#procedural content generation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marvelstoriesepic · 21 days ago

Text

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

1K notes · View notes

madamechrissy · 25 days ago

Text

=͟͟͞♡ Healing Hearts =͟͟͞♡

=͟͟͞♡ Pairings:-Doctor Gojo x Intern F!Reader

=͟͟͞♡ Summary- You are the top Surgical Doctor intern, along with Maki, Yuta and Toge. You all are exhausted from passing the first month, sixteen plus hour days, days you don't even go home, all to get a top spot with the star Surgeon, Dr. Gojo, your resident doctor and boss. Or as you call him, Dr. Hojo. He's takes nothing serious but his surgeries it seems, and has a reputation for being a player, but he has that top spot, so you want to prove your worth! You just have to ignore those stupid butterflies he gives you, and those pretty blue eyes, along with his interest in you, and focus!

=͟͟͞♡ Contents/warnings- MDNI- Warnings- overuse/incorrect use of prescription meds, angsty asf in places, scene of a medical procedure, heavy subject matter, some sexual tension. Reader, 26, Dr. Gojo 34- Grey's vibes -Angsty and emotional, mentions of pregnancy and loss of pregnancy, mentions of surgery and blood, light smut scene, mostly a ton of drama and feelings

=͟͟͞♡ Part eight =͟͟͞♡ Playlist =͟͟͞♡ Masterlist

Part Nine

You’ve never been on a helicopter.

Doctor Gojo is helping you up into it, as you two are about to ride over to the next city’s hospital to get the heart for Choso. You’re just a little nervous as the loud chopper starts, he places the earphones on you and then himself, brushing his fingers across your cheek delicately as he does for a moment, you feel him wrap his arm around your waist when you jolt a bit as you all take off.

“Nervous sweetheart?” You barely hear him, moreso reading his lips, nodding. “C’mere.”

Satoru brings your face against his neck, soothing as you cling to him and try to lose yourself in that embrace, to not pay attention to the flight, the height, the loud noises. You don’t outwardly say it, but you’re terrified of heights, planes, all of it, and avoid them completely, yet you’d basically begged to come along with him.

This was important, this was Choso’s life at stake, one of the sweetest men you have ever met, who deserves to live more than anyone does. Satoru knows how attached you have gotten, you’re always attached in general to your patients. It's your biggest weakness and strength, but in this case it was very important to be there for him as you were the most comforting presence for him.

He needs strength and will to survive a serious surgery, even under the most experienced surgeon in it there was. Satoru specialized in cardiovascular surgery, though he was a general surgeon as well, that was his level of higher expertise. His hand is soothing as you lay against his chest, feeling his heart beat so steady and slow, from years of athletics when he was younger.

You wish yours would slow just a bit but it’s racing.

You’re starting to learn more and more about him, but the more you learn, the deeper you fall, and that in itself is scary, it’s concerning, the love building more and more in a potentially devastating relationship. Giving up on the idea of family for Satoru was eating you alive the more and more you grow attached, and you wish the lingering thoughts weren’t there.

He holds you close, thinking of the words you spoke earlier, the way they broke his heart. Choso had said you’d be a great mother, and you agreed, and it’s not that Satoru disagrees. You would be. He does not know if it’s still in your mind, as you snuggle close to him, your breath against his chest, cheek resting against his lavender scrubs.

He never wants to let you go.

“It’s a quick ride, okay?” He says, you nod, squeezing him tighter, and he loves the feeling of you needing him, when you’re so strong and independent. Something makes every protective urge increase, holding you so close, unworried if other people can see the two of you.

It’s a quick ride as you descend onto the helicopter pad, he helps you down, hands on your waist, lingering as the chopper blades slow, blowing your hair around just so until it’s messy. He brushes it back gently, just touching you in any way makes him ache to do so every moment, to just constantly have some part of you touching him, like a deep need that grows every moment.

Not just the sexual moments, just everything about you.

“Ready to get this heart?” You smile, so pretty it makes his chest tighten, grabbing the cooler and then taking his hand.

“Let’s do this.”

Soon Satoru is cutting a chest with a scalpel, you’re watching curiously, a mixture of adrenaline and too many feelings rushing through you as you see him perform with a skilled, steady hand. He’s meticulous in how he slices the skin open, but a part of you feels for whoever this heart did belong to, this person who is no longer there, clinically dead by all accounts.

But your mind wanders, who were they? They’re young, a tragic car accident that leaves moments for everyone to gather what they need.

Other doctors are all waiting, coolers in their interns’ hands, as they prepare to take all the organs as quickly as they can. Of course everything is important and will save many lives, but the heart was the most important. Satoru eyes you carefully over those glasses, brilliant blue eyes a calm storm at this moment, and you eye him back, smiling a bit under your mask.

You feel it, the tension even now, how deeply the two of you feel and how much more is left unspoken, but in this moment you just watch him intensely, as does everyone in the room, while he carefully separates the chest bone and rib cage. You’ve seen it done over video several times but this is the first time you’ve been that close to it.

Satoru quickly and with precise, effortless movements with skilled precision, everyone watches quietly, including his fellow doctors. Satoru carefully severs the last attachment, his hand moving with a quickness under those latex gloves. You come over quickly with the cooler, and you carefully take it.

Putting it delicately in the ice filled cooler, inside the saline bag, so precious you feel the pressure from it, from knowing how important it is. Choso’s chance at a good life, at not being in and out of hospitals over and over. You quickly close it as Satoru nods to the other doctors, and they each individually begin to take what other parts they need.

You can’t say you don’t feel just a little sick, panicking every which way it could go warm as you both leave, Satoru taking off his gloves and cleaning up as you tentatively put the cooler down for a moment and do the same. “You did it so quickly.”

“Have to, sweets, we don’t have much time here.” He dries his hands and leans down, planting a kiss on your head. “Are you doing okay?”

“I am, promise.” He smiles just a bit.

“I’ve done quite a few of them, and all were successful. He’ll make it, okay?”

“I just… really need to be there.”

“Of course,” the two of you head back, this time the trip isn’t quite as scary for you, as you’re a little used to it now, clutching the cooler to you tightly. “It’ll be okay.”

He keeps reassuring you, even as you all land, like this is just another day for him, and it is. Even though rare, this hospital is the number one in the country for transplants, heavily due to Satoru, though Nanami and Suguru also are highly experienced in all sorts of transplants and surgeries.

When you arrive at the hospital, it’s like a well-oiled machine as always, when you all descend from the helicopter. The doors fly open, nurses and doctors rushing to greet you all, Maki is there walking with you as you clutch the cooler, and are reluctant to let it go even for just a moment. Satoru leans in, whispering in your ear, “We got this, it’s all gonna be fine. You go calm him down, okay?”

You’re doing just that later, as he’s about to go under, he’s the picture of calm with his cute little smile.

“You’re getting first hand experience, aren’t ya doc?” He teases, and you grin, checking his vitals as the anesthesiologist administers the correct dose.

“I am gonna see all of you. All your insides.”

“You’re so freaky.” You giggle at that, softly smiling behind your mask as Satoru comes in, eyeing the two of you, donned in that white lab coat and the magnifying goggles, making his blue eyes insane to look at. You see his eyes crinkle at the corners as he clearly smiles behind his mask as well.

“You’re in excellent hands, Choso.” You say softly, looking at Satoru.

“The best I hear.” Choso says, yawning a bit now, eyes getting just a little heavy, until he murmurs your name and drifts off.

“Are you ready to assist, intern?” Satoru is the ultimate professional in the huge, freezing cold OR, the smell of alcohol permeating in your nostrils, as you stand right by his side.

“I’m ready, Dr. Gojo.”

As Satoru starts the surgery, you begin passing him instruments, as Satoru cuts Choso’s chest open, that felt so different than before, this was someone you’ve already grown to care about, and you feel just anxious and so faint. But you also watch how perfect every one of Satoru’s movements are, as he separates the chest bone and opens up the rib cage so that he can operate on the heart.

It’s small, the heart that has done way more than it ever should have, you notice then, helping clamp down as Satoru begins the process of removing it, and that’s where it’s down to moments, years of his knowledge, and you trust him implicitly, working quietly by his side while others watch. Maki, Yuta, Toge, and many of the nurses and interns are all avidly watching the surgery from above.

Satoru quietly orders the nurses there in the OR, and then he removes the heart, as the new one is placed. He begins to sew the donor heart into place, attaching all the major blood vessels so quickly but also he makes sure they’re perfect. To watch him work like this is entrancing.

“Here, clip this av.” He orders softly, you do just that, holding the clamp down as Satoru starts working on the blood vessels to the donor heart. It’s already been a long time, just prepping, opening, but this part he does tediously, he’s quiet, but he’s so calm. You hold your breath as Satoru starts the delicate process of connecting it to the surrounding tissue and remaining blood vessels.

Calm because of the meds, you have to wonder, is that how Satoru maintains this?

It can’t just be that, even though he surely thinks so.

There’s much more to that, to him, the natural talent of the way his fingers perform surgeries is profound, like he was just made for it. Once the heart is fully attached, it’s utter silence, as you wait to hear if the heart will begin beating, you panic when it doesn’t, eyeing Choso’s sleeping face.

“It’s normal not to. Let’s shock it.” He says quietly, his presence so calming in that room, you instantly do just that, shocking the red organ, and then it begins to beat, the monitor stops its flatline.

Satoru takes a step back, and the heart monitor starts to beep. It’s a slow, steady rhythm, a sound that fills the room with relief. Choso’s new heart is beating, and the room lets out a breath, including you, but Satoru simply smiles, admiring the strong beat of the heart.

“And we are successful, team.” He murmurs, the people up above are clapping, and the team of doctors now works to stitch him back together. You’re trembling as you keep eyeing the monitor, the strong, steady beats. “It’s been hours,” he says later, after you all had cleaned up. “Go take a nap, sweetheart.”

“I can’t, I have to go check-”

“He’ll be asleep for hours.” Satoru grabs you a coffee as you yawn again. “Go lay in one of the bunks before you fall over.”

“That was insane, Satoru. The way you worked? The way you just… everything about it.” You sip your bitter coffee, and he smiles a bit, not looking the tiniest bit exhausted.

“Take a nap, I’ll wake you up if there’s any signs he’s up early. Okay?” Satoru’s gently brushing a finger against your wrist, you panic just a bit, looking around.

“Satoru…”

“Would it be so bad if we told them?” He murmurs then, you feel a few eyes upon you all, it wasn’t as if they didn’t know, they surely had rumors spreading around of the two of you.

“You’re suddenly very serious, mr. bachelor.” You tease then, and he frowns, not the reaction you expected.

“You don’t think I’m serious?” You shake your head, trying to shake off any of the extreme fatigue you’ve felt grow all week.

“I’m sorry, just so tired. I should nap.” You touch his hand gently, then smile a bit, walking off, trying to calm your heart, your tummy, just in knots.

*****

Satoru was not just perfect as a doctor, he was a caring and loving boyfriend, he genuinely loves you, you feel it in his every look, every movement, but it makes it that much more devastating that you see all you can’t have with him. You let the exhaustion finally win for a bit when you shut off the lights and climb into the bunk, letting yourself rest for a few blissful moments.

The dreams are harder than the reality.

In them, it’s Satoru and he’s touching your tummy, and he’s so happy, you should immediately know it is a dream from just that alone, but it takes so long to register that you’re in a dream. You’re tossing and turning when Satoru comes in a couple hours later to check on you, and he can’t help but lay next to you on the bunk he’s way too tall for, caressing your cheek.

“Satoru…” you’re murmuring his name in your sleep.

He watches you, he does that when you stay over, once you caught him and called him a creep, but he can’t help but love to watch it. “So beautiful.”

You blink a bit, opening your eyes, and he notices they’re glassy and full of tears, making his heart ache. “Satoru…”

“What’s wrong? Honey he’s fine. I came to tell you he’s stable.” You shake your head, unable to speak the words that are stuck in your throat, instead burying your face against his neck, trembling. “Baby…”

“Just a dream.” You’re sobbing more and more now, uncontrollably, as he holds you so close, his silky white locks brushing your cheek as he nuzzles your neck.

“A bad dream?” You shake your head. “Talk to me.”

“It was a beautiful dream, but it’ll never happen.” He looks confused as he pulls back, looking down at you, blinking beautiful eyes, snowy lashes casting dark shadows over his cheeks in the dark room.

“What won’t?” You can’t say anymore, you can’t try to change Satoru.

“Just kiss me.” He does just that, lips descending in the quiet of the room, the rustle of his hands against your scrubs, the shifting of his body making the shitty little bed creak. “Mmm…”

“God, baby,” he’s slipping his fingers under your scrub top, brushing them against your bare tummy that trembles under it, his practiced fingers that saved a life today, so delicate yet firm as they touch you. His lips work over yours, as your tears spill, salty against his lips. “Baby you sure you’re okay?”

“Just tired, Satoru.” He slips his hand up, cupping you over your bra, thumb brushing a nipple that’s sensitive, making you cry out ever so softly.

“Do you want to sleep a little more, or…” he’s kissing his plump lips along the corners of your mouth. “Want me to make you feel so good?”

“Please,” your breathy whisper has Satoru’s cock throbbing, if it wasn’t risky enough to pleasure you in this moment, he’d be shoving his cock in your perfect little hole, feeling you quiver around him.

“Want my fingers, or my mouth?” His words tickle against your ear with his breath, and you feel his hand slip low, under the stretch band of your blue scrub bottoms, finding you and moaning.

“Fingers we can act like we’re just napping if they walk in,” you tease, he smirks at you then. “Plus those fingers are amazing.”

“They are, aren’t they?” He’s chuckling as you lose yourself in his kisses, shoving back that pretty dream, and just being here, being present, while his finger rubs you over your panties, making you whine.

“Toru…” He’s leaking pre against his boxers when you say that sweet little nickname, when your hands grip the lapels of his white lab coat, and he’s playing your pussy in the quiet room. It’s so wet, you can hear it, the clicking as he runs his fingers side to side, watching you.

“God you’re beautiful,” he’s sending you with a few rolls of his fingers, bringing you to wriggle, hips bucking up for more, as he studies every bit of your face so intently, slipping that finger down your slit. “Look at you, fuck.”

You feel so beautiful when he says that, when he looks at you like this, trembling and rolling your hips for more, your own hands slipping up his shoulders, lost in the dark rings of blue on his eyes. “Need more.”

“Later, brat.” You pout and he grins at that, pressing a kiss on your brow, then your nose as his fingers slip in your soppy little hole. “God, so tight.”

“Want you in me, I lied.” He’s shaking with his laughter, while he curls that finger up just so, moving it up against your g spot as the gasps and whines ring in his ears.

“Be a good girl and cum, then I’ll let you have all of me tonight.” The words sound so husky, so vulnerable, it breaks your heart into pieces to think you won’t truly have all of him, but as much as he’s willing to give you in these beautiful moments.

That has to be enough.

“Close, I feel it, let go baby,” Satoru’s words ring in your ear, and you do feel that pressure, how you’re clamping down on his finger, feeling the texture of the thick digit as it crooks up, as his thumb presses your twitchy clit all while he’s watching you, never taking his fucking eyes off. “That’s it, be good for me.”

You’re done for, teeth clamping down, hand over your mouth as you gush and squirt down his angled finger, his hands, slipping down all over your panties and scrubs. He moans at how much you do cum, dying to fuck into you, cum inside you. But he knows it’s not exactly the best moment as he has another surgery on the board, so instead he ruts his cock against your hand that’s reached down.

“Lemme make you cum,” you’re whispering, blinking slowly. He shakes his head. “Let me.”

“In your hand!? No. I’m thirty four not eighteen.” He pulls away with a whimper, as you giggle, but then he’s got you cumming again, and your thighs are gripping his hand, making him wince.

“Sensitive!” He relishes in your hushed whisper, smirking so damn attractive, pulling back his hand finally, slipping it into your mouth then.

“Suck, sweetheart,” you do just that, sucking his fingers, up and down like you want to do his cock so badly, and the sight almost makes him spurt hot cum, he barely holds his composure. “God, so fucking sexy.”

“Mmm,” he’s pulling his saliva coated fingers back now, kissing your sweet arousal off your lips. “I feel so much better.”

“I’m quite the doctor.” You giggle, as he kisses you, leaning up finally and caressing your cheek. You kiss him softly, sighing, carding your fingers through his silky soft locks.

“I love you.”

“I love you,” his words resonate, hitting your fucking soul, the way he looks at you and touches you, everything shows his words are true, making it radiate through your body slowly. “What was the dream?”

You freeze up then, fingers pausing, looking down. “I can’t really say.”

“You can tell me fucking anything baby, don’t you know?” You blink a bit, tears forming all over again, and he leans up, lips pursed just a bit. “Is it about me?”

“Yes but nothing bad, just… jumbled. I can’t put it together.”

“You suck at lying.” You sigh, looking away, but he turns your chin to him. “It’s just a dream you say, but you were crying.”

“It was something that can’t happen.” You don’t get to elaborate, the door opens and he eases back a bit, the two of you look like you’re laying and talking as Suguru walks in, yawning.

“We gonna cuddle?” He teases, poking at your shoulder, and Satoru scowls at him while you giggle.

“No cuddling her. Only me.” You’re tugged against him as Suguru climbs to the top bunk, chuckling a bit.

“I see, don’t fuck loud please I want a nap.”

“We weren’t fucking!”

“Uh uh,” he doesn’t believe you clearly. “Nap time.”

“I have to get up, actually.” You yawn once more, Satoru is watching you carefully, something unreadable in his gaze.

“Gonna go check on him?” You expect the hints of jealousy or him being pouty as usual, but he’s calm as he asks and you nod, pecking a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll see you after the shift?”

“Yeah of course.” Your pretty smile tugs at Satoru’s heart before you run off and leave him with your scent filling his nostrils, hugging a pillow tightly.

“What’s with you?” He hears Suguru up there, and he frowns, turning on his back and staring up at the bunk bed, fingers dancing across cool metal bars.

“I don’t think I’m good enough for her.”

“Probably not.”

“Suguru!”

“I’m kidding. Kind of.” Satoru glares, and he hopes Suguru feels it, but he chuckles instead. “Why do you say all that?”

“I just think she’d be settling on a lot of things with me.”

“That’s fucking weird of you to say,” Suguru’s words are true, Satoru has been nothing but cocky his entire life. “What do you even mean?”

“The family thing, the marriage thing.”

“I mean it's still early, it’s normal not to want that until you’re more serious.”

“She’s all I’ll ever want,” his words are just a little broken, and there are a couple moments of contemplative silence. “There’s no one else.”

“I figured so, after that locker room incident,” his words are quiet, Satoru chuckles a bit without humor. “So then let her know that.”

Not knowing the conversation going on in that room, you’re drinking another cup of coffee, going over to see Choso now in the ICU. You pass Maki and she grins at you. “You did so good in that surgery, babe, he’s already awake.”

“He is!? Shit I wanted to be there.” Maki tosses back her dark hair, gently brushing a hand on your shoulder.

