, apparently—offered.

“How? I’ll take one million yen in compensation, I suppose.”

“I’ll do you one better,” he sang, a smug grin on his face. “A date with me.”

You heard crickets chirp at your prolonged lack of response. Slowly, the smirk on Gojo’s face turned a little hesitant.

“Wow. You really are delusional,” you deadpanned. “As if I’d want to go on a date with you.”

He laughed, but pulled out a pen from his pocket. He held his hand out for you to place yours in it, but you only stared blankly at him. Gingerly, Gojo leaned down and began writing something on the back of your hand.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, give me a call,” he said, giving you an exaggerated wink before walking away.

“I won’t!” you called after him.

“You will,” said Gojo confidently, lifting his hand up and waving farewell. “Bye, now, cutie. I’ll talk to you soon!”

You glared at his back in complete and utter disbelief, but you felt the corners of your mouth quirk up against your better judgment. You looked at the number written on the back of your hand and exhaled a sharp laugh.

Were you going to call him?

Fuck it, maybe. Why not?

Ugh. This bastard was so lucky he was hot.

[undyingdecay]

helloooo, this is my very first time requesting anything on tumblr, but your writing is just too good to pass up the opportunity.

i cannot, for the love of all mankind, get dark!bucky barnes out of my brain. it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched, no matter how hard i try. and i’m talking about some straight up dark shit that would potentially make me look fucking insane if i said it out loud.

(non-con) WHO SAID THAT? 👀

(tw: very heavy non-con, translation: khoroshaya devochka — good girl)

ok everyone sit down and listen, so ideally — and this is so bad it’s good — i’m thinking very freshly post-hydra!bucky. the kind of fresh where he still moves like a fucking predator without realizing it. where his hair’s still got that dry, greasy texture because he hasn’t figured out conditioner and tony’s too much of a prick to explain it to him. where his eyes are still vacant half the time, like there’s a stel trap wrapped around his head, but then — then there’s moments. quick flashes. like his gaze catches on your neck a second too long when you tilt your head or his jaw ticks when you laugh a little too loud in the kitchen because sam’s being a dick. little cracks in the armor.

and here’s the kicker, steve asked you to look after him. not like he was a rabid dog. no. steve wouldn’t call him that. steve would never say it like that. it was more in that… do-it-for-me tone, that boyish all-american pleading like he’s just shy of getting down on one knee. it wasn’t fair. you were good at saying no. you were good at keeping boundaries. but when he asked, when those big stupid hands were scrubbing sweat off his neck post-run and his biceps were gleaming under the LED lab lights?

you agreed. because you’re an idiot.

and bucky, bucky didn’t talk to you.

not much, anyway. he barely talked to anyone, truth be told, and you weren't about to make him. you’d still check in. you’d talk at him, mostly. about dumb shit — what kind of cereal was on sale, how tony’s AI fridge locked you out for putting a can of off-brand soda in it, how nat had somehow learned to crochet and was currently making sweaters for the knives she kept under her mattress. normal stuff. and maybe you wondered if he was listening but only sometimes.

you kinda forgot who he was, to be honest. like, yeah, there were moments you remembered — like the time you were standing in front of the fridge, reaching for the leftover pasta you’d been thinking about all day, and he just… picked you up. didn’t say a word. just lifted your entire body out of the way like you weighed nothing. set you down a foot to the left. opened the fridge. pulled out a bottle of water. left. no ‘excuse me’. no ‘move’. just manhandled you like a fucking doll and dipped.

but then came the night. and you swear on your life you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t. you always did before. you could hear the way his boots dragged a little or the click of metal fingers against the wall. not this time. one second you were half asleep, the next you were on your back, bedsheets twisted around your ankles and something cold and heavy pressing your wrist down into the mattress.

you knew it was him. even in the dark, even before you opened your mouth, you knew.