“He’s okay, he’s great actually. I told him you were napping.”

“You did?” You sigh in relief, hugging her then. “You’re the best.”

“Go on,” you run over to the room and see Choso, hooked up to an IV and several cords to monitor his every vital sign, he’s smiling at you as you rush in.

“Choso!” He chuckles a bit as you carefully take his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling so big at him.

“You saved me twice now, I think I need to make it up to you.” You shake your head, feeling emotional as you now look at the monitor, seeing a strong, steady heartbeat.

“You just stay healthy, yeah? That would make me very happy.” He nods, thumb brushing your knuckles gently, lashes lowering a bit.

“I know you and Dr. Gojo are probably together,” you tense a bit at that, his violet eyes look up at you. “He’s pretty awesome, so even if I’m jealous I can’t hate him, he gave me a heart.”

“He is pretty awesome, are you jealous?” your teasing words make him laugh, then he winces, you put a hand on his chest, as his heart rate quickens. “So jealous you’re spiking.”

“I guess so,” he murmurs, pink cheeked with embarrassment. “I would ask you for dinner if you were single, you know.”

“Oh, would you now, to thank me? For being your angel?” You’re teasing, checking his incision line now.

“Yes, I would,” he answers, a hand on your wrist now. “You are.”

“You’re always too sweet.” You let his hand go gently, assessing the work Satoru did. “Looks perfect, Satoru is so good at stitches.”

“It’s gonna be an even better scar than before.” You laugh again, pushing the button for his pain medicine. “The good stuff.”

“Mmhmm, it is. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He pauses you with your name. “Hmm?”

“Thank you for saving me.” His words make you feel so much then, so much relief you tear up, dimming his lights now.

“Of course, you just get rest okay?” He smiles at you, when you shut the door you lean against it, sighing and swiping at your eyes, Satoru sees you, walking up quickly with long strides across the squeaky clean hospital floor.

“You okay? Everything look good?” You nod, wanting to let him just hold you, but trying to hold back, knowing where you are. His hand pauses in the air next to your cheek for a moment, longing to touch your skin.

“You did amazing, I’m just so relieved.” He swipes a tear regardless of who looks, seeing just how caring you are, how attached you get. It should be a bad thing for a doctor, but he loves it about you.

“Should be proud of yourself, just a few months interning and you did open heart surgery with me. That’s pretty badass.” You giggle through your tears, when both of your beepers go off, and you both sigh. “Work is never done.”

“No it isn’t.” This was a car crash victim, luckily no major injuries, you end up stitching some wounds and disinfecting as your shift ends, soon meeting Satoru in the locker room as you both get changed. “I want a nice hot bath.”

“I’ll run you one,” his voice is practically a purr. “Come stay with me.”

“You stay with me, I always come over.” You let out a little yawn, hand over your mouth as you do.

“Toge hates me, and I think Maki and Yuta wanna beat me up.” He’s pouting, making you laugh softly again, slipping a sweater over yourself, but not before he presses a kiss on your breasts over your bra.

“Mnh!” He’s cupping them and moaning softly, in the quiet of the room at night, thumbs brushing your nipples over lace. “Sensitive.”

“You said that earlier, pmsing?” He teases, and you frown a bit. “Baby, period sex won’t bother me one bit if you’re worried.”

“No, no, not worried.” You mentally calculate then, sitting down and just blinking, he slips on his sweater and then sits with you on the bench.

“What’s up?”

How long since…

You and Satoru hooked up for the first time about six weeks ago, you typically get your period the last week of the month - but you haven’t. Your mental math says then it’s been 2 periods as of today, you’re supposed to be on it. You frown, grabbing your purse and counting the birth control pills, feeling him tense next to you. You haven’t missed any, and haven’t taken any extra.

“Shit.” Satoru’s fists clench, while your stomach drops.

“Don’t tell me you skipped it,” his words are deadly quiet, just a whisper, and you already hear it, the frustration. “I just scheduled the vasectomy.”

“You scheduled it? Without telling me?” He frowns deeper, looking away.

“We talked about it.”

“I didn’t agree!”

“You don’t really get to agree, but it looks like maybe too late for us to not have…” Your hand darts to your tummy then.

“I could just be stressed,” he shakes his head. “I am stressed!”

“Sure but the nipples?”

“I don’t know, I guess… I’ll have to take a test.” He says nothing, absolutely nothing, as your mind goes in circles. “Will you leave me if I keep it?”

“What!?” His blue eyes widen, your tears start to fall hot and sticky trails down your cheeks.

“Will you leave me?” You ask again, his mouth is wide open at you.

“No, shit, you think that?”

“What else can I think?” You stand up, trembling now. “I’ll take a test in the morning and see.”

“Right, okay.” He doesn’t move, he doesn’t do anything, just sitting there.

“I didn’t miss any, I’m not on antibiotics, I take them at the same time. It could be nothing.”

“Right.” He repeats again, even quieter.

“You’ll hate me if I am.”

“No, I won’t.” He grips your wrist tightly, you can’t even meet his eyes, your own are burning from a mixture of exhaustion and stress, “Look at me.”

“What if I can’t handle the disappointment in your eyes?”

“Look at me.” He orders again, gripping your shoulders over that soft material, your heart thuds loudly in your chest, you do just that, meeting his gaze. “I will not hate you, and I will not leave you. Even if it’s not what I want, I would never just fucking do that to you.”

“You won’t hate me?” He shakes his head, heart breaking for you then, your lip is trembling as the tears make your eyes glassy. “Resent me?”

“It’s not intentional, so no. If you are, we both caused it. I’ll… we’ll figure the shit out I guess. Okay? We don’t even know right now.”

“Right, you’re right. I don’t want to lose you,” he kisses your bitten lips, trying to smooth those teeth indentations with his own mouth. “I may need to just… be with Maki when I take it. Is that okay?”

“Of course, I know you two are close. You have tomorrow off right?”

“I do.”

“We’ll spend the day together. Whatever it says. I love you so fucking much, even if I know I’d be shit at parenting, I’d never leave you for it. Okay?” You nod weakly, as he presses gentle kisses against your cheeks.

��Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Satoru. I love you too.” He gets in more kisses as he walks you to your car, you see the fog of both of your breaths linger in the air as you meld into each other, sighing and holding each other so tightly. You will hate yourself forever if you make him miserable like that.

But you can’t imagine not having one if you are.

Later after buying a test and looking at the result with Maki by your side, you’re not even sure how you feel. Are you excited, terrified, nervous? Your career is just starting, this will make everything change, while you wanted this later in life absolutely, this was not how you pictured it.

Also, Satoru says he won’t resent you, but how can you believe that, when he is so adamant against this all? How can you know if he won’t, even if it’s deep down under wraps? Will he think you planned it, and not just resent you but the baby too? It’s so many thoughts you just feel sick, so sick Maki is holding your hair up as you throw up everything in the toilet.

“Shit babe, you’re a mess,” she murmurs, cleaning your lips, you just sigh and hold her. “And knocked up.”

“I know, fuck. God what should I do?” You look up into her emerald eyes, and she shakes her head a bit, stroking back your hair.

“I can’t tell you that, but you very much are knocked up. You know how babies are made, right?”

“Shut it.” You giggle a bit, before getting sick again.

*****

On your day off you’re laying in bed, rotting away and terrified to answer Satoru’s phone calls. And there are many, but how can you tell him his life is over as he knows it, when you know how badly he never wanted that to happen? You also feel so exhausted, it’s been coming for weeks, the exhaustion, you thought from just work, but now perhaps more.

By the early afternoon, someone bangs on your door.

“Go away.”

“Open up, now.” You hear it, Satoru’s voice, you’re trembling just a bit as you lift off the blankets, walking to it and twisting it, seeing his angry expression, his eyes this frightening bright shade of blue, jaw set. “You avoiding me, really?”

“You showing up like a psycho, really?” Satoru opens the door as you try to shut it now. “Let me wallow away in misery.”

“No, sure the fuck won’t. Talk to me.” He gently pushes himself right into your room, the floorboards creaking under his sneakers, he’s just wearing jeans and a sweater right now, as he shuts the door behind him and looks at you. “You look like a hot mess.”

“I am just a mess.” He sighs, cupping your face now. “I have an answer that you’ll hate, and I’m avoiding it.”

“So you… are.” He swallows, nervous as he touches your brow. “You’re sweating and warm.”

“I guess hiding under blankets,” you do feel just a bit dizzy though, swaying ever so slightly. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” He immediately goes into doctor mode, assessing you through the haze of his own drugs, he’d taken several bars today while you ignored him, right now he’s dying to snort ten. But he will keep his damn promise, even if the not knowing was killing him.

“Nothing, I’m preg-” you pause again, feeling another wave of dizziness, taking several breaths. “I’m preg-”

“Pregnant, I know I figured that shit already. But what are you… hey, sit down, shit,” Satoru gently leads you back to the bed, as you almost collapse on it, feeling the beads of sweat on your brow drip across your face. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Toru will you hate me forever?” He glares now.

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Resent me?”

“I… no… you’re sweating more and your color is off, the fuck is up?” He narrows his eyes, assessing you further.

“Blood sugar maybe? I haven’t eaten,” he curses softly, cupping your cheek delicately in one hand.

“I’ll go grab something for you, okay?” You nod weakly, vision just a bit distorted, your hands are shaking once he’s gone and you hold them out for assessment, feeling yourself fade.

Panic attack?

Blood sugar?

Blood pressure?

You shake out your hands, trying to breathe, but you don’t get to see Satoru return with food that he inevitably drops, not when you’re collapsed on the fucking floor, crumbled up. When he finds you, so helpless on the floor curled in a ball, he’s panicking, trying to wake you, tears falling as he assesses every bit and feels your skin is now burning.

“Shit, baby, shit,” he’s cursing softly, the last thing you’d done is look at him with all this damn worry, wondering if he’ll be gone, did the stress cause this!? He picks you up in his arms, and your friends quickly gather.

“What happened!?” Maki whispers, brushing your hair back, seeing your unconscious head bobble just a bit. “Gojo what is it!?”

“I don’t know, she’s burning up and sweating, she wasn’t finishing sentences. I need to get her checked.”

“We’ll come with you.”

Satoru’s soon hooking you up to an IV, ever so carefully pressing one into your veins, worried you must be dehydrated, malnourished, you never eat and live off coffee, and being pregnant? That could only escalate everything. He orders up a full panel of blood work as he tries to find out just what is happening, pumping you with antibiotics, with fever reducers.

You just don’t wake up.

Your heart rate has jumped up then, you’re shaking your head back and forth as Shoko walks in, assessing you quickly. “She’s pregnant?”

“Yeah,” his soft answer is met with exhausted eyes. For an hour he has been unable to wake you, every moment that goes by achingly slow. “Can you check to make sure everything is alright?”

“Of course, how far along?” Satoru sighs, as Shoko starts bringing the ultrasound machine over.

“Can’t be a month or two, just barely.” Shoko frowns a bit after the screen lights up. “What!?”

“Shit,” her answer terrifies him then. She’s moving the wand lower, slipping your top further up, revealing a still flat stomach.

“Shit what, Shoko? What is wrong?”

“Let me do a different ultrasound.” She’s not answering him, instead doing a transvaginal, all while Satoru is losing his fucking mind. Satoru stares hopelessly at the screen then as he sees it, clear as day.

“Tubal?” His words are hoarse, Shoko sighs, nodding. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck this are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, we’re best to do a laparoscopy if we can. And I need to do it right now, she has this fever and fainted from it.”

“Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit.” He’s shaking as he covers his face, shaking his head now. “She’ll lose her tube then?”

“I’m the best in my field at it, I will try to make sure she doesn’t but, of course it’s a risk, and risk that she’ll get another.” Satoru’s heart shatters into a million fucking pieces. Shoko walks past him, a hand briefly on his shoulder. “I need her in surgery now, if you can’t keep it together-”

“I can. I will.” He swipes at his tears and she nods, leaving you alone with just him in the room, as he stares at the screen with the photo paused on it.

There’s no chance of having this baby of course, but he’d be damned if you lose the ability, whether it’s with him or someone better, he sure the fuck wasn’t letting you lose it. He thinks about the hurtful way he said things before to you, the day that baby died and you were so devastated, the casual way he told you what he’d do if you had a baby, the panic on your face as you told him.

It all sinks in, while you’re immediately prepped for the surgery - if it failed, they’d have to be invasive, if it ruptured, you could potentially never have children with just one tube. Even if you could, the risk of another rupturing would be substantial, he’s not in the same field as Shoko but he’s still seen it.

Satoru never wanted them, but for a brief moment he saw it, the life with you, that he’d make it work somehow, that you’d be so happy to have a baby that he could learn to love it with you. Now it seems a cruel joke on you, while you’re asleep on the operating table, and Satoru gets the scalpel, making a tiny incision in your pelvis, tearing precious skin off the girl he is in love with.

He has to keep his fucking composure.

He has to keep his hands steady.

No amount of xanax however can stop the nausea of watching Shoko Ieri insert that thin tube that has the camera inside of you, little by little ever so carefully, and it all starts coming to view. She is the best with this, with babies and c sections and miscarriages, but the sick feeling makes him sweat, makes his heart race.

If you weren’t okay after this, how could he live with the hurt you’d face?

This chap was so depressing my bad lol this story is heavier than my usual </3 DW reader will be okay and so will Choso though no one is dying on my watch, dammit

tags- @lostfracturess @unfortunately-tia @allofffmypeaches @makingtimemine @antisocialinlw @meg3mis @zoeyflower @wstaley2 @bunheadusa @blue-musingss @ameliariddle @labelt-san @jkslaugh97 @shadeowz @gojo1228 @jaeminaur @httpstoyosi @angel1of-death @seeing-stars-alt @bol0-de-morang0 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @trishiepo0 @inthedarkshadows000 @gina239 @pelicanpizza @gojo1228 @ducky1232 @inthedarkshadows000 @eclecticmentalitypersona @burguhndy @levislug @addehehe @sluttyofgojo @msniks @xixflower @ambiguouslady42 @kiaraandrea @jjknanamin @suguruscousin @silverfangmarks @atiny-99 @thatssoambs @kanekisheart @mahalsuya @kimkimoruo @hoelynecujoh @ravenbc @abiiebibie @procastinatingbitch

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo x you #satoru gojo #jujustu kaisen #doctor gojo #gojo smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk angst #gojo angst #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #satoru smut #satoru x reader #jjk gojo

621 notes · View notes

dravidious · 2 years ago

Note

You're more amazing than the act of being murdered

Behold, the legendary cave. It goes by many titles; the Cavern of Terror, the Nest of Horrors, but its true name is known by all:

#procedurally generated content can be pretty silly sometimes #ka asks

0 notes

skzophreniic · 2 months ago

Text

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. use of vibrator. bit messy.

⍣ ೋ notes: hullo guest of room 801. i see you have requested a personal communication line with our general manager christoper. i'll have to forward him your request and see. don't worry though, i'm not sure he is capable of denying you anything :)

INTERNAL INVESTIGATION REPORT Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Subject: Staff Conduct – Unauthorized Use of Executive Amenities Staff Member Under Review: General Manager Bang Chan Requested by: Guest (Room 801)

[Location: General Manager Christopher's office, 2:12 p.m.]

The door to General Manager Bang Chan’s office clicks shut behind her—quietly, purposefully.

It always unnerves Aeryn, how the soundproofing works. How the outside world cuts off so cleanly, as if the very walls themselves conspire to protect him. Or hide him.

She’s holding the letter in one hand—folded precisely once, no wrinkles, no smudges—and a soft pink clipboard in the other. Because aesthetics matter, even in war.

Bang Chan looks up from his laptop, brows raised slightly, not in alarm but in a kind of cool anticipation. He’s in his tailored charcoal suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he’s had a long morning—but not long enough to explain the state of his tie (missing) or the faint imprint of someone’s lip gloss on his jawline (left side, cherry red).

“Concierge,” he says smoothly, standing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Behind her, the door opens again.

“Sorry,” Seungmin mutters, stepping in with a deadpan expression and a steaming cup of black coffee. “Figured you’d need this.”

His gaze flicks to Aeryn’s clipboard. “Ah. Suite 801.”

A pause. Bang Chan exhales through his nose and reaches for the coffee, the very picture of composed.

“I take it this is about the... formal enquiry?”

Aeryn offers him a smile far too polished to be kind. “That’s correct, sir. The guest has raised some questions regarding the nondisclosure terms surrounding your last... engagement. Specifically as it pertains to any equipment added mid-stay.”

Seungmin coughs.

Chan’s lips twitch, dangerously close to a grin. “Is that so?”

“She’s also requested a formal investigation and a full reconstruction. For documentation and research purposes.”

There’s a silence. The kind that only exists in a very expensive room, built to contain very expensive secrets.

Chan sets his coffee down. Rolls up his sleeves. Unbuttons his cuffs.

And then—finally—meets her eyes.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice low and just a little rough. “I suppose I’d better walk you through it.”

[Location: General Manager Christopher's office, 12:12 p.m.]

It starts with an extension request.

A polite one. Professional. You even knocked on the General Manager’s door like you hadn’t shown up in nothing but a barely-tied robe and a mischievous smile. As if the slight sway in your hips wasn’t deliberate. As if your bare legs weren’t a test he was already too aware of.

He opens the door himself—of course he does—and looks at you like he knows. That stare of his: sharp, calculated, interested. Always in control.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. His tone is polite. Neutral. But you catch it—the flicker of something darker beneath the words. Something curious.

You sit. He doesn’t.

“What can I help you with, Miss…?”

You tell him your name, lips twitching.

There’s a pause. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Right.”

You explain your request—wanting to extend your stay, preferably in the same suite. He listens attentively, nodding, folding his hands like a proper manager. But his eyes… they never leave your thighs.

“I’m afraid there are procedures for that sort of thing,” he says finally, walking around his desk. “Especially if it’s… a special room like yours.”

And then, almost casually: “Have you signed the NDA yet?”

You blink. “I—no?”

He nods like he expected that. Like this was part of the script.

“Then we’ll need to take care of that first.” His drawer opens. A sleek document appears on the desk, printed on pale pink letterhead. “Sign here.”

The pen he hands you is gold. Heavy.

You sign without reading it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, quiet enough you almost miss it.

Then: “Would you mind standing for a moment?”

You do. Confused, but intrigued.

He circles you slowly. Looks you over like you’re an art piece. No, a luxury amenity. Then, he brushes your robe off your shoulder, lets it fall slightly—no resistance from you. He hums when he sees the lack of anything underneath.

“No undergarments?” he asks, voice silk.

You smile. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” he says. “In fact… I think it helps speed up the process.”

Before you can ask what he means, he nudges you gently backward—until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of his desk.

“Lie back,” he instructs, already loosening his tie. “We’ll keep this… efficient.”

You’re halfway reclined before he reaches for something in another drawer—velvet-lined, discreet, and utterly not standard issue. He holds up a slim, blush-pink vibrator. High-end. Sleek.

“Just a small evaluation,” he says, tone mock-professional. “To assess your suitability for extended accommodations.”

And then he turns it on.

The first contact is a whisper against your clit—barely-there, maddening. He watches your hips twitch, listens to your breath hitch, and smiles like a man who has all the time in the world.

“This setting is for guests requesting late check-outs,” he murmurs, dragging the toy in slow, steady circles. “It’s gentle. Teasing. Nothing too disruptive.”

You’re already panting, your thighs falling open wider for him.

He presses a button. The vibrations intensify.

“This one’s for those staying more than three nights. More persistent. Demands patience.”

You gasp, legs trembling, fingers digging into the edge of the desk.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. “Shall we see what happens when we activate the ‘executive suite’ tier?”

He clicks it again.

It pulses deep. Relentless. Your hips buck, and he places a hand firmly on your stomach to keep you still.

“Now, now,” he soothes, voice low and cruelly calm. “Stay still for me. You wanted to extend your stay, didn’t you?”

You try to speak—try to say yes—but it breaks into a whine, breathless and high. He slides the toy lower, dragging it up and down your soaked folds before circling your clit again with a precision that makes you see stars.

“You’re soaking my desk,” he remarks, almost fondly. “I should write you up for that.”

You can feel it building—fast. Too fast. You lift your hips for more, chasing it.

He pulls the toy away.

Your whole body arches in protest. He tsks.

“We’re not done evaluating.”

He brings it back, lower speed this time. Draws it up slowly. Watches you squirm.

Then—without warning—he slides two fingers inside you, slow and deep. Your body shudders, clenching around him instantly. He groans low, the sound almost reverent.

“So responsive,” he mutters, pumping them in time with the toy. “You don’t even realize how much you’re giving me.”

You’re close. So close.

But he doesn’t speed up.

He keeps you right there, on the edge—over and over, until your body is trembling, sweat slicking your skin, whimpers spilling from your lips.

“Please,” you gasp.

He raises a brow. “Please what?”

“Let me—fuck, please—I need to cum—”

“Hmm.” He leans in. “I suppose we can add that to your amenities.”

And then he does it—cruel little circles with the toy while his fingers curl just right and your whole body locks up, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You sob out his name as your legs shake, thighs clenching around his wrist, your back arching off the desk.

But he doesn’t stop.

Keeps going through your orgasm, holding the toy against your overstimulated clit as you twitch and moan and try to wriggle away.

“Too much?” he asks, feigning innocence. “Then maybe we need to reconsider your extension—”

You whimper something incoherent, begging, panting, desperate.

He finally clicks the vibrator off.

Removes his fingers. Watches your slick drip down them.

Licks them clean.

“I’ll approve your stay,” he says, straightening. Adjusting his cuffs. Then, without hurry, he reaches for the top button of his shirt. Undoes it. Then another. His eyes, dark and knowing, never leave yours.

“But I’m going to need a more… thorough evaluation.”

A pause. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and he smirks.

“Let’s discuss the premium package.”

______________________________________________________________

🗒️ INTERNAL SERVICE MEMO From: Concierge Aeryn To: SKZotel Staff – All Departments Subject: Incident Debrief – Suite 801 / General Manager Conduct Classification: Staff Eyes Only / Group Chat Archive

Team,

Per guest request (and because Seungmin couldn’t keep his mouth shut for five minutes), below is the transcript of this morning’s staff group chat regarding the… situation in Suite 801 involving General Manager Bang Chan.

Please note: The following messages have not been edited for professionalism, confidentiality compliance, or emotional damage. Names have not been redacted because frankly, if I had to be in that room with him and Seungmin, you all get to suffer with me.

Proceed accordingly. – Aeryn Concierge, SKZotel

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx

327 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 7 months ago

Note

I'm getting an iud and I'm so so nervous!! I have a super low pain tolerance! Would u be willing to write a fic about reader having to get a procedure done (can be general so more people can relate) and just one of the mauraders being there for her? Like May be she tries to not tell him bc she doesn't want to burden him but he finds out and is shocked and then offers to drive her home after?

tots projecting bc I'm gonna have Uber home and I wish I had a sweet bf driving me

Good for you babe! I hope it's not as scary as you think, thanks for requesting <3 I made this fwb Sirius because I thought it'd be fun, hope you don't mind

cw: vague mention of medical procedure, suggestive/mature content but no smut

fwb!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 837 words

You pull your shirt on, nerves once again tingling in your fingertips. It’s been on and off all day, the anxiety as you remember the appointment you have scheduled later this week. Sex with Sirius was only a temporary, if pleasant, reprieve.

“Hey,” he says, pulling you from your thoughts. He’s opening a pack of cigarettes. “Want me to open the window?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Please.”

Sirius reaches back to unlatch the window by your bed. He looks the polar opposite of you, all stretched out and languid, seemingly having no inclination to cover up whereas you can’t wait more than a couple minutes after sex before putting your clothes back on. Sirius tends to like to cuddle, chatting with you while he maps idle paths over your body with his touch, but you need layers between you; it’s too difficult to keep the lines from blurring, otherwise.

He lights his cig, letting his head loll off the bed as he breathes in before exhaling in the direction of your window. You wish he wouldn’t smoke at all, but you appreciate how considerate he is about it. He’s not offered to share his pack with you since the first time you refused, and he always does it outside or out the window, depending on the weather. Now, the air coming inside is cool and muggy, enough to have Sirius reaching for the corner of your sheets and tossing them over himself lazily.

“Can I ask you something?” you say, fingers twiddling in front of your tented legs. “You can say no.”

Sirius’ head tilts up. “When have I ever said no to you?” It’s a question not meant to be answered, so you don’t. “Ask away, gorgeous.”

You wet your lips. “Do you have anything on Friday?”

“Mm, this Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“I work at three, but nothing before then. Why?”

“Oh, nevermind then.” You shake your head, guilt and dread intermingling in your gut. You’ll figure something else out. Worst case, you’ll take the bus. It’ll be fine. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Wait, why?” Sirius sits up, twisting sideways so he can prop himself up on an elbow. The sheet falls down his waist. “What’s Friday?”

“I’m just…” You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant but no doubt failing miserably. “I have an appointment then, that’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

“An appointment.” His brow furrows. “Like, the one you talked about making? You’re doing that?”

“Yeah…” Your voice has gone a bit quiet, nerves and awkwardness shrinking you.

Sirius shakes his head, appalled. “What, and you just weren’t gonna tell me? Who’s driving you?”

“Um.” You find yourself looking at the wall beside his shoulder. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Bollocks. You were going to ask me, weren’t you?”

Your silence speaks for you. Sirius makes a noise that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Sweetheart,” he stubs his cigarette on the windowsill, sitting up, “I can take off work for that. When is it?”

“It’s during your shift,” you say, guiltily. “You really don’t have to.”

He waves you off. “It’s fine, I can get someone to cover for me.”

You sag a bit with relief. “Thanks, Sirius. If you could meet me around half past four, it should be done by then—”

“What?” Sirius’ face screws up as though you’ve said something offensive. “No, when does it start? When’s the appointment for?”

You must look startled, because his expression gentles.

“Look, babe, I don’t have to sit in there and hold your hand if you don’t want me to, but I can at least drive you there and wait for you to be done. Please, I don’t like the idea of you going alone.”

“Okay,” you say hesitantly. The idea of having him to hold your hand really doesn’t sound so awful. “It's at three.”

“Brilliant.” Sirius’ smile blooms at having gotten what he wanted, jovial once more. “Are you nervous?”

“Yeah,” you admit, still quietly. You’re feeling somewhat more comfortable now that the awkwardness of asking favors has passed, but your general nerves are still there. Sirius seems to pick up on this, leaning forward to clasp both hands around your ankles and drawing circles with his thumbs.

“You’ll be fine,” he says surely. “We’ll have a pep talk on the way if you need one, and I’ll be there afterwards for whatever you need. You won’t have to lift a finger for the rest of the night.”

You lift your eyebrows at him. “Are you planning on staying over?”

He scoffs. “Obviously. Not with any ulterior motives, of course—though I’m never opposed, you know—but someone ought to keep an eye on you. Make sure nothing changes overnight.”

You’re relaxing some, now, your hands untangling to rest on either side of you on the bed. Sirius’ thumbs continue their diligent soothing of your ankles.

“It’s not as serious as that, really,” you try to mollify him. “I should be fine soon after.”

“Mm, nevertheless. I think I’ll stay just in case.”

599 notes · View notes

edenspoem · 8 months ago

Note

carpenter!ellie 😩😩

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒. ♱

content: ignoring the fact that this request is a tad old, let me indulge in you some headcanons for her! smut, mdni, reader has a child, dork!ellie content, loser!ellie content, general storyline outline, fingering(r!receiving), oral(r!recerving), dom!ellie, rough-handling, mama petname, hint of breeding kink, fluff intertwined. this took a hot minute, sorry for the wait. (2.4k wc)

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆:

She was a shiny object of secular occupation. Glinted skin, tinted lips, pools of sweat in plaid, and hair like mahogany. It was eye-catching the first time. Stepping through the wide workshop door, the screeches of saws drowned everything out: the thoughts, the plans, the mental image of those kitchen cabinets you wanted done, but she drew everything back in.

Unfortunately, she wasn't the one that pulled you aside to chat about your renovation project. It took a rustic couple of days of contracting and working out blueprints before she was introduced first and foremost. Woodcraft of Wyoming makes customer-supplier relationships their top priority—and Joel made sure to put in nothing but good words.

“Hey.” She had specks of sawdust dusted across her cheeks, and a voice fit for an angel. Even held out her hand to you. “New girl on Goldpine?” Fallen straight to your knees, you were. Gorgeous girls in labor-intense jobs are the fucking sweethearts, and sweet-looking. Your opening thought was to chuckle—for no reason; there was a nervous weight on your chest. “Yeah..” It was airy and soft in the pit of your throat. “That would be me.”

And neither one of you knew how to continue threading the seam after; secluding hands in pockets, avoiding eye contact. Back then, you were simple strangers, so you had no clue that she was a virgin to regular conversations—with girls like you, at least. She communed with older folk, more often. Girls within her dating range are so damn confusing!

Not to mention, the unmentionables: Are you single? Are you gay too? Do you even like girls like her, big heart and small tits? Round eyes and long tears? Forest eyes, or ocean ones? Greyhounds, or tabbies? Do you hate coffee? Do you like video games? If you could bring one thing to a stranded, desolate island in the sea, what would it be—and why? Have you ever skipped town? Would you, if shit went south? This shit is the standard procedure for a girl heartbroken twice-over!

But you—you are the least confusing, and most wanting.

God, and she smells only of wood.

Woodlands, and processed bodies of wood. Something you expect from a girl of her plaid-wearing, converse-pairing type.

Oh, and has about every off-hand item linked to a sage carabiner in her belt loops. Rejects the idea of a purse or a backpack; pockets and loops are the way to go, apparently.

When she discarded her gloves in front of you for the first time, it was a pleasant discovery. They covered her tattoos: graceful, rebellious little things you are sure procured a lecture from her dad, Joel, who owns the place.

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄:

So, it came. Day utero, a week later: the day she had to go against the odds in her gut. So, let's say you're the cute girl on the block she wants to buy you a drink in the potential, rather near future? Forget it. You barely know each other and she was there on the clock, not to flirt with the client in her own damn house! She was the one responsible for getting your renovation project off the ground—well, deeper in it. That comes first. She had to accommodate every little need you spoke into the autumn air, every little direction.

Her heart did swing, however. She was in your world, and your voice was there too. She escaped into it, and ended up hours further in eveningtide with multiple cuts on her fingertips from lacking focus; your beauty the edge of a sharp saw. There would be a “Fuck!” or an even stronger “Motherfucker!” from her that pierced through the halls.

Again, and again, and again. The first-aid kit sees her face more than anyone else.

Soft memories of you seeped under the band-aids. Memories you think nobody will remember.

It was tedious work. It wore her and everyone involved thin, so that is exactly where you popped in. Pretty outfits and impossibly prettier artisinal platters in your hands, turning heads over the sounds of sawdust. Sunlight seemed to rain in even harder once you sauntered inside.

On her breaks, a camera would be taken out for recreation. Beyond the surrounding green belt of silence stands the backwoods; a cacophonic mural of birdsongs. Birdwatching opportunites. From the sink window, you could spot her. Each chirp that sounded, she took a polaroid camera to a perfect line of sight and snapped a photo, crinkling up her flecked nostrils. Then, you knew she understood the unspoken language of the woods.

She also never engaged much during them, reading the lips of everyone in the room—lingering on one pair the most. Yeah, yours. All the carpenters aiding you had at least something to start a conversation about: whether it be the area, who lives with you, what job you work. Humdrum things that come without thought or genuine intrigue.

But she watched. When it wasn't birds, it was you. She never meant to lurk on the sides. Sure as hell, she longed to say something—anything, but in the same chorus, not just anything.

She wanted to be the special one out of the bunch.

So, she studied you. Studied herself, next to your existence. Turns out you have more in common—and more chemistry, than a glorified hour of rubbing elbows and licking lips in a bar would provoke or reveal. Thank goodness she chose the route less traveled by.

“You go to museums quite often?” she spoke as she slid up the counter edge, sacrum leaning on the ridge. Convinced your ears were crafting speech from quiet air, you did not notice her. Whatever words she etched into the walls of her throat, practiced in the mirror a ritualistic amount of times, came out too soft. She repeated herself with a nudge, and a satin ribbon on the ends of her last words. Something you notice. “With 'ur son?” It lightened your eyes. “Oh, yeah.” It also lightened the numbed spots in your brain; she is a breath of fresh air. You wore unworn smiles for her. “He loves dinosaurs with his whole damn heart. Well, as he would say—with his whole butt, or whichever weird denominator he uses.” You get her to such an egregious level of delusion, she begins to consider marriage. With anybody, to be clear! Totally isn't limiting her options to you only. She coughs up a laugh. “Tch—he's just got an imaginative word bank. Don't knock'em, mama.” Defending the honor of your capricious son—whose humor is made up entirely of fart jokes—but she slipped in that sly nickname. You assumed she meant no lust, and no love by dropping it, an anxious pause breathing between it, but it sent a shiver right down your spine, and settled in the small of your back. Fucking romanticist.

You already thought she was perfect then.

But somehow, there was a whole lot more packaged perfection sat alone, and unwanted, inside this strange girl with doe eyes. If there was a mountain of boxes to carry in, she wouldn't even let your hands grace the edge of one.

She has an innate sensualism to her. When she did work, and when you did an admissable nothing, she enveloped the eye of your mind. Those little, lustful pit stains drooping from her shirt everytime she lifted her arms, were attractive. The swipes from the backs of her hands across her forehead, or even the covert decisions to unclothe her skin of those sweat-dried graphic shirts and fashioning them into facecloths and raveling back inside them before anyone could glimpse, made you lustful; sweating from the sight. Sunlight was upon her like a heliograph, yet you were the true bitch in heat.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓:

You only ever got together in the late autumn wrap-up of your project. Every prosaic interaction boiled to a point, and for both reaching, yearning hearts, it became too hot to handle. One had bent under the pressure and paltered for courage you couldn't even pry from stone: Ellie, baby-blue plaid and ripped-jeaned on your doorstep—with a bouquet.

Getting you to come to her place was the be-all and end-all to this relationship, and you are fucking glad it is. Learning more about the girl who already ticked all the boxes on being the perfect hitch to your perfect trailer, is exhilarating. Turns out, the endless commodities of nature fit into the palms of her callused hands, are weld into more than only houses. While a handful of you—including some co-workers who freeload on an average—had your fills of old, Texan-style dishes, Joel brought up punctual beats about his daughter, which she cringed at. Wrinkled faces passed around the room.

“C'mon, Ellie. Why don't you run up there and grab yer' guitar you made? Entertain your guest with a song?” Ellie sneered, silverware in her pinch clattering. “Uh—first off Joel, she's not a guest. She's my—” Though complaining, she could barely writhe her words out. The craven, cringing look on her face suggested this was her first time hosting a special guest ever. The words ghost the press of her lips, and only make it out in quiet mumbles. “Date. She is.. my date.”

All the sentient sound in the room died after. Sure made it easier for Ellie to decide that a family gathering was not her style, regardless if you knew everyone, essentially. She was none the wiser, and wiped her plate clean in record time just to gallop her autumn valentine up to her room with sweet and silken things alike crawling in her mind.

Her whispers are lithe on skin. “Think you're like the best fuckin' thing that's ever happened to me.” She had you kneeling into her love; sat in-between her barely-crossed legs, on the bed, close in a huddle and breathing into your neck. Telling you soft devotionals as if you're a bird born in shrouds that she gets to hold; her fingers trying to tangle with yours so that you may never leave. Capturing the memory like she captures a photograph. You spoke even softer. “Yeah?” The confirmation making her smile stupid in your neck. She replaces her teeth with a single, pulse-point kiss, smushing her nose. Everything is a no-brainer now that she has you to herself, for herself.

Of all trees in the forest: you are her one to carve. Ellie—the buried lover, the Ellie she kept swallowing inside, has crawled out at loathing last. This one is all-loving, eating the empty spaces that cling to your body: under the warming ears, in the pearl-shaped dip of your throat, each word that comes out. She creates little shavings of your body with the blades of her tongue, and is humming at the taste. Cleaning you, wetting your untouched skin, creating excuses for your clothes to come off.

Soon, her body is sweating upon yours; two lovers melting into each other. She drags you roughly into her mouth, arousing the bud of your nipple to stand to her lips. It hits her tongue, again and again, and is left with a wet shine. God, that fucking sight alone makes you cross your legs, and hope she does something about the uncomfortable nectar dripping down there.

She palms you about it.

“Fuck.”

In the most heavenless regions is where she shines. Literally, and figuratively. Shoving her face into the drenched secret of your spread thighs gets her soaked more than you predicted, or pictured. So when she opens her legs and pushes against you, it presses a premature moan out.

But it would not be alone. When her fingers snag and puncture in your hips, and her cunt—thick with an auburn bush—is smushing against yours, litanies of sounds spill out.

“Goddamn babe,” she huffs into a grunt, pouring all the attention solely on you. Her pussy is just lathering yours—pornographic, visual filth and more; the sounds are all you hear. “This is just what you needed, huh?” She hunches over your handled sillhouette, panting and wiping the thin hairs stuck to her lips. Her rosy face is afflcited by warmth, and shine, stare sleepy and soft. “Fuck—you look so pretty right now.” She said that, and it sounded like a revelation. With her lips curling, teeth showing, hips stilling and fingers trailing on you like you are a treasure, above and below the sea. You end up sharing the toothy smile with her. Then, her breath cuddles in closer. “Don't wanna hurt you,” She kisses your sensitive neck with a promise, unfolding the love letters in her heart. Quietly devouring your neck with wet mouthings and hot words that vibrate into your pounding one. She sucks in a sibilant breath before she continues. “But it's fucking hard not to go insane when you're so fuckin—” She stifles, and her lips pinch your skin; her intentions to mark you so obvious. She could finish you with this alone. “Mhh, so pretty babe.” How she handles you makes you feel pretty.