“bucky—?”

his hand was in your hair, not pulling but holding, fingers twisted so deep into the roots it made your eyes sting. the words didn’t register. he was speaking, low and harsh in your ear, and you couldn’t understand a word of it but you knew it was russian because natasha would curse under her breath in that same jagged way when she was pissed off.

he was grinding against you. fully clothed. all rough denim and stiff tactical gear, and you could feel the press of him through it. the sick, hot friction of fabric on fabric like it was enough for him. like he didn’t even care about getting his cock out, just needed to rut against something warm and soft and unwilling. his breathing was so fucking loud, low grunts slipping out every time his hips jerked forward.

you were pleading. of course you were. because what else do you do when a supersoldier’s on top of you with a metal hand around your throat? you were asking him to stop, babbling out whatever you could think of — please, bucky, you don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna hurt me, please, please— but it barely mattered. didn’t even look like it registered.

and some part of you — some deep, shriveled, awful instinct — told you to stay still. like maybe if you didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t make it worse, he’d finish faster. like maybe this was the least you owed him. not as a person, but as a thing. a thing that had been torn up and stitched back together wrong. like maybe this was how you repaid the debt you never owed in the first place.

and it made you sick to your stomach.

he muttered something sharp in russian again, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, and his hand moved from your hair to your neck. not squeezing — not yet — just pressing down enough to make your throat work harder.

“stupid things,” you caught, because that was in english. “never listen.”

and then quieter — almost tender, which made it worse — “zhenshchiny ne mogut plakat', yesli oni mokryye naskvoz'.”

you didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant at first. not until later. not until you found natasha at the gym and repeated it in a shaky whisper and watched her face twist, real ugly and mean.

and she told you. told you what it meant.

'women can't cry if they are soaking wet'

and you’ve never slept right since.

you should’ve known better to.

the first time it happened, you thought maybe it would be the only time. some awful, one-time, trauma-fueled mistake. a sick, violent need in him that would burn out and leave you in peace. you even tried to tell yourself he didn’t know what he was doing — the way he’d snarled in russian, the cold clamp of vibranium fingers around your throat, the sharp rut of his hips into yours like an animal. the way he kept you pinned under him, fully clothed, grinding himself into your cunt through your shorts until your body betrayed you, slick gathering no matter how much your mind screamed. you thought maybe, maybe it would end there.

it didn’t.

he stayed after. lay there beside you in your own bed, that metal hand still curled around your wrist, eyes wide open and unblinking in the dark. watching. like a predator deciding whether to finish the kill or let the wound fester. he didn’t speak. didn’t explain. didn’t leave.

the next night, you thought about locking the door. stood there with your hand on the knob, heart pounding in your throat. and then you let it go, because what was the fucking point? a lock wouldn’t stop him. nothing would. not when the winter soldier still lived in his bones, moving his hands before his brain caught up. and sure enough, sometime past midnight, boots heavy on the floor, the oppressive presence of him filling the room — and this time, there was no hesitation.

he undid his tactical pants just enough, the harsh rasp of the zipper making your stomach twist. there was no slow approach, no pretense. his hand knotted in your hair, wrenching your head back, and then your face was in the pillow, his grip like a steel trap around your neck.

“stop—” you tried, and that was the last word you managed.

he spit on your cunt first. a thick, cruel thing, then smeared it with his fingers, muttering something in russian that you didn’t need natasha to translate. the intent was clear enough. then he shoved himself inside you, one brutal thrust, tearing you open like he owned the place. no prep. no care. the stretch was merciless, thick and unrelenting, your breath ripped from you as your whole body jolted forward.

and the worst part? you felt yourself get wet.

it wasn’t want. it wasn’t arousal. it was your body’s betrayal. terror slicking your skin, nerves on fire, every cell screaming and still — still the ache built between your thighs, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. he noticed. of course he did. leaned down, breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“khoroshaya devochka,” he rasped, rough and pleased. “knew you’d stop fighting.”

he fucked you like he didn’t need to be gentle, like your body was just a place to bury himself. every thrust brutal, grinding your hips into the mattress. teeth in your shoulder hard enough to bruise, to break skin. and every time you made a sound — a sob, a plea, a ragged whisper of his name — you felt him twitch inside you. like it turned him on more.

by the time he came, it wasn’t soft. a sharp snap of his hips, a guttural snarl in your ear, his teeth sinking into the muscle of your shoulder as thick, hot ropes spilled inside you. his hand never eased up on your neck. he kept you pinned there, limp and wrecked beneath him.