Customer relationships being the priority makes your pleasure her priority—in a determined tussle. When she manhandled you into some debased position; face down, ass up, you never expected her subsequent decision to put herself at a low level, too. She sits behind you, and the hand once so delicate in practice upon your face is pushing your thigh to make room for herself.

You could say she was the one being debased on her own accord. Her tongue took long, starving strokes of you, licking your pussy from behind. It drips off her tongue, down her chin, gets inside her nostrils. She whispers how much she loves it after doing it, chanting it.

Spanking is also a no-brainer. Something about the impulse gets her going. She whacks her palm across and immediately sinks her fingers in until it soothes, laughing like a fucked-out, pussydrunk maniac when your muscles shiver—her favorite part.

Will finger you if it means showing off those spire tattoos; she knows how bad you keel for them.

“God, she's just swallowin' em up.” The heads of her fingers push in, ease in and ease out. She slides out, and paints your entrance with the arousal coating her intricate digits in circles, intending to be as unapologetic as possible with it, and the sounds. She proudly chuckles when you whine. “Yeah, hear that?” “Mhm.” She made you infatuated with them, if anything.

She would give you another child, and compose all the needed furniture from scratch—if she could.

#✮─── . aestra's bibliotheca #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #dom!ellie #carpenter!ellie #ellie tlou #lesbian #sapphic #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams fic #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams imagine

660 notes · View notes

masglobalservicesblog · 1 month ago

Text

Unlocking Creativity: The Role of Procedural Content Generation in Games

Discover how Procedural Content Generation is transforming game design. Explore its impact and benefits in Procedural Content Generation in Games.

Visit: https://masglobalservices.com/services/procedural-content-gen/

#Procedural Content Generation #Procedural Content Generation in Games #Masglobal

0 notes

acexsmhking · 4 months ago

Note

What is your hc if Toby accidentally got (F) Reader pregnant?

𝐍𝐚𝐳

(𝗻.) 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼

╰┈➤ Tobias x PREG!FEM!Reader

Summary: What would happen if Toby got Reader pregnant?

Warning(s): 18+ content, mentions of sexual actions, pregnancy hormones, pregnancy pains, mentions of mental health

Oh.. oh boy.

Now if Tobias is even having sex with you in the first place you’re a significant other, as Tobias doesn’t just sleep around

But coming home and you tell him you’re pregnant??? Yikes.

Now listen I know in Tobias HC I have mentioned he does THINK about it… but thinking is very different from it being true

First of all, Tobias will generally respect what decision you make… just… either decision warrants different reactions

Abortion:

This becomes a very long discussion between you both. Toby feels both relieved and a tiny itty witty bit sad about it

He does WANT to be a ‘normal’ and ‘healthy’ person and say he could be a good father but he understands with his… issues that is very much so 50/50 and no child should have a maybe maybe

Of course; Tobias is so very supportive of you, at the end of the day YOU are going through the physical effects of it all

He tries to be as present and comforting as he genuinely can muster, making sure you don’t feel any sort of pressure

After the procedure Tobias is actually a little.. sad. He thinks you’d look beautiful pregnant and it’s not like he doesn’t like the actual process….

besides his dumb thoughts he does actually start thinking about it more

Making a crib.. teaching them how to hunt, how to craft things

God forbid if whenever yall are actually out together that he SEES a baby, the baby fever will hit him.. HARD

just give him a week or two it’ll die out on it’s own

Keeping It

Oh boy..

Oh boy oh boy oh boy

He’s wearing a smile with you but when you turn your back he is full on looney toons panicking

Yeah he… has a panic attack a few times

BUT he does start growing excited

DO NOT EVEN THINK OF DOING ANYTHING

yeah you though Tobias was protective before well… he gets mega protective… and possessive

You think your nesting is bad??? HIS NESTING IS HORRIBLE

You start going a little insane

He pampers the hell out of you though

Foot rubs, cravings, full meals everything. You wake up at 1am hungry for something? He was already up watching you sleep

Watches you sleep a lot.

Back hurts? He lifts your bump for HOWEVER long you want, washes you hair, clips your nails fuck he even shaves you if you want

…. He will do some stupid haircut

even does little hearts<3

You gotta bonk him on the head a little to not get distracted

Worried about pregnancy weight? Yeah will you should be with Tobias cause he actually doesn’t give a fuck if you gain.

HE’S THE REASON YOU ARE

he wants the baby to be comfy and fat is the only way to do that!!

The liar, he’s the one that likes it

Scalp messages!!

Will rub and oil your scalp to improve and encourage hair growth and of course washes it himself too

Yeah… he starts becoming rapid over you

You just look so… good and you smell good

He’s gentle though! He actually mostly eats you out because he actually too horrified to put it in you…

… what if the baby can see??

Don’t try talking him out of it.. he’s too irrational

Just let him be

If you have a thing for body worship will Toby always worship your body even more so now that you pregnant

Now lemme say this that Tobias literally hand made every fucking piece of furniture

Sure he bought the screws and hinges, etc etc

But the actual wood carving? He did

The rocking chair, rocking foot stand so you can lay back on the chair, the dresser, the crib, the changing table, the cabinets under the changing table for diapers and etc

Fuck sake he literally decorated it all himself

I mean this baby room is dripped out

Like… everything this baby could need and every baby item ever made in human history is there

YOU NEVER KNOW!!

Tons of toys and blankets and clothes that Tim, Brian, and Jessica got them<3

You both actually agreed not to do a gender reveal, just let it be

So when the baby actually starts coming?? Omg. Omg omg omg omg omg

Lemme say you’re doing a home birth if you actually want Tobias to be there

Remember he kinda is… wanted… kinda.. ya know… kills people..

BUT YOU HAVE THE BEST

he made sure of it

Thankfully Brian is there since he has done nursing school, you have the best midwife Tim could find

Your own family is there (if you want) but everyone else is too!! By everyone else I literally mean Tim, Brian and Jessica since… ya know

Anyways

He is FREAKING OUT

It’s becoming very very very real

Tim is holding yours and his hand trying to calm the both of you

**tired mom sounds**

You break Toby’s hand during the delivery but he doesn’t care. Minor things

He is actually sobbing and crying when the baby arrives

Like snot and everything

He’s holding them kissing your face

So many thank you’s and I love you’s.

Brian is so crying.. so is Tim. They’re grandparents!!… slash uncles…

All in all pregnancy with Toby is a confusing thing but he doesn’t leave your side no matter what!

: ̗̀➛ this was so cute to write!! I NEED MORE DAD!TOBY OMG. Anyways imma tell y’all rn. I would be the one to get Toby pregnant don’t let him alone around me trust — Ace

#creepypasta x reader #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta #ticci toby x reader #creepypasta ticci toby #ticci toby #toby rogers #x black fem reader

287 notes · View notes

halfpsychic · 1 month ago

Text

Kiss It Better (John Carter x gn!reader)

prompt: wisdom teeth removal from @medwhumpmay

Summary: At age 24, John Carter needs to have all four of his wisdom teeth removed. When the day comes, you take care of him.

Content: Mentions of wisdom teeth removal procedure, blood, hurt/comfort, mentions of pain medication and anesthesia, somewhat dubious consent for a kiss, reader is alluded to have their wisdom teeth out in 1 line. takes place day of and day after wisdom teeth removal surgery. so.

WC: 5k

John Carter thinks he must be cursed. He made it through high school and college without issue from his wisdom teeth, but as soon as he’s placed at Cook County General Hospital for his ER rotation, his jaws start to ache.

A few weeks into his rotation, when he’s finally getting the hang of treating patients and following Benton’s orders, the aches in his jaws move up into his head. The pain throbs along his temples and distracts him from patients, which, so early in his time in the ER, isn’t a good look for him.

At home, he sticks his fingers into the back of his mouth to get a sense of how far along the wisdom teeth are growing in. His fingers run over tender bumps, and one finger makes contact with the sharp edge of a tooth. His hand freezes. He knows he can’t ignore this now.

Carter catches you in the cafeteria and sits down at a table next to you.

“How do I know I need my wisdom teeth removed?” He blurts out his question. You turn to look at him and see the worry in his eyes.

“Well, you should see a dentist, they know more,” you answer. “But pain is a sign you might need things checked out. Why, are yours coming in?”

Carter nods his head. “...I think I might need to get them out soon.”

You smile, amused at the thought of Carter with swollen cheeks and suffering through the recommended soft diet for weeks.

“Getting sore?” You ask, taking a sip of your drink.

“My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

“Yeah, you should see your dentist,” you tell him. “Best to get it over with.”

Carter deflates. He childishly hoped you’d tell him he’ll be okay, that he won’t need any teeth removed. The idea of having someone else dig into his gums and extract teeth– possibly all four– was nightmarish to him. Then he thought about all of the pain that will follow in the immediate days after, and how it will linger for weeks, and the holes in his gums that will catch the chewed-up food he eats.

Carter’s eyes glaze over, focused on a dark stain on the table in front of him, as he comes up with more scenarios to worry about.

“You’ll be fine,” you smile. “Eat a lot of soup and pudding for a week and you’ll be almost back to normal.”

He groans at the thought of eating mush for a week. “Can’t they just put me in a medically-induced coma for a month until I heal?”

His complaints earn a laugh from you. “I wish. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

Carter complies and sees his dentist, who schedules his surgery for the month after. On one hand, he’s glad he can get it over with. The longer he had to wait, the more he would worry himself sick about it. But he doesn’t want it to happen that soon, either. He wishes he could put it off forever. He’s heard too many horror stories from friends in high school and college and from his cousin, stories of dry socket and pain that lingers for weeks.

The dreaded day arrives faster than Carter had hoped. He knew he would need someone to take him home, so he asked you as you walked outside with him after a shift.

Carter shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m getting my wisdom teeth out in a few days,” he tells you while you’re walking, a reminder, but you’ve been counting down the days, too.

“Nervous?” You ask him.

He nods. “I’ll need someone to drive me home,” he adds. “Are you busy that day?”

“No,” you smile. The thought of seeing Carter coming out of the anaesthesia is an opportunity you can’t pass up. “I’d love to take you home.”

Carter blushes, but the darkening sky and soft light from the hospital behind you does a good job of hiding it. “Thank you.”

There’s a steady ache in his jaws that bleeds into his chest. You walk silently beside him to your cars that are subconsciously parked close to each other, only a few parking spots separating them.

Carter hardly sleeps the night before. His mind is plagued with visions of botched surgery and infections that seep into his bloodstream. Despite how routine the procedure is, he’s convinced something will go wrong. He’s never been good at playing the patient. That’s why he went to medical school.

A few hours later, Carter walks out of the room with gauze hanging out of his mouth and a nurse holding his elbow to steady him. He smiles the best he can with a swollen, full mouth, and the anaesthesia still in effect. His eyes don’t quite open all the way.

“Feeling okay?” You ask, stepping closer to him to take over keeping him steady.

Carter nods. “He did great,” the nurse tells you. She extends a hand to you, “Here are his extracted teeth, and further instructions for post-operative care.”

You take the papers and the small container of his teeth, analyzing the dried blood stuck to a few of them. The nurse turns to Carter. “Take it easy, okay? Your partner will take good care of you.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. You realize how it looks– picking up Carter and helping take care of him when he gets home does seem like something a romantic partner would do. Carter just nods, either not registering her words or too dopey to argue.

You grasp Carter’s arm in your other hand and lead him down the hallway to the front door of the clinic. His steps are slow, his eyes wanting to close.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” you grin at him.

“Sleepy,” he says, his full mouth muffling his words.

“I know. We just have to make it to the car.”

Carter shuffles along beside you outside into the parking lot, where, thankfully, you parked as close to the front doors as you could. Walking to the car was the easy part— getting Carter in is the hard part.

He moves so slowly, unsure of his own body, crouching lower and lower until his head clears the roof of the car. Sitting down for him is better. He doesn’t have to worry about anything now. You lean across his body with the seatbelt in hand to buckle him in.

“You smell good,” Carter murmurs.

You angle your body away from him as you pull out of the passenger side, hiding your flustered smile. “Thank you.”

Carter zones out during the drive back to his apartment. He admires the passing building with awe, as if he’s seeing Chicago for the first time. He leans closer to the window, peering up at the skyscrapers, drool leaking out of the side of his mouth. At a red light, you reach over and wipe some of it away with your thumb.

Getting Carter out of the car proves more difficult than getting him in. He’s had all this time to relax and give into his sleepiness, making it harder to keep him awake enough to walk inside.

You tug on his arm and he groans. The sound he makes is more of a whine, really. A high pitched noise that comes from the back of his throat, and his body falls limp the more you tug on his arm.

“Come on, Carter, you can sleep when you get inside.”

He groans (whines) the entire time but he complies, and uses all of his strength to sit up and get out of the car.

The door to his apartment is a welcome relief. Inside, he sheds his jacket with difficulty, letting it fall to the floor for you to pick up later, and sinks into the couch. Trailing behind him, you pick up his mess, and put down his things on the coffee table.

“Change,” you tell him with a smile. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Can you get it for me?” He mumbles, head leaning back against the cushions.

You come back from his room with pajamas in hand. He changes quickly, agreeing that this feels better than what he was wearing before. He reaches for the TV remote on the table in front of him, getting comfortable in his spot and flicking through the television channels.

After tidying up the mess he left in his wake, picking up his dirty clothes and putting them in his laundry hamper, you join him on the couch. You don’t have anything better to do. You’re his for the day.

Carter tries to fight through the soreness in his jaws to sleep, but he’s not successful. He sits on the couch with his eyes closed, listening to the TV and hoping sleep will find him.

“Hurts so much,” Carter mumbles with his eyes closed. He can barely open his mouth to speak, causing his words to blend together.

“You already took your pain medication,” you tell him in a gentle tone. He won’t be due for another dose for a few hours. Seeing someone you care about in pain isn’t easy to deal with, especially when you’re helpless. The most you can do is comfort him, make his recovery easier on himself, but you can’t take away his pain.

You’re not prepared for his next words. With his slurred speech, you’re not even sure you heard him right.

“Kiss it better?”

He stares at you with glassy, wide eyes, almost pouting. Begging.

You answer with a nod before leaning closer to him. The couch cushions dip beneath your shifting weight. Carter’s face isn’t too swollen, just enough to notice something happened, but you know it’s still sore to touch. Your lips are feather-light against the side of his jaw, lingering for a moment, not wanting it to end just yet, even if it’s merely a friendly kiss in a time of need.

Carter’s eyes follow yours as you pull back, but not completely away. “Turn your head for me,” you instruct, using one hand to guide his head towards you while leaning over his lap. Again, your lips touch his skin, careful not to make his pain worse.

For a moment, your kisses do make him feel better. He manages to forget about the pain radiating up and down his jaws, replacing everything in his mind with you. Your fingers on his chin, lips pressed to the most tender part of his body. Carter doesn’t have a single coherent thought racing through his brain. All he can think about is kissing you.

Desperate to feel better, Carter takes advantage of your proximity and turns his head back to you so he can kiss you properly.

It’s a dream come true and a nightmare all at once. His lips are still dry and tasting faintly of copper, moving awkwardly from either residual numbness or pain, but it’s hard to pull yourself away. It isn’t right. He’s not thinking straight, he’s still loopy from medication, he’s just seeking comfort. It’s nothing more than that, a mistake in a moment of weakness, something you’ll both laugh off in a few days when he’s feeling better.

Carter puts a hand on your shoulder to keep you close to him. He didn’t even consider the fact that you might not want that, even if you did just kiss both of his cheeks because he asked. He didn’t think you’d pull away.

“I…”

“It’s okay,” you look up at him with a weak smile, still almost on his lap. You can’t stand to look at him for long. You’ll lean in for another kiss if you do.

Not knowing how to deal with this situation, you run from it. It’ll be easier this way, you convince yourself. Don’t talk about it. Don’t bring it up tomorrow or next week. Wait until it doesn’t hurt anymore, if that time ever comes. It probably won’t.

“Hungry yet?” You ask while standing up from the couch, anxious to distance yourself from the situation. The ground feels uneven beneath your feet. “I could heat you up some chicken broth?”

Carter nods. He is hungry, not just for broth, but he’ll take what you give him.

The couch swallows him whole. His eyes close and he can’t think about anything other than the pain and the fact that there are four holes in his mouth right now. He knows the recovery process. He knows not to drink from a straw or smoke, to stick to liquid and mush for a while before he can move on to slightly more solid foods, almost like he’s a baby learning how to eat again. He knows the pain will fade over the course of the week, with the next day or two being the peak of it. He’s sleepy but he also knows he can’t sleep on his sides yet, unless he contorts his body so his cheeks aren’t pressing against his pillows. The sound of pots and pans rattling in the kitchen snaps him out of his racing thoughts, but what replaces them isn’t all that much better.

The TV steals his attention until you hand him a mug of warm broth and a spoon. And a hand towel to mop up whatever liquid he’s bound to spill.

Carter seems to catch on. That, or he regrets the kiss and is too embarrassed or ashamed to bring it up. He keeps his eyes on the TV, never once stealing a glance at you like he always does. He’s too scared you’ll see right through him.

The rest of the afternoon is like that; tense, and quiet, far too quiet.

Carter thought– hoped?– you would stay the night. Just tonight, although he wouldn’t complain if you stayed a few more nights. The thought of waking up miserable and sore and alone sets a wave of nausea in his stomach. The thought of asking doesn’t make him feel any better. It’s bad enough he can barely talk and feed himself. He doesn’t want to be greedy and ask for more of you.

He’s curled up on the couch now, the living room darkening, fidgeting with the corner of the blanket you put on his legs. You’re on the other end of the couch, leaning against the arm of it the same way he is. He’d flicked through the channels earlier while you were heating up another mug of broth for him and he landed on some action movie, something fast-paced yet easy to follow if he lets his eyes close for too long.

Carter sits up. Your attention turns to the movement, thinking maybe he needs the bathroom, but he doesn’t move from the couch. He just looks at you. His lips aren’t so dry anymore, you notice.

“When are you going home?” He asks you. His jumbled speech is almost endearing. Carter isn’t a true mess so often. He has bad days at work, walking in with bed head once in a while, or messing up something with a patient, but seeing him truly in such a state of disarray is rare, impossible, even. He’s always been one to guard his troubles, wanting to handle it himself. Stubborn.

You attribute his soft voice to his inability to move his mouth properly. The question catches you off guard. “Oh, um, in a bit?” You answer. Truthfully, you don’t want to leave Carter all alone tonight. But he’s not asking you to stay. He’s asking when you’re leaving. “When do you want me to go?”

He doesn’t know what to say. Never? Right now?

“Can you stay?” Carter whispers.

His request, so small, sends an ache across your chest. During the evening, since the kiss, it was easy to forget why you were so close to him in the first place. You were kissing him better. Your touch was what he needed for comfort. He still needs it.