and then — he didn’t leave.

he rolled you onto your back, head resting on your stomach like it was some sort of goddamn prize, one hand lazily stroking your thigh while his cum leaked from you in slow, hot pulses. he stayed until dawn, and you lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying for death or daylight, whichever came first.

when the sun finally broke through, you got up, made coffee. looked at yourself in the mirror. bite marks and bruises trailing your neck, fingerprints mapped across your skin like a claim. you didn’t tell anyone. not steve. not nat. not sam. what would you even say? that their broken weapon was breaking you?

he came back again the next night.

and the next.

each time worse than the last. new ways to bend you, to mark you, to drag desperate, shamed pleasure from a body that didn’t know how to stop responding. every night his cock inside you, his voice in your ear, muttering in that dead, cold russian.

you stopped begging. stopped trying to fight.

because deep down, you knew he’d decided you were his.

and stupid things never learn.

(ive officially lost it)

[itneverendshere]

hey hun, idk if you taking any request but maybe you can make something about this. so you know sombr just released his song 'we never dated' and i was thinking if you can write something based on the song with rafe × reader, love you💖

a lil something i put together during my lunch break, enjoy 💘

he’s drunk again, the thinking-about-you kind.

his head tilts against the seat of the truck he hasn't driven in months, still parked in the beach house garage, waiting for something that’ll never come back.

rafe taps the red solo cup against his lip and closes his eyes.

it’s that song, the one wheezie showed him earlier, and he'd pretended to hate immediately.

"how come we never even dated but i still find myself thinking of you daily? why do you always leave me achin' when you were never mine for the takin'?"

rafe’s never wanted to punch a radio more.

it’s true, all of it. you never dated, but he loved you. that was the worst kind of heartbreak; he couldn't claim anything real, be angry or bitter or jealous. he couldn't point a finger in your direction and accuse you of breaking him because you never belonged to each other.

he never had the right.

you've always been too shiny for him. inherently good. more than a pretty face — though, yeah, you were that too and more.

rafe knew it before anyone else ever said it.

he knew you when you were still the skittish girl with lipgloss always smoothed over your mouth and that light blue cashmere sweater you wore every third thursday like clockwork.

you were sweet, but not naïve, you grew up learning how to smile through kook parents’ cocktail parties and could tell when a guy was trying to flirt or manipulate you in under three seconds.

rafe cameron wasn’t slick enough for you. he just happened to be there, at the right time, in the right places, saying the wrong things and hoping you'd want him anyway.

you did.

god, you did.

one summer, two friends who weren’t friends yet, thrown together because their parents played nice at yacht club dinners and pretended that the pogues didn’t matter as long as their kids stayed clean and polished.

you'd asked him once, on the beach at sunset, when everyone else was passed out or making out or passed out making out, why he always looked so angry.

rafe had blinked, caught off guard by your astuteness, replied with something stupid like, “m'not angry. don’t like people.”

you had smiled, close-lipped. “you seem to like me though.”

he hadn’t said anything, but you were right. he did, even when he shouldn’t have. especially when he shouldn’t have.

it got worse in senior year.

that was when he started noticing the finality of it. you were still walking around in ballet flats and sundresses and raising your hand first in ap lit — but it was all coming to an end, wasn't it? the idea of a you and him, the fantasy.

you were going places. real ones, far-far away, with brick libraries and stone archways and out-of-state dorms. you had a list, and rafe wasn’t on it.

he saw it coming the day you mentioned early decision.

“i’m thinking of brown,” you had confessed in a dreamy tone, chewing the end of your straw.

rafe had nodded, tossing a pebble across the dock water. “yeah?”

“you think I could get in?”

you could get into heaven if you asked nicely. instead, he shrugged again.