You can’t deny him when he looks at you with those eyes. He’s not even pouting but his lips don’t have to move for his eyes to plead.

“I’ll stay,” you answer with a nod. “Getting tired?”

He sighs, relieved that you don’t want to leave. The tension between you has slowly dissolved since he abruptly kissed you. He’s still worried about it, refusing to bring it up yet, but your answer is a good sign, he thinks. You could go and come back tomorrow, but you don’t. You’ll stay.

“Yeah,” Carter replies quietly, his mouth not numb anymore but the sharp pain in his jaws when he moves them residing, “so tired.”

“Come on, you need to get into bed,” you smile at him. He groans, throwing his head back in frustration, clearly biting back a smile, too.

Carter huffs as hard as he can, which isn’t very hard because he’s afraid of dislodging anything in his mouth, and stands from the couch. You follow him to his bedroom and pull the blankets down his bed for him. He’s already in pajamas, having lounged around his apartment in them all day since you brought him back, an oversized shirt and flannel pants.

He settles under the blankets and loops up at you. “Water?”

“I’ll get you some water,” you answer with a soft smile. “And you should take your medicine before you sleep. You might have to wake up to take it during the night so it doesn’t wear off.”

The idea of waking up in the middle of the night sounds like torture to Carter. But he doesn’t want to be in pain in the morning, either.

You bring back a glass of water from the kitchen and hand it to Carter, also passing him the pills he has to take. He winces as his jaws open to make room for the pills. He just wants it to be over already.

He rests his head back against his pillows, handing you the glass of water, his lips still wet from drinking. For a second, your mind wanders back to earlier. The kiss. His lips look so inviting right now, but there’s nothing you can do about it, unless you want to ruin everything. He probably didn’t know what he was doing, you reason in your head. A rational, clear-minded Carter wouldn’t have kissed you.

You pull the blankets up to Carter’s chest. He doesn’t look very relaxed yet, still wearing a faint grimace on his lips, from the ache in his gums or being forced to sleep on his back.

“Here,” your hands reach for his pillows. His eyes open from the disturbance. You prop up a pillow beside his head. “You can lean your temple against this,” you explain, pushing the bottom of the pillow in so it doesn’t touch his face. He does as you say and lets his head drop to the side, resting against the pillow. It’s not much, but it’s better than trying to sleep lying flat on his back.

“Better?” You ask, and he hums in agreement. He turns his face to the side, resting more of his forehead against the pillow, still careful to not put any pressure on the lower half of his face.

He looks far more comfortable now. It brings another smile to your face. “Good night,” you whisper.

“‘Night,” Carter mumbles with his eyes closed. The floor creaks under you as you leave his room, leaving the door open just a sliver behind you.

The TV is still on in the living room, playing the credits of whatever movie was just on. Carter’s blanket he sat on the couch with all afternoon is still there, which saves you a trip to his hall closet to dig for something to sleep with.

Carter wakes you up in the morning. He leans over you on the couch to shake your shoulder, having to shake you two or three times before your eyes finally open.

“Yeah?” You groan, your arm resting over your eyes to block out the sunlight from the windows.

“Where’s the medication?” He slurs. The question wakes you up. You forgot to leave out extra for him when he woke up so the pain wouldn’t be unbearable.

“It’s, um, it’s on the kitchen counter.” You sit straight up and yawn. Carter turns around to head into the kitchen but you throw the blanket off and swing your legs over the side of the couch. “No, I’ll get it.”

Carter freezes, not wanting to disturb your sleep but his mouth hurts so bad he just wants to crawl back into bed and sleep off the radiating stabbing sensations.

Carter’s apartment is cold. Without the warmth of the thick blanket covering your body, you shiver as you step into the kitchen to grab the bottles of pills. The cold tile under your bare feet doesn’t help, either, your teeth chattering as you walk back into Carter’s bedroom.

“Hurts?” You ask, handing him the bottles. In an effort to retain any heat, you sit down on the edge of his bed.

Carter hums in agreement. He sinks back into his pillows after swallowing his pills. The relief isn’t immediate, but he knows it will come soon.

His eyes close, too, as he shifts to a more comfortable position for his jaws, although nothing is comfortable as long as the pain persists.

“You can stay,” he offers quietly.

“Here?”

Carter nods. There is enough room in his bed to lay next to him.

Convinced this is another decision made under the influence of medication or pain, you sit next to him anyway. It’s too cold to be anywhere else, you reason with yourself. His bed is warm, and you’re cold, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. It can be simple.

Carter’s head lowers to rest on your shoulder. His temple meets your shoulder and his body tilts towards yours. From your perspective, he almost looks small, which is rare for a man of Carter’s stature. He never looks small, always towering over most of your coworkers, a skyscraper working amongst humans.

But next to you in his own bed, the skyscraper illusion melts away. You can see his chest rise and fall steadily, slowly, as close as he’s ever been, and you think about how easy it is to get caught up in that closeness. If only his head was tilted up instead of down, if only Carter was thinking clearly, if only Carter would ask you to kiss him again. If he looked up at you right now, you just might lean down for a quick kiss.

He doesn’t, because he’s tired, and his face aches and throbs too much to move again.

A few hours later, you wake up, unaware you dozed off in the first place. Carter’s head is still attached to your shoulder, his body still dangerously close to yours, still sleeping.

There’s no easy way out of this, you realize. Any movement you make will wake him up, and you really don’t want to do that, but in order to get up and use the bathroom, you’ll have to.

Carter’s bed creaks when you move, which doesn’t help your attempts to leave as smoothly as possible. Your movements are jerky and the bed is too loud, and Carter’s eyes open, blinking in confusion.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, propping himself up on his elbow.

“I’m sorry. I tried not to wake you up.”

Carter turns his head back to look at his alarm clock and a hand reaches up to rub his eyes.

“You don’t have to get up,” you tell him, hoping to comfort him.

He shakes his head. “No, I should anyway.”

He’s almost speaking normally, but you know it’s just the medication helping him. In a few hours he’ll need another dose again, this time you’ll remember to catch it early instead of late.

“What do you want for breakfast?” You ask as you stand up from his bed.

He pauses to think before quickly shrugging. “It’s all mush anyway.”

That earns a laugh from you. “What flavour mush do you want for breakfast?”

You linger in the doorway for his answer. “Chocolate pudding?” He asks.

“Chocolate pudding coming right up for my patient,” you smile at him.

Carter flops back onto his bed, a smile forming on his lips. He hates being anyone’s patient but he’s happy to have you here. He’s happy you stayed the night, because you bring him his medicine and his breakfast, definitely not because he likes how you make his heart beat faster like he’s in middle school again, and absolutely not because he wants to kiss you again.

He eats his pudding in bed, listening to you wash the dishes from yesterday and tidy up the rest of his place. He can’t imagine having to come home alone and take care of his apartment on top of himself.

Yesterday’s numbness has completely worn off, and even with the pain medication earlier, his jaws are tight. He can feel the holes in the back of his mouth throb lightly as he does his best to swallow the pudding without letting it touch his raw gums. It’s quite difficult to manage, and he smears some pudding on his chin in the process.

You pop your head into his room to check on him, instantly grinning at the mess on his face. “You look like you just ate shit.”

Carter rolls his eyes. “Can you bring me a napkin?”

You disappear and come back with one in your hand. Instead of handing it to Carter to do for himself, you walk up right in front of him and take his jaw (making sure to not touch the slightly swollen hinges) in one hand and wipe the pudding with the other. His eyes meet yours for a second before flickering away, his head trying to follow his gaze but your hand keeps him in place.

“There,” you murmur. “All clean.”

With his face in your hands, his lips look so tempting again. He’d probably taste like chocolate, too.

Carter, still shy from your touch, looks back up at you. Your hand lingers on his face, burning against his skin. “Kiss me again,” he whispers.

His voice is so quiet you’re not sure if it was real or just what you want to hear.

“Please?”

How can you say no to him?

You lean down, and like yesterday, press your lips to his, careful to be gentle so he’s not in any more pain. He can hardly move his jaws from how tight they feel, but he manages to kiss you back with the little motion he’s granted.

Your hands move down to his neck, wanting to cradle his jaws but that is out of the question, for now, at least. He shifts on the bed so he can sit taller to be closer to you. His hands grip whatever’s closest, your waist, and doesn’t let go.

A whine scratches out of Carter’s throat when his mouth erupts into pain from his carelessness. He got too excited, moved his mouth too much, forgetting just how sore he still was. The surgery was only yesterday, after all.

You pull back in fear of hurting him more. Reality hits, again, hard, as you look down at him. But he’s looking up at you, lips parted as he breathes heavily, and he doesn’t recoil. His eyes flicker down to your lips for a second and that tells you he wants more.

“Carter…” you whisper, voice unsteady. “Are you sure?”

He doesn’t understand. Sure about what? Sure that another kiss won’t hurt him? Sure that he does want another kiss? Sure that it’s you he wants to kiss?

It doesn’t matter. He’s sure of it all, so he nods. “Please, it makes me feel better.”

His answer sinks down from your chest into your stomach. Your hands on his neck slowly drift away. Your initial fears were right. This wasn’t anything more than a home remedy for his aches and pains.

Carter doesn’t know why you’re stepping back. All he did was tell you the truth– finally kissing you makes him feel better than he has in years. It melts away the stress of work, the pain from his surgery, everything. Nothing else matters but you, and that’s what he’s always wanted. Just you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, fearing what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t want you to leave, not yet, certainly not like this. His hands fall from your waist and try to grab for your hands, but you move them behind your back.

“I’m sorry,” your voice cracks as you speak. “I don’t want to be just a bandaid for your pain.”

He shakes his head rapidly, not caring about the pain it causes. He lifts himself up onto his knees. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” he pleads. “I- I want to kiss you always. Not just because I’m hurt.”

Your arms slowly fall from their guarded position behind your back and Carter takes the opportunity to hold on to them, to make sure you don’t leave.

You don’t know what to think. You’d spent far too long convincing yourself he didn’t actually mean it, he was just seeking whatever form of comfort he could get. But now he’s in front of you, on his knees, telling you the opposite.

“If you’re lying I’m going to be really mad,” you tell him, your brain too fuzzy to think of a real threat.

He shakes his head again and tugs on your arms. “Not lying.”

“Promise? ‘Cause I’ll… I’ll switch out your pain medication if you are. Really.”

“Promise,” he whines. He doesn’t even care about your empty threats because he knows he’s telling the truth.

You give in. Arms slack, you let yourself be drawn closer to him again.

“Your face hurts, doesn’t it?” You ask, noticing how short his responses have become.

All he can do is nod. He overdid it with kissing you, but he doesn’t care. He’d do it again. He probably will later.

masterlist ko-fi

A/N: i had my wisdom teeth removed in Feb and it was not fun at all I wish I had someone to kiss it all better. based this off of my own experiences (but i only had tylenol for pain relief after and i wasnt This out of it but there are things i have to do for plot ok). and thank you medwhumpmay for including this... i sent it in🤭

#john carter x reader #john carter #er #er x reader #medwhumpmay2025 #john truman carter iii

238 notes · View notes

cleo-fox · 4 months ago

Text

Captain's Orders

Summary: You and James Conrad do not get along. You find him arrogant and obnoxious; he thinks you are disrespectful and reckless. You would be glad to be rid of him as soon as the Skull Island mission concludes. Unfortunately for you, there's a mandatory seventy-two hour quarantine that you have to contend with…and you are stuck with James Conrad for the duration.

And in addition to being arrogant and obnoxious, Conrad is also extremely attractive…and your close quarters make it a lot harder to hide the fact that you want him.

Pairing: James Conrad x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, dirty talk, praise kink, p in v sex, vaginal fingering, blow jobs, cunnilingus, enemies to lovers, Dom/sub undertones (or overtones, honestly), sir kink, teasing, masturbation, quarantine (but just as a plot device, no one actually gets sick),

A/N: I am not particularly religious, but I do feel like my file has been flagged for horny purgatory based on the contents of this fic. This is what I have sacrificed for my craft.

You were so focused on getting to Skull Island that you didn’t really give much thought to what the return might be like, apart from your general desire to make it back alive and unharmed.

You are fairly certain that no one had mentioned a mandatory seventy-two hour quarantine, though.

“It’s standard procedure,” you’re told by an unsmiling medic in a hazmat suit. “Don’t want you bringing back any novel illnesses.”

Fine. That’s sensible. You can live with that.

Or you could have, had it not been for the fact that there were a limited number of quarantine units available and for whatever godforsaken reason, it had taken them two fucking hours to finish your processing. This would have been fine, except by that point, there’s only one unit left for two people.

And one of those people is James Conrad.

You and Conrad have been butting heads since before you shipped off to Skull Island. You’ll fully admit that he’s very capable…but he just has this way of saying things that sets your teeth on edge. If you’re being charitable, you’d call this quality self-assuredness; most of the time, you call it arrogance. And apparently, there’s something about you that is equally frustrating to him because the entire mission had been a stream of bickering that was only interrupted by an island that seemed to be doing its level best to kill you.

And if that wasn’t complicated enough, there’s also this: your annoyance with James Conrad is almost constantly warring with the fact that you desperately want to fuck him. Not only is he handsome, but he’s fit and insists on wearing a t-shirt that may as well be made of shrink wrap from the way it clings to his muscles. And for every irritating and self righteous thing that comes out of his mouth, there’s also the fact that he’s got that deep, smoother-than-smooth voice that you suspect would sound particularly delectable uttering absolute filth as he fucks you from behind (or from any position, really. You’re not picky).

Sometimes you think he might return your interest, but it’s hard to tell. He’ll be sneering and dismissive one moment and the next, you’ll catch him staring at your mouth in the middle of an argument. You suspect that you have a million tells like that—it’s hard to tear your eyes away from him, especially in that t-shirt. And those jeans. (God, those jeans. You want to peel those jeans off his body with your teeth).

The idea of no longer having to deal with him or navigate those feelings is relief tinged with a lot of disappointment. He’s a pain in the ass…but he’s a pain in the ass who you desperately want to fuck. The possibility of resolving that tension is too tempting to ignore.

So the news that you’re going to be stuck with him for another seventy-two hours in a living space designed for one person is as thrilling as it is profoundly irritating.

Whether you’ll end this quarantine fucking each other or killing each other remains to be seen.

“They never said anything about this,” you grouse to yourself as you throw your bag onto the floor.

“They absolutely did.” Conrad gives you that patronizing, know-it-all look that has been grating on your last nerve for the entirety of your acquaintance.

“I wasn’t actually talking to you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you were talking to yourself, then? Should I flag that as a symptom or were you like this before?”

You sigh and give him your best scowl. “Fuck off, Conrad.”

The smirk doesn’t go away. “I would if I could, darling.”

You roll your eyes, even as that word—darling—draws goosebumps up your spine. You try and fail not to think of how that word might sound falling from his lips as he fucks you into the mattress.

You take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose. “I don’t know how I’m meant to make it through seventy-two hours of this.”

Conrad manages an expression that’s both neutral and smug, which is somehow more infuriating than if he’d just been smug.

“Would you like the shower first?” he asks with the feigned sort of politeness that you use when you’re trying to change the subject because the other person’s being unreasonable. And it’s the sort of fake politeness that you can’t call him on because you’ll just look crazy, which is even more irritating.

You force a mild, totally unbothered smile. “You can go ahead.”

You did this to prove a point (you’re not sure what point), but you regret it almost as soon as the bathroom door shuts behind him. You’re covered in several days’ worth of dirt, sweat, and probably a little bit of blood and monster goo, which limits you to sitting in the metal folding chair that’s propped in the corner like an afterthought. One of the caps on the legs is missing and it wobbles slightly every time you shift your weight.

The rest of the quarantine unit isn’t much better than that shitty folding chair. It has the sort of blandly institutional aesthetic you’d expect from the military and everything is a rather unpleasant shade of beige or brown—the tile on the floor, the paneled walls, the furniture. There’s a ratty couch that boasts a spring making its way through the middle seat, though an attempt has been made to hide it with a bit of duct tape gone gummy with grime at the edges. They’d left a second stack of blankets and sheets on the couch, but the longer you look at it, the more certain you are that it’s not fit for human use. Between that couch and the jungle floor, you think you’d take the jungle floor.

You turn your gaze to the bed. It’s a double and it looks decently clean and comfortable. It would probably make sense to just share the bed, rather than subjecting either one of you to the couch.

The thought sends goosebumps up your spine. It’s a practical suggestion, certainly. But there are other benefits.

Conrad emerges from the bathroom after twenty minutes, freshly shaved and showered and wearing an undershirt that somehow seems tighter than that stupid t-shirt he’d been wearing on Skull Island.

You hastily avert your eyes and go to retrieve your bag.

“Shall we flip for the bed?” says Conrad, setting his own bag on the couch.

You sigh heavily as you shoulder your bag. “It pains me to say this, but we should share it.”

Conrad looks mildly surprised, but doesn’t immediately counter with something smug. “Share it?”

“We’ve been sleeping on jungle floors for days and that couch looks like it’s breeding a new species of flea. You stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine, no one has to suffer. Okay?”

He thinks for a moment and then nods. “Okay.”

You hurry into the bathroom before you get anymore distracted by how he looks in that damn undershirt.

You shut the door behind you and are immediately confronted with a different challenge. The steam from his shower lingers. Everything smells like his soap and shaving cream. It’s annoying.

And also inconveniently hot.

Your mind wanders to how he looked just moments ago, clean-shaven and hair damp, wearing that stupidly tight undershirt. And from there you can’t help but think of how he looked on the island covered in dirt and sweat, the smug curl of his lips as he said something to put you in your place, the steely flint of his eyes when you talked back, his fucking biceps in those goddamn sleeves. (Is it normal that you want to bite his biceps?)

And now you’re undressing in a room that smells like him and he’s in the other room looking like that…

By the time the water is running and heated up, you are resigned to the fact that this shower is going to end with you silently getting yourself off to the thought of James Conrad.

You’re not so far gone that you trust there’s enough hot water for both tasks, though, and you grudgingly admit that the actual shower part is most important, so you begin with that. You try not to think too much of Conrad—there will be time for that soon—but you become gradually more aroused as your shower progresses. Even the simple pass of your fingers against your skin is heightened, your body gradually growing warm and restless with wanting.

Finally, you finish washing and lean back against the shower wall. The water is starting to cool slightly, but not enough to worry you. You turn the tap further to the left and there’s a wave of warmer water. Perfect.

You slide your fingers between your legs. It’s going to be quick, you can tell that already. Conrad appears in your mind as you roll your fingers over your slick clit. You wonder if he’s as pent up as you are, if he got himself off in the same shower. Or god, what if he somehow worked out what you’re doing right now? What if he came into the bathroom and yanked the shower curtain aside and told you off for touching yourself without him? You could imagine his stern look as he stripped down, maybe he’d say something sexy like, “if you’re going to act like a slut, you should have the decency to invite me to join in—”

The water abruptly goes cold. You gasp and slam the tap off.

Fuck. It fucking figures.