“duh.”

you laughed, that hiccup laugh that always made his stomach drop to the pits of hell, and leaned into his side for a second, enough to make him want more. that was the problem.

he always wanted more. of your voice, your time, skin against his. more jokes, more silence, more anything you’d give him. you were meant to leave and he was stuck in this fucking awful place, barely making it out of high school.

people talked about you two, always did.

assumed you were together, and he pathetically let them think what they wanted because it was easier than the truth: he was a guy in love with a girl he never kissed, too scared to try and pull you down with him.

rafe watched you date other people. preppy kooks with clean sneakers and trust funds and internships. it didn’t matter, it made sense, even when he drove past your house a little slower after those dates.

he always looked at you longer the next morning when you sat across from him in the café. sometimes, he swore you looked back.

the party your parents decided to put together that fateful night for you was too loud, or rafe simply grew to resent the sound of other people being happy.

he stood by the railing on the second-floor landing, a typical red solo cup warm in his hand, watching the celebration spiral out under the candle lights below. your backyard had been transformed, long tables dressed in linen, picture boards of you growing up, a cake with congratulations, brown university! piped in frosted gold, and people everywhere, drunk off champagne and privilege.

he hated it.

he'd been gawking at you laughing under those lights. you wore white tonight, tailored pants and some shimmery top that sparkled when you moved. your hair was half up, the way he always liked it.

you were leaving in two days. earlier than expected. the early admission program at brown, your parents were ecstatic, toasting to the future with rosé wine and proud tears.

rafe only found out three days ago, from wheezie, who overheard your mom on the phone ordering dorm essentials to be shipped ahead of time.

he didn’t possess the energy to be surprised.

that this was it, the last night. the last time he’d maybe ever see you outside of random instagram posts and christmas visits. the final hour of whatever not-thing they were.

you never promised him anything, and he had nothing to offer. only half-mumbled jokes and every piece of his heart that he tried not to hand over, one by one, every time you looked at him like he mattered.

he was drunk again.

he couldn’t say goodbye properly, or force himself to go down there and hug you like a normal person. couldn’t say, “i'm happy for you,” without gagging on the bitterness in his throat.

he did what he always did.

avoided the situation.

he was mad you were leaving, leaving earlier. you didn’t give him time to work up the courage to spit out the truth once and for all.

his legs carried him toward the kitchen, eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched.

“rafe.”

you voice was always soft with him.

you stood there in the hallway. fuck, you looked so pretty, unfairly so.

summer and home and everything he didn’t get to keep.

“i was wondering if you were gonna hide all night."

"wasn’t hiding.”

you raised a skeptical eyebrow. “right.”

rafe looked away first, he always did with you. you made him stupidly nervous, still.

"you’re mad.”

“’m not.”

“you’re mad i’m leaving.”

he scoffed. “you were always gonna leave. what’s the point in being mad about it now?”

your expression faltered, rafe hated himself for it.

“i thought… you’d at least say goodbye,” you whispered.

"didn’t think you’d notice if I didn’t.”

“rafe.”

he took a step back. he had to, orr he’d grab your hand and beg you to stay and make a fucking fool of himself.

“i can’t do this tonight,” he mumbled. “go back to your party, yeah?ivy league’s waiting.”

“wait a minute—”

“have fun up there, alright?”

perhaps, if he hadn't been too tipsy, he would've spotted the same ache in your eyes that was bleeding through his.

your jaw clenched, that twitch he caught when you were trying not to cry. shit, that was gonna fuck him up later. that look.

“you’re being such an asshole,” you bit out, quietly.

he huffed a laugh that wasn’t amused. “yeah. guess ’m just playing my part, huh?”

you blinked. “what does that even mean?”

“you—” he started, then cut himself off. shook his head. “you’re actin’ like this is some big surprise. you were always gonna choose that life. brown. new friends. better everything. that was the plan, right?”

“i never said that,” you shot back, voice trembling now.

you were all dolled up in a way he hadn’t seen before, sparkly earrings catching the kitchen light. you didn’t look like the girl he used to skip class with and lie on the pier beside.

but you were.

“you made your choice, didn’t you?” he muttered. “early program. gone before the summer’s even over.”

“i earned it, rafe. because i worked for it—”

“and what about me?” he snapped, suddenly. voice louder than either of you expected. “i bust my ass tryin’ to graduate with you. and you couldn't tell me this? i did it—for what? so you could feel sorry for me on your way out?”

that was new low. he regretted it the second he said it.

“that’s not fair."

“yeah? neither is you leavin’ me here and expectin’ me to clap for you.”

“i never asked you to wait for me,” you were pleading now, not accusing. “i never asked you to do any of that.”

“i know, god, i know,” rafe snapped. “that’s the problem. you never looked back, did you? not once.”

“that’s not true.”

“isn’t it?”

your hands curled against your outfit, wrinkling the fabric.

“i care about you."

he let out a breath through his nose, humorless.

“yeah?” he muttered. “i love you.”

real. pathetic, even. the most honest thing he’s ever said in his life.

your lips parted but he intervined before you could salvage his reputation.

“still not enough reason for you to stay, is it?”

your breath hitched, your eyes went wide. you weren’t expecting him to say it. the possibility had lived in the space between you two for so long, you thought it'd stay silent forever.

he had too. now it was out there, and you didn’t say it back.

“that’s what I thought,” he said, voice flat now.

you looked like you were about to cry. rafe looked like he already had.

“why are you doing this now?” your voice trembled with confusion. “i’m not leaving forever!"

you meant it, you thought a couple thousand miles and a new life wouldn’t erase this not-thing, wouldn’t bury him beneath everything you’d go off and become.

rafe, despite his many flaws, wasn’t stupid. hope wasn't a luxury he could afford.

he laughed, more of a breath than anything real.

“you might as well be.”

your brows pulled together. “what—”

“i never want to see you again,” he ripped the bandage off, even though it hurt more. “okay? just—just go. go to your early program, to your dorm, to your perfect fucking life with your perfect fucking people, and let me get over you in peace.”

your face twisted, the pain blooming across.

“you don’t mean that.”

“don’t i?” he snapped, stepping backward before he got close again, and broke completely. “what’s left of this, huh?”

he could only hear your shaky breath and the sound of someone laughing downstairs.

"so yeah, do me a favor — don’t text me when you miss home. don’t check in. don’t come back here thinking everything’s the same.”

you blinked, tears building in your lashes.

“rafe…”

he looked away, couldn’t watch you cry and still walk out of his life.

you can’t miss someone you never had, right? the only thing he had were his regrets.

[jackrrabbot]

quick divorce scenario thoughts for jack and robby

they’re manipulative and toxic so be warned

jack doesn’t let it happen. period. he refuses to sign the papers and walks back into your shared apartment after every shift like nothing’s happened. you can scream at him all you want but he’s patient and if you tire yourself out it’s all the better for him. maybe he’ll even reward you for being quiet again

his approach is more brute forcing you to change your mind with vague threats of not being able to escape him and scenarios that just happen to end in sex even though you aren’t supposed to be living together. but he just fucks you so good you give up on the stupid idea altogether. and he’s sooo condescending about it once you change your mind

“that really was a dumb idea, sweetheart. what’re you doing to do to make up for it?”

robby is more relenting about it. he drags it on and kinda wears you down over time saying he’ll sign the papers. he even agrees to move out for a little while just to appease you but really he finds way too many excuses to be back in your presence. you need something in the apartment fixed? he’s there. you ask to change to night shift? he doesn’t allow it. you starting dating around? he’s calling you into work for an emergency or finds another way to sabotage the date.

he kinda banks on the hope that you’ll give up and realize that he’s really your best and only option. he rips the papers in front of you and says good idea like he would’ve really let things go another way 🙄

“i’m so relieved you changed your mind, honey. let me show you how much i’ve missed you.”

[dumplingsjinson]

List of “smartass x dunce (and they fall in love!)” prompts

Requested by: Anonymous Request: “HELLEOEODLIDOWIDLDIXO. may I request ‘smartass paired up with fucking idiot for a project and then they fall in love’ ? I love your prompts kiss kiss”

“Did you even understand what the instructions were?” “Well, not really, but I know you’re smart so I’m just kind of relying on you.”

“That’s not how you’re supposed to do that!” “Stop yelling at me and tell me how to do it, then!”

“If you don’t want to fail this, you might want to do it my way.” “You sound like a dictator.”

“You don’t have to be an asshole to get your point across.” “In what way is calling you out on your shit job done me being an asshole?” “That’s exactly what I mean!”