You briefly consider staying in the shower and simply finishing the job, but your skin is quickly chilling as the steam leaves the shower and it’s enough to kind of kill the mood, even though your cunt is still pulsing. So you dry off and pull on your pajamas, still pent up and aching.

Conrad is in bed and under the blankets when you return, his impossibly broad back already facing your side of the bed. You turn down the covers on your side, trying not to let on to the fact that your pussy is throbbing or that the man lying next to you in bed is prompting some of the filthiest thoughts you’ve had in a while.

You situate yourself on your side, facing your back towards him. You’re not touching, but you can still feel the heat radiating off him, which also doesn’t do any favors for the ache between your legs.

“I’m turning off the light.”

“All right.”

You switch off the lamp on the bedside table, plunging the room into darkness.

You settle back down against your pillow. The combination of a comfortable bed after days of sleeping on the ground should be enough to knock you out fairly quickly.

Instead, you find yourself unable to think of anything other than the warm, pulsing ache between your thighs and what it would be like to have Conrad resolve that for you. He’d probably be a good fuck—he’s that particular combination of stern and capable that sets your nerves ablaze. His body is annoyingly perfect and he’d probably feel annoyingly good. Maybe you wouldn’t mind him being chivalrous if chivalrous meant burying his face between your thighs or fucking you so hard you see stars.

You stare at the illuminated hand of the alarm clock, feeling yourself grow wetter and more awake with every passing second. If you could get yourself off, you’d fall right asleep. You should’ve just pushed through the chill of the shower. If you’d done that, you’d be sated and sleeping right now, not staring at the clock and listening to Conrad’s even breathing beside you.

He’d fallen asleep rather quickly, you note sourly. Perhaps he’d been able to take advantage of the full hot water tank and get himself off in the shower. Your mind immediately conjures the scene, Conrad standing in a spray of water, leisurely pumping his cock, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Biting his fist to keep quiet as he comes—

Fuck. None of this is helping you.

You stare at the clock. It’s been just over an hour.

You shift slightly, your cunt aching. Maybe you could just…

You should dismiss the thought automatically: it would be ridiculous to get yourself off here, even if he is asleep.

But is he really going to know?

That should also be a nonstarter—you’re not some kind of creeping pervert, after all. But you just spent days on a deadly jungle mission that included a significant amount of time being sexually frustrated by a man who looks like he strolled in from a Michelangelo painting. You’re really fucking horny and it would be so easy to take care of the ache that’s settled so heavily in your hips. Conrad wouldn’t know. You would be discreet.

You don’t realize you’ve made your decision until you start sliding your hand into your sleep shorts.

You inhale sharply as your fingers graze your clit. It’s ridiculous that such an infuriating man has made you this wet, this sensitive. It’ll probably be quick—maybe five minutes at most.

Your lips part as you fall into a familiar rhythm, your mind drifting back to Conrad. You imagine him watching you, telling you what to do, calling you a good girl, ordering you to come. You’re starting to tense, desire coiling tight in your hips. He’d probably make you come more than once—on his fingers, his tongue, his cock. You’re not sure which one you want most, though you suspect he excels at all methods. Your breath quickens. Just another minute and you’ll come. Your pussy is aching so badly and your fingers feel so good and you’re so close to getting what you need. Just a little bit more and you’ll finally get a little relief—

“I know what you’re doing.” Conrad’s voice comes from the other side of the bed.

Shit.

You freeze, your hand stilling between your legs. You’d thought he was asleep and you’d believed it so completely that you hadn’t even considered trying to come up with a graceful exit strategy. You carefully ease your hand out of your shorts.

“What’s that?” you say, trying to make your voice sound sleepy, like he’d just woken you up and not caught you with your hand down your shorts.

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone is sharp and uncompromising, and it plucks at something deep in your belly.

“Conrad, wait—”

You can tell he’s sitting up, the mattress shifting slightly. You sit up as well, your heart pounding in your chest. It’s dark and you can’t quite get a read on him—not that you’d know how to fix it if you could.

But then his fingers close around your wrist and he brings your slick fingers up to his mouth.

Oh.

His lips close on the tip of your index finger, his tongue tasting the pad of your fingertip as he sucks it deeper into the heat of his mouth. You take in a shaky breath as burning desire rolls through you like molten lava.

“You taste desperate,” he says, releasing your finger. “Do you really need to come that badly? Is that why you’ve been such a brat?”

You didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on, but your cunt is now throbbing with an urgency that you’ve never felt before. It’s like all those days of quiet desperation suddenly caught up with you and now the only thing you can think of is his touch.

“Answer me,” he says, voice growing stern.

You lick your lips. “Yeah…I—I need to come. Badly.”

“I see.” His thumb traces a circle on the palm of your hand and then on the inside of your wrist. “And you’d like me to help you with that, is that it?”

There’s no hesitation. “Yes.”

“Then you should start calling me sir.”

Your capacity for rational thought evaporates instantly. His words and calm control have you weak kneed and aching, beholden to wants that you’ve been denying yourself for days and needs that you’ve ignored for quite a lot longer. Pure desire roars through your body, pooling in your hips, waiting to be properly unleashed.

You lick your lips. “Yes, sir.”

You feel the mattress shift again and the lamp on the bedside table clicks on.

Blinking against the light, you sit up, your eyes locked on him as he walks to your side of the bed.

“You have been insubordinate, impertinent, reckless…utterly infuriating.” His gaze roves over your body and he licks his lips. “If there’s one thing you learn from tonight, it’s going to be how to take a fucking order.”

Reflexively, you open your mouth to snap back at him before you realize what you’re doing and promptly shut it again.

Conrad’s eyes shine like a cat that’s just cornered a mouse. “That mouth is going to get you in trouble if you’re not careful, sweetheart. Are you going to behave or do I need to find something to keep it occupied?”

Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind doing what he’s implying, but the ache between your legs is becoming unbearable enough to make you cooperative. “I’ll be good,” you say, too quickly. “Sir,” you add.

His gaze is unreadable. “Undress.”

You quickly comply, pulling off your t-shirt followed by your sleep shorts and underwear. You resist the urge to squirm under the heavy weight of his gaze as it travels leisurely up the length of your naked body, the pulse between your thighs quickening as desire turns his eyes darker with every moment.

He sits down next to you on the bed. Your palms itch to touch him—to peel the stark white undershirt over his head and rake your hands over his chest, to rub your aching cunt against the steadily growing bulge in his boxers—but the look in his eyes and his stern words from earlier tell you that you need to wait for him to tell you what to do. You press your thighs together, trying to keep your aching need under control.

Almost subconsciously, your gaze drops to his lap and your lips part just slightly. His cock is straining against the fabric of his boxers, desperately hard. He may be acting all tough and stern, but he wants you—maybe even as much as you want him.

You sort of lose yourself in the moment and the sound of his low voice startles you. “You don’t deserve my cock yet.” His tone brooks no arguments, but your cunt aches all the more at the thought of not having him.

Reluctantly, you tear your eyes away from his cock. “Yet?”

“Well,” he says, trailing a hand from your hip to your ribs, “that depends on how good you are, doesn’t it?”

“I can be good,” you say.

There’s a hint of mockery in his laugh that makes you want to talk back. Or fuck him—you’re not quite sure which.

“You think you can be good? You’ve already forgotten your manners and I can tell you’re thinking about talking back.”

You can feel desperation start to claw from the ache in your hips. “I’m sorry, sir, I just—I really need to come.”

“Can’t even think straight,” he says, clicking his tongue. His gaze drops to your breasts and meanders down your body. “Show me your cunt.”

You spread your legs and bare yourself to him. His gaze is cool and impassive as he looks you over, lips parting slightly.

“Oh, you fucking need it,” he says quietly. “Look at your desperate little cunt, all wet and spread out for me like a treat.”

You can’t help it: you whine. Every inch of you is aching, yearning for relief.

Conrad looks unmoved. “You were being very wicked, weren’t you? Playing with your pretty pussy right next to me in bed and not letting me see.”

You nod, your heart racing. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He licks his lips. “Sorry’s not good enough, darling. Not with how fucking hard you’ve made me every goddamn day of this mission.” He finally raises his gaze to meet yours. “Touch yourself for me. Show me how you play with your needy cunt.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Yes, sir.”

You slide your fingers between your legs and hold his gaze until your eyes flutter shut at the first pass of your fingers against your throbbing clit. You didn’t think it was possible but you’re even wetter now than you were before. A moan falls from your lips, unguarded and wanton.

“That feel good?” His voice is a low rasp, eyes hooded.

“Yes, sir,” you gasp.

“Look at how wet you are. It’s fucking obscene.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath. “I need to come so bad.”

He chuckles, his eyes darkening as he watches you. “I know you do. But only good girls get to come and you’ve been such a fucking brat.”

You moan again, resisting the urge to whine as you change the rhythm of your fingers to press more indirectly on your clit. His words are already amplifying the rolling tension in your hips and if you’re not careful, it’ll send you over the edge too soon.

“I think you want to be a good girl, though,” he says. “You’re putting on such a nice little show for me. Do you like having me watch you?”

“Yes, sir.” Your hips roll with your hand. Your orgasm is starting to take shape, pleasure flickering in your core like a live wire.

“You love this.” His eyes are hooded as his gaze roves openly over your body. “Being so filthy and showing me what you like. Getting that sweet cunt ready to be filled to the brim with my hard cock.”

Another whine falls from your lips.

“And you’re making such pretty little noises, too.” His smile turns sly. “That’s what gave you away, you know. You thought you were being so quiet and clever, but I could hear all those little gasps. And every one made me so. fucking. hard.”

You arch against the mattress, fingers pressing harder, your hips rolling.

“I almost let you finish.” He smirks, licking his lips. “But I got greedy—I wanted to see you come, I wanted to hear you make more of those sweet noises while I made you beg for me.”

You are deliciously, unbearably close.

He is rapt by the sight of you, eyes hooded. “Are you about to come, darling?”

You nod, not quite able to speak.

His eyes darken and for a moment, you think he might let you come.

In hindsight, that was extremely wistful thinking.

“Stop.”

You freeze automatically, though your body is begging you to continue. You bring your gaze to Conrad’s and he stares at you intently, like he’s waiting for you to protest. “Hands above your head,” he says after a moment.

You obey automatically, biting the inside of your lip to stop yourself from saying anything as your cunt pulses with a throbbing ache. God, you had been so close. Conrad licks his lips, a hungry smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Is that all it takes to bring you to heel?” he says, eyes raking over your body. “Rubbing your needy little clit?”

You nod, your breath coming in sharp gasps. “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, that would have saved me a lot of trouble had I known that.” He runs one warm palm along the inside of your thigh. “First time you gave me that bratty attitude, I would’ve bent you over and made you come until you were a whimpering mess.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath, and he gives you a slow, hungry smile.

“You put on a good show of being disobedient, but you fucking love being told what to do. Your pussy’s been dripping from the moment I told you to show me your cunt.”

His hand drifts further up your body, his thumb and index finger gently tracing the bend where your leg meets your hip. You try not to squirm as your cunt throbs harder at the nearness of his hand, but your breath stutters in your throat.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asks, fingers stroking your skin.

You swallow hard, desire burning in your hips. “Please, sir.”

A slight smirk plays at his lips. “You really are a filthy girl, aren’t you? I haven’t even kissed you yet and you’re begging me to play with your pussy.”

His large hand moves to cup your cunt, his fingertips teasing the very edges of your slit, but going no further. His eyes are locked with yours and the anticipation is making you tremble.

“Tell me what you need.” Conrad’s voice is practically a purr, soft and intimate. Filthy. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“I—”

The tip of his middle finger presses gently between your folds, teasing your entrance. Your breath catches.

“Fuck, I—I need to come.”

He tuts, his hand unmoving. “And what am I supposed to do about that?”

“I want…I need you to touch me.” The words come out desperate and whiny, prompting another smirk from him. “Please, sir.”

He hums and presses the heel of his palm against your pubic mound so that it pulls at the hood of your clit—enough to tease, but not enough to provide relief.

“Like this?” he asks innocently. The slight wry tilt of his lips tells you he knows the answer.

“I need more, sir.” You roll your hips up, trying to get more friction.

“More?” He swirls the tip of his finger around your entrance, still so far away from your aching clit. “How could you possibly need more?”

You bite back a whine of frustration. “My clit.”

“What about your clit?”

“I need you to touch my clit, sir.”

He licks his lips and slowly begins dragging his fingers along the length of your cunt. “You want me to touch your clit,” he says, like he’s making casual conversation. His fingertip trails up to your clit and pauses. “Like this?”

You bite back a frustrated whimper. “You need to rub it.”

He traces a slow circle on your clit and you let out a low moan. You know he’s not going to let you come any time soon, but it feels so amazing to finally be touched that you almost don’t care.

“Oh, I see,” he murmurs, his fingers easing into a slow, twisting rhythm,, “you want me to keep rubbing your clit until you come on my fingers.”

“Yes, sir,” you gasp.

“Mmm, I’m afraid it’s not going to be quite that easy, darling.”

“But I need it, sir.”

“I know you do, but you need to convince me that you can be a good girl.” He casts a greedy look down the length of your body. “Your pussy’s so fucking ready and we’ve barely started—you must have been having some very wicked thoughts.”

You nod. There’s no point in lying.

“What were you thinking of, you wicked, filthy girl? What got you so worked up and wet?”

“You.” This truth falls easily—almost too easily—from your lips.

“Yeah?” He’s already managed to find the perfect movement and pressure for your clit. “Be more specific.”

You take in a shaky breath. “I was—fuck—I was thinking about you touching me like this.”

“Surely that’s not all,” he says. “You’re much too wet for that to be all.”

“I…I tried touching myself in the shower. Before the hot water ran out.”

He laughs, low and hungry. “Oh, you’re even more wicked than I thought.” He rubs your clit firmly. “What were you thinking about in the shower?”

“I…fuck, just like that—I was thinking about what would happen if you walked in and caught me. What you’d do to me. What it’d feel like to take your orders.”

“What else?”

“I thought about you touching yourself. About how maybe you’d jerked off in the shower, too.” You moan and he slows his fingers slightly. “I thought about you ordering me to come, what it’d feel like to come all over your cock.”

“Awfully bold of you.” His eyes are hooded. “Do you think you’ve been good enough for me to let you come on my cock?”

You moan. “No, sir, I’ve been so bad.”

“That’s right.” His voice comes out like a purr, stern but pleased. “You’ve been a very bad, wicked girl. Touching yourself, playing with this wet pussy without sharing. You’re going to need to be very, very good before I even think about filling you up with my come.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smirks again. “I have to say, I’m rather fond of this more agreeable side of you.” His gaze drags over your body again. “Tell me you like being my good girl.”

“I—”

His eyes are dancing like he knows that you’d rather not admit this.

You lick your lips. “I…I like being your good girl, sir.” You lean hard into the word sir and you’d wager that he notices based on the way his gaze intensifies.

“Does it make you wet when I tell you what to do?”

You nod, trying to keep the remainder of your composure from fraying.

Conrad clicks his tongue. “I didn’t hear that.”

“Fuck.” You gasp, whimpering. He’s been slowly increasing his pace this whole time and you are getting dangerously close to coming.

“Say it for me, sweetheart.” The low lilt of his voice runs in sharp contrast to the way he’s touching you.

“It…it makes me so wet—” You gasp, your words cutting off as your orgasm begins to crest. “Oh god.”

“Oh, you’re about to come, aren’t you?” He eases his hand away from you. “What a shame you didn’t do as I asked, you might have earned your release.”

It’s egregiously unfair, but before you can so much utter a whimper of protest, he’s bringing his mouth down on yours, tongue pushing easily past your lips. You moan into his mouth and his tongue delves deeper in response.

The simple pleasure of kissing him is far more intense than you expect and you can’t help shivering a little.

“Come here.” He gently maneuvers you so that you straddle his lap, the thick column of his cock pressing against your sopping cunt. A whimper catches in your throat and there’s a flicker of smugness in his eyes. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” he says, his voice low and a little raspy.

“Yeah.” The word comes out breathy and shaky. You roll your hips against him, but his hands quickly still you.

“Not yet. I want you to sit and just feel how much I want you.” He strokes your thighs and presses his mouth against your neck. “Feel how hard I am against your wet cunt.” His hands skim up your waist to cup your breasts. “Think about how good it’ll feel when I finally fuck you like you deserve to be fucked.”

You tilt your head back and sigh as he expertly rolls your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, gently tugging and pinching their sensitive skin until they pebble, hard and aching in his hands. His cock throbs against you.

“Did you feel my cock get harder when I started playing with your tits?” he murmurs against your neck as he starts to kiss a soft trail down your chest.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“It is requiring every ounce of my self-control to do this properly. If my cock was in charge of things, I would’ve fucked you the moment you walked out of the bathroom wearing those little shorts and no bra.”

He ends that confession by taking your right breast into his mouth, sucking hard at your nipple and teasing it with his teeth. You moan, arching your back and curling your hands into his hair, while his hard cock presses deliciously against your sopping cunt. You’re tempted by the knowledge that the friction of the thin fabric of his boxers paired with his hard cock underneath would be more than enough to get you off if he let you rut yourself against him. But there are too many risks with disobeying him right now and you’re far too horny to be able to tolerate the inevitable delay or denial that would likely follow that insubordination. So, instead, you try desperately not to squirm as he toys with your breasts, slowly driving your desire higher and higher.

He chuckles quietly against your breasts, almost as though he’s privy to this line of thought. “Oh sweetheart, you are making such a terrible mess. Look at this.”

He lifts his head from your breasts and shifts you in his lap so you can see the unmistakable wet spot on the front of his boxers, right where your pussy was pressed against his cock.

“That’s so fucking sexy,” he says, running a fingertip along the damp fabric. “You couldn’t help your pussy getting all wet while I played with your tits, could you?”

“No, sir. It felt so good.”

“I know it did. And it made me so hard to feel you soaking my cock like that.” He leans in and kisses you slowly, one hand still squeezing and toying with your breast. He draws back slightly and lets his voice drop down the octave. “I think it’s time for me to get undressed, though, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir,” you say with a promptness that betrays your desperation.

He pulls his undershirt up and over his head and you have to restrain yourself from immediately plastering yourself against his chest. All of his stupidly tight shirts had not been lying: his chest is as beautifully sculpted as you suspected it would be. Your gaze is only torn away when he eases you off his lap to shuck off his boxers, revealing what might be the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen. It is long and thick with a slight curve that you know is going to blow your mind later.

“Fuck.” The word falls from your lips before you can stop yourself as you stare shamelessly and openly.

“You like my cock?” His smirk is lazy, eyes hooded.

“You’re so big.” You say it almost automatically, without thinking about how it might inflate his already massive ego.

He smirks again, licking his lips. “You gonna be able to take me?”

You nod earnestly. “Yes.”

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” you amend.

“Good girl.” He pats his thighs. “Sit just like you were before.”