“Can you stop bossing me around? I can manage to do this without your help!” “Well, you’re not really showing you’re capable of that, are you?”

“You know what, just leave this whole thing up to me.” “No, but I actually want to help-” “Well, your contributions are actually kind of making things worse.”

“…That’s not what that means, look at the dictionary.” “I did! I swear that’s the definition on Urban Dictionary.” “Urban Dic- oh, for fuck’s sake-"

“This is how you do it.” “…Ohhhh-"

“I’m not that stupid, and you’re not that smart. You’re just acting like a know-it-all, maybe that’s why you don’t have friends.” “Well, that- I don’t need friends.”

“Oh… Your writing’s kind of cute.” “Oh? Uh, thanks.” “Yeah, well, I do compliment people when they deserve it.”

“See! I just needed a demonstration so I can do this myself!” “Yeah, I’ve repeated this like… Ten times now but sure, if it finally helps then that’s my goal reached, I guess.”

“Gosh, here, let me do that for you.”

“You know you can ask for help when needed, right?” “Yeah, well, you don’t exactly make yourself approachable.”

“I’m not sure what’s happening, but you seem more patient with me now.” “Oh… Am I? That's false, why would you even say that?”

“I do like being told I’m doing a good job.” “Oh, so I should do that more often?” “…Are you flirting with me?” “No, you idiot- what? Focus on the work, goddamn it, letting one compliment get to your head like that…”

“That… Was decent.” “You know complimenting me more than that isn’t going to kill you right?”

“Do you use your brain to think or…” “Why would I need to do that when I have you here?”

“Your dumbassery is infecting me.” “Well, you know what they say. Great minds think alike.”

“Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought.” “That’s a huge compliment coming from you.”

“We should probably see each more outside of this project.” “…Say that again, I didn’t hear you.”

Join my Discord server: Steaming Dumplings Nation

[vaginalvr]

hi theree

I was thinking about one fic w Reid where he and Reader are they're in his house (and drunk) and reader starts to tease him a lot because Reid is very shy around reader and he says "I'm just someone's friend, someone's coworker, someone's son." and reader says to him, "And you want to be someone's dad?" and what starts as a provocation that leads to Reid being sub ends with Reid being quite needy and rude. Sorry if it's too specific and thanks for reading 🤭

content warning: Alcohol use, teasing/flirting, dom/sub dynamics (Reader dom, Spencer sub/bratty), oral sex (m!receiving), unprotected penetrative sex, light degradation (name-calling, slut), praise kink, slight identity angst, needy!Reid, semi-public risk (window), degradation/praise mix

a/n: this is disgusting do u like it plz say yes bye

word count ~ 2.5k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Spencer’s apartment is too warm, too cluttered, and too full of half-drunk wine glasses, but you’re too tipsy to care. He’s sitting stiffly on the couch next to you, fingers white-knuckling the stem of his wineglass, as if letting go would make the room tip sideways.

You’re not much better off. You’re laughing too easily, letting your knees brush his when you shift, and you know it—how he squirms every time you lean in too close, how his gaze lingers on your mouth but darts away just as quickly.

“You really don’t drink much, do you?” you ask, swirling your glass lazily.

“I do. Occasionally. It’s just... rarely socially,” he says, blinking hard, trying to focus. “I’m better at sober parties.”

You snort. “Spencer, this isn’t a party. It’s me, in your house, with wine and takeout and one of those documentaries you love that I pretend to understand.”

He looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t, because you’re not wrong.

There’s a lull—quiet but charged. Spencer takes a long sip. His lips are wet and trembling, and your eyes linger.

He notices.

“What?” he asks softly.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, tipping your head toward his shoulder. “You know you don’t have to be, right?”

“I’m not tense,” he lies, cheeks flushing pink.

You press your thigh against his. “You act like you’re about to run away every time I look at you for more than three seconds.”

“That’s—” he starts, flustered. “That’s not true.”

You grin. “Oh, baby. It so is.”

He swallows hard. You lean closer. He still doesn’t move.

“I think you’re scared of me,” you whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Or maybe you’re just scared of what you want from me.”

His eyes flutter shut for a second. You can practically hear the gears grinding in that big beautiful brain of his. Calculating, rationalizing, denying.

And then he sighs, broken and small.

“I’m just... someone’s friend. Someone’s coworker. Someone’s son.”

The words are so pitiful, so cracked with self-loathing, you stop teasing for just a second. There it is—what he really believes. That he’s an extra in everyone’s story. A background character, even in his own life.

You don’t let the silence linger.

You tip your head, just enough to look him square in the eye, and murmur, “And you want to be someone’s dad?”

His whole body stiffens. The wineglass clinks slightly as his grip wavers. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. He looks wrecked.

“What—what does that mean?” he asks hoarsely.

You give a slow, dangerous smile. “You want to be inside me and fill me up like it’s your job. You want to pin me down and fuck me stupid and make me beg you for more. You want to come so deep it drips down my thighs. That’s what it means.”

Spencer makes a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His legs clench together. His hand twitches.

You reach over, pluck the wineglass from his hand, and set it down on the table. Then you climb onto his lap.

“You’re not just someone’s son,” you murmur against his lips. “You’re mine. If I want you.”

You grind down, just enough to feel the strain in his jeans.

And god, he’s already hard.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can,” you say sweetly. “Because I know what it does to you.”

His hands hover, shaking, near your hips. You let him sit there, trembling, aching for permission.

“Touch me,” you order, and his hands fly to your thighs.

“Good boy.”

The words hit him like a truck. His breath catches, and he bucks his hips without thinking.

“Oh, Spence,” you coo. “You like that?”

“Please,” he breathes, desperate.

You rock your hips once, grinding your clothed core against his bulge. He shudders.

“I bet you’ve thought about this,” you say, dragging your nails down his chest. “Me on top of you. Calling you names. Making you beg.”

“Y-Yes,” he admits, red-faced.

“Calling you my little slut?”

“God,” he gasps. “Please don’t stop.”

You lean in and kiss him, slow and filthy, tongue teasing the corner of his mouth until he opens up and lets you in. He moans—soft and sweet at first, then deeper, hungrier.

But he doesn’t stay soft.

No, Spencer gets rude.

His hands, once tentative, start to grip tighter. His mouth gets messier, teeth scraping your lip like he’s starved. He grinds up harder, more deliberate.

“Need to be inside you,” he mutters, almost angrily. “Now.”

“Oh, so needy,” you purr, shifting off his lap to unbutton your jeans. “You always get this bratty when someone gives you what you want?”

“I want more,” he growls. “Want all of you. Want to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“Spencer,” you chide, but your voice wavers, because fuck—that switch in him is devastating.

He yanks his jeans open and fists his cock out in seconds—long, flushed, already dripping. You don’t waste time. You straddle him again, bare now, and take him in one slow slide that has both of you gasping.

“Oh god,” he cries. “You feel so—fuck.”

You roll your hips, letting him hit every spot he never thought he’d get to.

“I always knew you’d be tight,” he pants, thrusting up. “Knew you’d take me so good. Always teasing. Always looking at me like you wanted to sit on my cock during meetings.”

“And you’d just sit there and twitch,” you whisper, riding him faster. “Too scared to do anything. Just someone’s friend.”

“Not anymore,” he snarls. “Not your friend. Your fucktoy.”

You moan at that. Because he means it.

He’s bouncing you on his cock like he owns you now, filthy and feral, dragging bruises into your hips and biting your shoulder.

“God, I love you like this,” you gasp.

“Then let me come inside you,” he begs. “Let me make a mess of you.”

You shove your hand between your legs and rub fast circles, chasing your own high.

“I’m close,” you whimper.

“Come on my cock. Be a good girl and come for me.”

That does it. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as your orgasm hits. And Spencer loses it. He groans, cock pulsing deep inside you as he fills you up just like he promised.

After, you’re a tangle of limbs, still straddling him, both of you sweaty and shaking and breathless.

Spencer laughs—giddy and raw.

“I said I’m just someone’s son,” he mutters.

“And now?” you ask, brushing sweaty curls off his forehead.

“Now,” he smirks, voice rough, “I’m someone’s problem.”