You climb back into his lap, carefully straddling him so that your cunt sits against the length of his cock. You can’t help but whimper as the silky hardness of his cock presses against your aching cunt.

“Mmm, there we go.” His voice is low and soothing as your whole body shudders. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looks at you with hooded eyes. “I love feeling your pussy on my cock. So warm and wet—and I bet you’re tight, too. Fucking perfect.”

He puts his hands on your hips and guides you against him. You suck in a sharp breath as your clit rubs against his shaft.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, rocking your hips against his. “You’re so wet you just slide right along my cock.”

“Fuck.”

“You’re making such a mess on my cock and I’m not even inside you.” He guides your hips just a little faster. “What’re you going to do when I fuck you properly, hm? Are you even going to be able to stand it?”

Pressure is quickly starting to build in your hips again—a lot more quickly than you expected. You grind your hips firmly against his cock. “Can I come, please? I’ve been so good and I need it so bad, sir.”

He shakes his head. “You’ll come when I say so.”

You give him your most innocent and demure look. “You could say so now, couldn’t you, sir?”

His gaze becomes stern. “Are you getting pert with me?”

You shake your head. “No, sir. I just want you to fuck me. I’m dripping. I need to come.”

He chuckles. “It makes me so hard to hear you talk like this. I love hearing how desperate and needy you are.” He kisses you fiercely, nipping hard at your bottom lip, his tongue stroking into your mouth as he rocks your hips in the same brisk rhythm.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Sir, please, I wanna come so bad.”

“Mmm, not yet, love.”

“What do I need to do, sir?”

This is the right question to ask, based on the way his eyes light up and then darken with hunger. “You made a terrible mess on my cock, didn’t you?”

You think you know where this is going and it thrills you. “Yes, sir.”

“You were rubbing your soaking cunt all over me like a needy little slut.” His eyes darken even more. “Good girls clean up their messes, don’t they, sweetheart?”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

He licks his lips. “I want you to get on your knees and clean up the mess you made on my cock, and then maybe I’ll think about letting you come.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath as more heat floods your cunt. “Yes, sir.”

You don’t drop your gaze as you slip off his lap and onto the floor, kneeling at his feet as he spreads his legs wide. You’re tempted to tease him—to press light, fleeting kisses against the tip of his cock or lightly flick your tongue against it before retreating, playing dumb when he calls you on it. But the reality is that your patience is running too thin and your need is too great to invite any further delay, even though you’d likely enjoy the stern rebuke that would follow.

So instead, you wrap your hand around his thick shaft and take him into your mouth.

He exhales deeply through his nose, his head tipping back and eyes fluttering shut as his sigh turns into a groan, as though he’s just sunk into a hot bath after a long day. He leans back on one hand and the other goes to the back of your head.

“You were thinking about being a brat just a moment ago, weren’t you?” he says. “Your eyes always give you away.”

You’re not quite sure if he’s displeased or not. You look up at him, raising your eyebrows in a silent question as you work his cock.

“Your mouth is good enough that I’m going to be a little more forgiving than I would be otherwise.” He gives you a lazy smirk, eyes slightly hazy with pleasure. “But I think you’re finally learning how to be a good girl and take my orders—and you fucking love it.”

You cast your eyes back down—you still don’t like admitting to that—and he chuckles almost fondly. You take him a little deeper in your mouth, lightly squeezing his shaft, letting a little moan escape your throat.

“Can you taste yourself on me?” His voice is a little raspy. You make a noise that approximates a yes. “Yeah? You like that?”

You nod—it’s not a lie either. Something about the way that the salty sweet tang of your arousal pairs with the clean, musky taste of his cock conjures a particular flood of endorphins and serotonin, bringing still more slickness to your cunt.

“Fuck. I’m so tempted to come in your mouth.” He’s still in control, but his eyes are a little unfocused and there’s a slight hitch in his breath. “I’m going to save it for your cunt, but fuck, your mouth feels good.”

You drag your tongue along the slight indentation just below the tip of his cock and he inhales sharply, brows drawing together. You gently massage your tongue against that spot, occasionally alternating with sucking hard on the tip.

“Oh, you are such a fucking tease,” he bites out between groans, his hand firm on the back of your head. But he doesn’t push you off until a minute later, when his control of his composure is truly starting to fray.

“Up.” He tugs you to your feet and pulls you back into his lap, making sure your legs are spread wide across his thighs. He slides his fingers between your folds, his eyes gleaming with raw greed. “You liked sucking me off. You’re even wetter than before—your pussy’s practically drooling.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath. “I like making you feel good, sir.”

“Yeah?” His thumb glides up to lightly graze your clit while his index finger traces your entrance. “Should I make you feel good, too?”

You nod. “Please, sir.”

He slowly sinks his index finger inside you and you let out a low, wanton moan.

“Oh, you’re tight, love.” His voice is so soft, a sharp contrast to the noise you just made. His finger curls, rubbing against that soft aching spot inside you. “You really think your snug little pussy can take my big cock?”

You shiver, the muscles of your cunt tightening and flexing around his finger. “Please, sir. I fucking need it so bad. I need you to fuck me with your big, thick cock.”

He kisses you, his mouth soft and slow, almost sweet. He draws back, his forehead resting against yours. “Are you ready to come?” he murmurs, the softness of his voice belied by the fire in his eyes.

“Oh god, yes.” Your answer comes before you can even think about it. “Please, sir, I’m so fucking ready.”

“Yeah? You want me to take care of your needy cunt?”

You nod. “Yes, sir. Please. I’ve been so good for you.”

He hums. “You have been a very good girl for me. Taking my orders, sucking my cock.” His gaze is thoughtful, assessing—and still darkly hungry. “This is what I want: I want to make you come and I want you to scream for me. I want everyone to know who’s making you feel so good. I want them all to know who this sweet pussy belongs to, whose cock is ruining you for everyone else.”

You are desperate enough to agree to a lot, but this is exactly what you hoped he’d say. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes darken. “You keep calling me sir for now, but I want you to use my name when you come.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

He presses a soft kiss against your lips. “Lie back on the bed.”

You climb on the bed and lie back as he settles himself between your legs, bringing your thighs over his shoulders. His thumbs spread you open, eyes gleaming with raw greed. You take a deep shuddering breath, biting back yet another embarrassing whine.

He leans in, inhaling deeply. “I have been absolutely dying for a taste of this pussy.”

Your legs are shaking. His mouth is so close that you can feel the heat of his breath.

“The moment we met, I knew I wouldn’t be satisfied until I made you come in my mouth.”

The tip of his tongue ghosts against your clit. It’s brief—barely a tap, not anywhere enough to provide anything resembling relief. Before you can do anything, he retreats.

He looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry. “Just as sweet as I thought. Sweeter, even.”

“Please,” you breathe.

The tip of his tongue grazes your clit again and withdraws.

You whimper. “James.”

This seems to move the needle. He sucks in a sharp breath and then the heat of his mouth is enveloping your aching clit.

His strategy before was to tease, to withhold; now, though, it’s as though he’s trying to make up for lost time. His tongue doesn’t leave your clit, tracing brisk circles that leave you gasping. He slides a finger inside you, curling and stroking until your hips lift to meet him, until you’re wet enough to take a second one. His fingers are as clever as his tongue, quickly finding the right pace and curling and stroking in just the right way. If he told you he’d spent the last several years studying the exact way to get you off, you would believe him because that’s how attuned he is to your needs. No movement is wasted, every choice is deliberate, considered. You thought that being ruined for others was something of an exaggeration, but you can feel it starting to become your reality as he unwinds all the tension and teasing to what is sure to be a truly spectacular end.

“James.” His name falls from your lips without thought. He looks up at you, eyes blazing with want. You gasp, the tension in your hips tightening to that final point, your cunt desperately squeezing his fingers as your clit thrums in his mouth. “James, I’m gonna—”

The rest of your sentence is lost to the onslaught of your orgasm. The noise you make is so rough and primal that you would be embarrassed had you not completely abandoned your capacity to feel shame when you started calling him sir and begging for his cock. His tongue on your clit has set off a fountain of fizzing sparks that are only egged on by the way your cunt clenches around his thrusting fingers. Conrad groans into your cunt like this is just as enjoyable for him as it is for you, his pace and attention never faltering for a moment, as though his primary purpose is to devour and worship. Your back arches and you moan, your hands gripping the bedsheets and then his hair as you lose yourself to days of pent up energy.

He doesn’t stop, though, his mouth still massaging your clit and his fingers curling and stroking inside you. A third finger squeezes inside you and you moan at the stretch, feeling like it’s too much and not enough all at the same time. But soon enough, the waves of feeling that you thought had dispersed are gathering again, thrall to the tidal push and pull of his tongue and fingers. You cry out, back arching as you come again, harder than before, body quaking, cunt dripping, hands gripping his hair like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

He lets you come down fully this time, crawling up your body to kiss you once you catch your breath. “You taste so fucking sweet when you come.” His voice is a growl against your lips.

You wrap your legs around his waist, desperately grinding yourself against him. “Need you. Please.”

That cocky smirk is back. “You just came twice and you still want my cock?”

There’s no point in even trying to pretend otherwise. “I need your cock. I need you to fuck me, I want you to claim me.”

“Yeah?” He shifts his weight slightly, reaching between you and rubbing the head of his cock in a slow circle on your clit. “You think you’re ready for my cock?”

“I need it.”

With agonizing slowness, he drags his cock down to your entrance. He presses ever so gently against you, just enough to make you feel how thick he is. “That enough for you, sweetheart?”

You shake your head vehemently. “I want you to fill me up and fuck me.”

“Fill you up and fuck you, hm?” He eases the tip of his cock inside you. “Like that?”

You shiver. “More.”

He inches forward. “Is this enough?” His smile is wicked.

“James, please.”

He chuckles, but he concedes at last. It’s a long, toe curling thrust before he bottoms out inside you, a tight fit that knocks the breath from your lungs in the most delicious way while the muscles of your cunt tighten and tremble around him.

Conrad groans deep and low, his eyes fluttering shut. “Fucking hell, you are tight, love.”

You are close to completely blissed out, but not so much that you miss this opportunity: “I’ll be even tighter if you make me come again.”

He smirks and rolls his hips once, nearly ungluing you as his cock seems to stroke every aching place inside of you. “If I make you come again? Sweetheart, we haven’t even started and you’re a fucking mess—I’m more concerned that you’re not going to be able to stop coming.”

You can’t resist a weak smirk, even as you’re slowly starting to unravel like he claims. “Right. So you should—oh, fuck yes—you should have no trouble meeting that challenge.”

He frowns, his expression going stern again in a way that makes you shiver. “You’re getting awfully mouthy. Am I going to have to fuck that attitude out of you?”

Despite your best efforts, desire floods your cunt and you clench around his cock. A sly, knowing smile pulls at his lips.

“You filthy girl, that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it?” He gives one gentle thrust that makes your toes curl.

You lick your lips. “What if I do?”

He smirks. “Well, that would be awfully convenient because I desperately need a mouthy slut to come on my cock until she learns her fucking lesson.” His hips snap hard against you and you moan. “You think you can do that?”

You’re utterly wrecked for him, but you can’t resist one last bit of snark: “Stop talking about it and find out.”

His smile is sharp and a little dangerous, but you love it. “You are such a fucking brat.”

You bite your lower lip and clench your muscles on his cock. “Fuck it out of me, then.”

“Oh, I’m going to.” He tries a few shallow thrusts, searching until his cock finally finds that spot inside you that makes you keen and draws a hungry smile on his lips. “That’s where you need me, hm? Right here?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, running your nails up along his back.

He works a hand between your legs, his thumb rolling over the hood of your clit, rubbing in time with each thrust of his hips.

“Oh god, James.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” His eyes are dark as he looks down at you, devouring you with his gaze. “I wish you could see how fucking good you look taking my cock like this.”

“You feel so good,” you moan. “I fucking love your cock.”

A low, pleased sound rumbles in his chest. “What do you love about my cock?”

“It’s so big. And thick.” You gasp, clenching as he thrusts into you. “And you know how to fuck me just right.”

“Mmm. This is what you needed, isn’t it? Someone who knows exactly how to take care of your needy little cunt and turn you into a good girl.”

You nod, your lips parting as he keeps hitting that spot inside you.

“You love this, don’t you? You love being my obedient little slut and letting me claim your dripping pussy with my big hard cock.”

You shudder. “Oh fuck.”

His eyes turn steely. “I asked you a question.”

Still more slickness rushes to your cunt. “Yes, I fucking love this, I love being your slut, I love it so much, god, I wanna come so bad.”

You’re close to coming, your cunt already starting to clench on his cock. Conrad’s fingers leave your clit and before you can complain, he’s guiding your hand to replace his. Your fingers automatically fall into a brisk rhythm, as he braces both arms on either side of you, trading his leisurely pace for steadier, firmer thrusts.

“Yeah, that’s what you needed,” he rasps as you moan. “Just a little more, just a little harder.”

“James.” Words are slightly beyond you now, but his name burns bright in your mind and on your lips.

“You gonna come on my cock, gorgeous?”

You nod and work your clit a little faster. You’re so close and he feels so good.

“Do you want to be a good girl for me?”

You nod, a simple yes far beyond you right now.

“Then let me feel you come hard.”

It’s the final push that you need and you cry out as your fingers and his cock tip you headfirst into a toe curling orgasm.

“Good girl,” he purrs as you shake in his arms, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. “Christ, you feel too fucking good when you come. Your tight little pussy gets even tighter.”

“Keep going,” you gasp. “Keep going, please.”

“Oh, I’m not going to stop until I get my fill,” he murmurs. “Though you’re so fucking tight, I don’t even know if there will be room for my come.”

He has one of the filthiest mouths you’ve ever heard and it’s doing things to your body that you’ve never experienced before.

“You love it when I talk to you like this, don’t you?” he drawls with a bit of a smirk. “Every time I say something filthy to you, I feel you clench on my cock.” His eyes get darker and you know he’s about to up the ante. “But I noticed that I tend to get the strongest reactions when I call you my good girl…”

You would like to be able to deny this, but it’s unmistakable: your cunt clamps down hard on his cock.

He grins. “Or when I call you my slut.”

Your cunt clenches again and he smirks.

“So which is it, do you think?” His hips thrust just a little harder. “Do you want to be my good girl or my slut?”

“Both,” you breathe. Your brow furrows and your lips part—he’s hitting that tender spot inside you and you feel yourself starting to tense in a very telling way. “Oh god, James.”

“Oh yes, you’re about to come again, you filthy girl.” He says this confidently and increases his pace just slightly. “You really are a slut, aren’t you? You just can’t get enough of my cock.”

You have rapidly ascended to the point where you can only manage an affirmative whimper and not actual words.

Conrad smiles. “Now be a good girl and make a mess on my cock like a perfect little slut.”

You arch, fingernails digging into his back and a sharp cry falling from your lips as you come for him, your whole body shaking with effort.

“Fucking hell.” He’s slowed his pace slightly, waiting for you to catch your breath before rolling the two of you over so he lies on his back. “Go on,” he says, his gaze dragging appreciatively over your body, “ride my cock and give me a little show.”

“Yes, sir.” You roll your hips, searching out that angle he’d been teasing you with earlier. You begin to ride him as you find it, letting out a low moan as you tilt your head back. You’re in that heady space where it’s easy to keep coming with the right stimulation and Conrad’s cock and filthy mouth are insanely well suited to that purpose.

“Good girl.” His voice is a low rasp. “You gonna come on my cock again?”

You nod and guide his hand to your clit. “Help me out.”

“You’re getting bold.” He smirks, but his fingers start working your clit. You roll your hips and arch your back, running your hands down your thighs all the way up to cup your breasts.

Conrad is rapt as he watches you ride him, his fingers still working your clit. “I wish you could see how fucking beautiful you are right now. Absolutely stunning.”

You whimper, rocking your hips just a little faster. You squeeze your nipples, plucking at the sensitive skin.

“Oh, that’s it, take what you need. Your needy cunt needs relief, doesn’t it? You’ve been such a good girl tonight and good girls get to come on my cock as much as they can.”

You shudder, your cunt clenching hard on his cock.

“I think my cock was made for your pussy. You feel so fucking good.” He groans, his hips rocking up into you. “I’m not gonna be able to hold off when you come this time. The minute I feel you start to come, I’m gonna come inside you.”

“Yes.” You’re shaking now, brow furrowing as you feel your orgasm rise inside you. “Oh, god, yes.”

“Oh, you’re fucking close.” His fingers press more firmly on your clit. “Come for me, gorgeous, come on my cock so I can fill you up.”

With his words, your orgasm blossoms in your belly, your cunt clenching hard on his cock. Conrad groans, his eyes fluttering shut as you ride him.

“Oh fuck, that’s good.” His hips drive up into you a little harder as he starts chasing his own high.

You lean down, pressing your chest against his as you keep riding the pulsing waves of pleasure. He grabs your ass with both hands and presses his feet flat against the mattress, giving him enough leverage to thrust up into you at a wicked fast pace. You moan as his cock hits that sensitive spot inside you once again.

His jaw is tight as he fucks you hard, but his lips start to part the closer he gets.

“Come for me,” you murmur. “I’ve wanted this for days. Let me see you come.” You lower your voice further. “I want you to claim me, James. Fill me up and make me yours.”

“Fuck. Yes—fuck, fuck, fu—” His words give way to a gasp and then a low groan that sounds like pure bliss as he spills inside you.

His hips roll against you for a while as he rides out his orgasm, his whole body shuddering with pleasure. “That’s so fucking good,” he murmurs, his words slurring just slightly as his hips begin to slow. “Fuck, I needed that.”

You intend to sit up, to give him a little space, but instead, he pulls you into a deep and slow kiss, one that surprises you with its tenderness. His cock throbs inside you still, but you don’t mind the closeness. He strokes his hand up your spine and back down and you’re tempted to purr like a cat.

His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw to your ear and then your neck.

It’s like this for a while—soft searching kisses, his large hands caressing your bare skin, your hands tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw. He’s the first to get up, stumbling to the bathroom for a damp washcloth, cleaning the two of you up with a tenderness you don’t quite expect.

He returns to bed a few minutes later and you both lie there, face-to-face. It’s quiet for a few moments as you both consider the weight of what you’ve just done and what it means going forward.

Anxiety settles in the pit of your stomach as you stare at his face. You know what you want; you just don’t know whether it’s in reach.

Conrad is the first to speak.

“In hindsight,” he says, propping his head up with his hand, “we probably should have just done that to begin with.”

A relieved, breathy laugh tumbles from your lips. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

His eyebrows lift and his face falls into an expression of playful surprise. “Did you just voluntarily admit that I’m right?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Oh spare me.”

“No, I mean, I thought my cock was good, but not on the order of performing miracles—”

You swat at him. “You’re making me sound far more unreasonable than I am.”

He grins and loops an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Mmm, I suppose I might have exaggerated slightly.”

“A little more than slightly.”

He shrugs and gives you another easy smile. “If you want to get technical.”

You look up at him, your heart beating fast. His eyes look particularly blue in this light—almost aquamarine. He examines your face carefully, one hand tracing the line of your jaw.

“So is this a truce or do you still hate me?” You don’t plan to ask this question until you find yourself saying it out loud.

Conrad frowns, a flicker of confusion lighting up his eyes. “I never hated you.”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“I found you extremely frustrating,” he says, still tracing his finger along your cheek. “A bit stubborn and hard-headed. Wildly attractive to an inconvenient and distracting degree. But I never hated you.”

Your stomach flips. “I suppose I should also confess that I didn’t hate you either.”

“Not even a little?” His expression is gently teasing and it warms you in a way that you don’t expect.

“I mean, you could be a little bit of a jerk,” you say. “And you pissed me off a lot. But mostly, I was just thinking about how much I wanted to fuck you.”

“Well,” he says, his fingertips still stroking your cheek, “I’m glad we got that sorted.”

“Me too.”

There’s a comfortable, easy silence. You feel sated and pleasantly sleepy.

“So,” says Conrad, “do you think I might take you out to dinner once this is all over?”

You offer him a slow smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good.” He traces his finger along your neck and down to your shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “I suppose until then we’re just going to have to use this time to work out the remainder of our sexual frustration.”

You smile, even as your stomach flips. “I mean, there’s quite a lot to work out.”

“It may take months,” he says solemnly and you laugh.

There’s another comfortable beat of quiet.

He clears his throat. “I’m, ah, not always quite so stern during sex.” There’s a faint flush to his cheeks and you can’t help but find it endearing.

“I mean…I really liked it,” you say, your cheeks burning just a little. “I’m fine mixing it up a bit from time to time, but I also don’t have any issue with how you were tonight.” You give him a wry smirk. “I might not always be quite as cooperative, though.”

His gaze darkens just slightly. “Then I’ll just have to come up with some appropriate punishments, won’t I?”

You lick your lips. “Yes, sir.”

He smiles and pulls you flush against him. Somehow, you don’t think you’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

#james conrad smut #james conrad x reader #james conrad x reader smut #james conrad x female reader #james conrad x female reader smut #james conrad reader fanfic

224 notes · View notes

nikkento-writes · 11 months ago

Text

Rub You the Right Way - Part 2

Part 1 | Part 3

Pairing: Choso x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Word Count: ~3.7k

cw: female reader, 2nd-person POV, explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut – oral sex (cunnilingus, fellatio, 69 position), mutual masturbation, face-riding, face-fucking, use of sex toys, cum eating, multiple orgasms

Summary: You can’t stop thinking about your adorably sweet and shy next-door neighbor, especially after your very eventful night with him just two days ago. Lucky for you, Choso can’t stop thinking about you either.

Author’s Notes: I initially planned for this to be a one-shot, but I love the dynamic of these two awkward dorks so much that I turned this into a three-part mini series! I hope you enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing it! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are not expected but always appreciated. Thanks for reading! Divider credit to @/fic-dumpster.

Two days following your risqué rendezvous with Choso, you find yourself standing in front of his door once again, a tad nervous to knock. It’s Sunday night, just past dinnertime, and you finally finished all the extra work you had taken home with you for the weekend. With hours spent pouring over documents, straining your eyes at a computer screen, all you want is to relax. And based on Friday night’s festivities, your shy and surprisingly sexy neighbor can help you with that.

You’re not here explicitly expecting sex. Sure, maybe you’re hoping for it to some extent. It was incredibly hot, so much so that you’ve masturbated yourself to sleep every night since, replaying it in over and over in your head. The fucked-out gaze in his eyes as he watched you play with yourself. His mouth pressed deliciously to your cunt, sucking and slurping on your swollen clit. That huge fucking cock deep down your throat. Most of all, you adore that swoon worthy smile of his as he caressed your cheek, thanking you oh-so-sweetly. What you really want is companionship, to be wrapped in his big, strong arms, so warm and comforting around you, completely at peace in the world. His lips soft, kisses careful, hands gentle on your body, like he truly cherishes you. You want that again. You want it all the time.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you knock, holding your breath in anticipation. Yuji is the one to answer, equally as surprised as you. He says your name, staring at you curiously. “Is everything okay?”

Of course he’s reacting this way; you’ve never visited, especially not at an odd hour like this. You didn’t even consider that his little brother would be here, even though he’s here basically all the time. You dumb idiot! Thinking quickly, you spit out the most generic and phony response that comes to mind. “Can I borrow some sugar?” Sugar? Really? That’s the best you can come up with?

He doesn’t seem fazed by the bizarre request, though you sense he doesn’t buy it, given the twitch in his lip, hiding his smirk. Still, Yuji, much like his brother, has a kind heart, so he plays along. “Hey bro,” he calls out, looking to his right.

Choso walks over from the kitchen, his eyes widening upon seeing you. He utters your name quietly, soap dripping from the gloves on his hands, in the middle of washing dishes.

“She wants some sugar.” Yuji has a cheeky grin on his face. “Think you can spare her some?”

Choso swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing apprehensively in his throat. “Sugar?” he repeats, an uncertain tone in his voice.

“Yeah,” you confirm, giving him an innocent smile. “I’m trying to bake some chocolate chip cookies and I have everything except sugar. So silly of me, right?” You’re not baking anything, but you can’t take it back now, not with Choso’s full attention on you.

He nods with a serious expression on his face, holding his arms up like a surgeon who just finished a procedure, suds slowly dripping down his forearms. “How much do you need?”

“Just a cup. That’s all the recipe calls for. It’s a batch of a dozen, so I really don’t need much.” There is no recipe, the lie keeps getting more and more elaborate, your voice getting squeakier and less convincing every second you speak. You really can’t help yourself when you’re put on the spot like this. Why must you be so goddamn awkward?!

He nods once more before disappearing back into the kitchen to retrieve the sugar you actually don’t need. Yuji continues to grin at you. “Choso bakes a lot, so he’s always got ingredients on hand.”

You’re relieved to change the subject in a slightly different direction. “His cookies are always so yummy.” All of the times Yuji has hand-delivered his brother’s wonderful treats to you flash in your head, making you smile.

“He’s a real sorcerer in the kitchen.” Yuji leans in a bit closer, voice softer now for only you to hear. “You know, he’d be more than happy to teach you a few of his recipes, if you want. He’s shy at first, but he is a really great guy.”

You give him a reassuring smile. “Yeah, he is.” It touches your heart how highly Yuji speaks of his older brother. Under the guise of cooking lessons, he’s implying that he wants the two of you to be together, as friends, cordial neighbors, possibly even potential lovers. Maybe he doesn’t want his brother to be so lonely anymore.

Choso returns, two zipped plastic bags in his hands. “If you’re baking chocolate chip cookies, you’ll need brown sugar too. So, I packed you both, just in case,” he explains, dropping them into your open palms.

You accept, too shy to meet his gaze, instead focusing on the newly acquired goods. “Thank you, Choso. I really appreciate it.”

He bows, stiff and formal, while Yuji waves. “You sure you don’t want any more of Choso’s sugar? He’s got plenty to give!” he adds, definitely trying to instigate.

Turning on your heel to retreat into your apartment, you squeak, “I’m good, thank you!” without sparing them another glance. In the safety of your home, you lean against the door, burying your face in your hands. so embarrassed at what just transpired, mentally beating yourself up for being so ridiculous. With all this extra sugar so graciously given by Choso, you end up baking cookies, pretending for your own sake that this was part of the plan all along.

~~~

Choso sits on the couch, hugging his knees, staring blankly at the empty TV in front of him. He’s muttering the word “sugar” over and over to himself, mind racing with all kinds of ridiculous thoughts. Two days after the most amazing night of his life and all you want is sugar. Sugar! And for cookies? Cookies for who?! He’s completely aware that you’ve been busy with work, but he can’t stop his insecurities from rattling him. The two of you didn’t really discuss the status of your relationship. For all he knows, you could have hated the entire experience all together. Though, he has a hard time believing that, not with the way you looked at him, so full of warmth and adoration, even with his cock throbbing inside your mouth…

He physically shakes his head to rid the impure thoughts, the same ones that he’s touched himself to since that night. His vast collection of toys are no match to the real thing, to you. And he may never get to feel that ever again. Because you’re disgusted by him. You hate him. It’s all over between you two before it even began.

Whelp, back to freaking out.

“Choso?” Yuji’s voice finally snaps him out of his trance. His younger brother approaches him carefully, a concerned expression on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he answers, unconvincingly.

Yuji raises his brow. “You sure? You’ve been sitting here, mumbling ‘sugar’ for the past fifteen minutes.”

Fuck! He heard that? Choso blushes, embarrassed to have been caught in such a sorry state. He stutters, making a poor attempt at explaining himself. “Well, you see…I’ve been…I have a…I think that – ”

Yuji laughs, taking a seat beside him. “If you want to talk to her, just do it! I already put in a good word for you,” he says with a wink, giving him a playful nudge.

Choso gapes at him. “You…what?”

He beams, pleased with himself. “Yeah, I said you could teach her a few things in the kitchen and I think she’s interested! I mean, she did want your sugar, if you know what I mean.” More nudging and ribbing while Choso buries his face into his hands, horrified. “She’s really nice and super easy to talk to. I’m sure the two of you can become really good friends.”

Friends. Sweet baby Yuji doesn’t even know the half of it. Choso sighs, finally straying from the path of an existential crisis. “I just don’t want to make a fool of myself,” he says quietly.

Yuji puts his arm around him, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “You won’t, I promise you. Just be yourself.”

He meets his gaze, giving him a half-hearted smile, genuinely feeling a bit better after that little pep talk. They watch a movie together, temporarily taking Choso’s mind off the whole ordeal. He tries not to think about you or the cookies you’re currently baking, or that he’s totally jealous of this new imaginary love rival of his that will be the recipient of said cookies.

Yuji leaves at eleven to catch one of the last busses back to his university. Choso decides that he’s sick of sulking around and tormenting himself with outrageous theories. He puts on his best sweats and fixes his hair so that slightly less strands are sticking out from his poofy buns. Back straight, chest puffed out, and all the confidence he can muster, he marches next door, determined to tell you exactly how he’s feeling.

~~~

You’re sitting at the kitchen table in a bathrobe, having just finished eating one of your freshly baked cookies. You decided during your shower to finally give one of your newer gadgets a try, a sleekly designed vibrating dildo made from the softest silicone material you can imagine. The toy and a bottle of lube are set up on the nightstand beside your bed, ready to use along with the memory of riding Choso’s gorgeous face. While you wish you were actually with him instead, your efforts from earlier didn’t go the way you were hoping. This will have to do for now, at least until you gather the guts to approach him again.

Just as you’re about to retire into the bedroom, there’s a knock on your door. To your surprise, Choso stands before you, stiff and very obviously nervous. “Hi,” he says, giving you an awkward wave that you find absolutely adorable.

You smile, opening the door wider for him to enter. “Hi. Come in.”

He shuffles through, pausing at the kitchen table to observe the plate of cookies you made with the sugar he gave you. “So…cookies,” he mutters.

You bite your lip anxiously. “Yeah, cookies.”

There’s a heavy pause, the both of you trying to find the right words to say to one another. You decide to be honest with him, but it comes out the same time he asks you the question that’s been gnawing on his mind all night.

“I want be with you.”

“Who are they for?”

You stare at each other, confused. Taking a step towards him, you explain, “I came over to see if you wanted to hang out, but I chickened out when I saw your brother. I made up some dumb excuse, hence the request for sugar. I ended up baking cookies anyways to make myself feel better.”

His expression softens, sighing in relief. “I freaked out not being able to see you all weekend. And when you came over asking for sugar, I got jealous that you were baking for somebody else.” He rubs the back of his neck timidly, a small grin on his face. “Pretty stupid, huh?”

Another step and you’re close enough to touch him, but you don’t. “Not at all. I’m the one who came up with the lamest lie ever. Your brother probably thinks I’m a weirdo.”

He chuckles. “He definitely doesn’t.”

You’re only an inch apart now, enough to feel his body heat. “I meant what I said. I want to be with you.”

His eyes wander to your chest, your robe loose and barely clinging to you. He swallows hard and you can tell that he’s losing his composure too. “You do?”

“I do.” You peer up at him with a smile, wanting so badly to hug him, to kiss him.

His voice is quiet, but the surest you’ve ever heard it. “I want to be with you too.”

Your chest swells with happiness, ready to burst and shoot out confetti all over his pretty face. He’s staring at your lips now, licking his own when he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

You grin at him, tugging at the collar of his sweater to pull him towards you, pressing your mouth to his. He holds you in a warm embrace, kissing you gently, one hand on your lower back, the other spread across the nape of your neck. “You taste so good,” he whispers, sucking on your bottom lip.

“That’s because I just ate a cookie,” you giggle, nuzzling your nose to his.

“Nah,” he smirks, licking into your mouth. “You taste good everywhere.”

You let out a moan, leading him straight into your bedroom where you untie the knot of your robe, revealing your bare body. He slides the rest off, watching you lie on the bed, legs spread wide, pussy on display for him. His kisses start at your ankles, then slowly up your legs, where he sucks on the plush skin of your inner thighs. You let him ravish you, toes curling in pleasure with his tongue flat on your clit, lapping you up hungrily. “Choso,” you whine his name, gripping onto his hair, bucking against his face to feel him even deeper.

He hums into your skin, his lips puckered tight around you, tongue flicking your sensitive bud. He looks up at you, enjoying your fucked-out expression. Something beside you captures his attention for a moment, distracting him. “What is that?”

You’re too caught up in the pleasure that you don’t register what he’s asking you until he pulls off to investigate, laser focused on the object on your nightstand. You quickly grab it from him, horrified when you realize what he’s so fixated on: the dildo. “It’s just one of my toys. I thought we wouldn’t hang out tonight, so I…” your voice trails off, noticing the intensity in his gaze. Hot, flustered, and not keen on elaborating any further, you comment, “Anyways, I’ll just put this away now – ”

He stops you. “No. Don’t. Don’t put it away.”

“Don’t…?”

A little too Intrigued, he scooches closer to you, studying the device in your hand. “Can you show me how you use it?”

You’ve already demonstrated the vibrator for him. For some reason, you’re shy to show him this. Maybe it’s because of how intimate it feels to have something inside you, to be probed, penetrated, filled. But as he looks at you so sweetly, eyes filled with genuine curiosity, you find yourself giving in. “Okay,” you oblige hesitantly, reaching for the lube bottle, your entire body tingling. You pump a small drop of it on the tip, using your fingers to coat the rest on.

He watches you, mouth hanging open, drool leaking from one side of his lips, mesmerized by the way you rub it up and down your cunt, teasing yourself with it. “What do you think about when you use it?”

You giggle, pressing the toy to your clit. “Do you really have to ask?”

“You think about me?” The surprise in his voice is endearing; he has no clue the effect he has on you, how badly you want him, how incredibly fucking hot he is.

“Of course I do,” you answer, gaining some of your confidence back. You pull him towards you, kissing him fervently, sliding the tip to your entrance, slick with arousal. “Look at what you do to me.”

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, growing erection bulging in his sweatpants, eyes glazed over as he ogles your wet cunt. “Fuck.”

“Like what you see?” you goad him, readjusting your grip on the base so that your thumb is set on the button.

He nods, kissing you along your neck, then up to your ear, his voice a sultry whisper. “I want you to squirt all over it. Want to lick it up and make you come again and again and again on my tongue.”

“Oh fuck, Choso. So nasty,” you moan, easing it inside you, pussy gradually adjusting to the size. You bite your lip at the tight fit; it’s been a while since you’ve used this, and even longer since you've been penetrated by anything, or anyone. “So tight.”

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” His genuine concern is too cute. He’s too cute.

You give him a reassuring smile, shaking your head. “No, it’s just been a while since I…y’know.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He grazes your forehead with his lips, giving you a soft peck. “I don’t want you to be in any pain.”

You grin wider, finding him so adorably sincere and sweet. “I’m sure, Choso.” With the dildo nestled comfortably inside you, you reach for his hand, resting it on the base. “Can you fuck me with it? Please?”

This spurs him on, a guttural groan escaping him, eyes wide and pupils dilated, completely captivated by you. You cup his cheek, tracing his upper lip with your thumb. He opens his mouth, chasing any taste of you on his tongue. “You’ll really let me?”

You gaze down at his lap, a small spot of precum leaking through his grey sweats. “Only if you stroke yourself while you do it.”

Choso is feverishly turned on right now, face flushed, his entire body scorching hot, cock throbbing in his pants. Your fingers brush his navel on your way to his waistband and he nearly combusts just thinking about your fist wrapped around his shaft, stroking him. He shimmies out of his bottoms, shrugging them off from his ankles until he’s naked from the waist down, rock hard erection flopping against his abdomen.

“Big boy,” you tease him, nipping at his ear lobe, drooling at the sight of him. “You’d fill me up so good.”

“God, I want to so bad,” he grunts, stroking himself with his left hand as his right fucks you with the dildo. Even without the vibration on, it feels amazing, the way he flicks his wrist, pumping the toy in and out of you. He times his thrusts to match the pace in which he strokes himself, wishing he was inside you instead. But he resists the temptation, knowing there’s all the time in the world to explore each other. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just the two of you, enjoying one another at whatever pace feels right.

Wanting to check out all of the features this toy offers, he pushes the button, causing it to vibrate inside you. You gasp at the sudden sensation, squirming as he ramps it up two more levels, sliding it even deeper to stimulate your g-spot. It doesn’t take much longer for you to come like this, buzzing inside and out with ecstasy, the toy absolutely soaked down the base with lube and your slick. He pulls it out of you, tossing the dildo aside to marvel at the mess you made. Before he can make his next move, you roll over on top of him, straddling his lap to rub your wet pussy along his shaft. You rock yourself on him, sleek folds gliding up and down his cock so smoothly, just one move and he’d been in heaven.

He’s a stuttering nervous wreck when he asks, “Should we…should we try it, baby?” He knows the two of you shouldn’t; despite all that’s happened in just the past two days, this is a big and monumental step, especially for him, a borderline shut-in with intimacy issues that shouldn’t be resolved from a rash decision. But if you want it, he’s more than willing to give it to you. That’s just the kind of guy Choso is, putting others before himself.

Luckily for him, you see that. You see him. “Not yet,” you say, caressing his face. “We’ll wait until we’re both ready, okay? There’s no need to rush.”

He smiles, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding waiting for your response. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him softly. “I really like you, Choso. I don’t want to mess this up by going too fast.”

“Me too,” he kisses you back, nearly in tears at how perfectly this is going. “I really like you, too.”

He wraps his arms around you tightly, kissing you passionately while you grind yourself on him until the both of you come, out-of-breath, sweaty, and in total bliss. His cum pools on his abdomen, some of it dripping down the side of his stomach onto the sheets below you. You relax on top of him, spent and satiated, but your little rest doesn’t last for long as he lifts you up by the hips, wiggling down the bed so that his face is pressed to your cunt, mouth eagerly lapping at your clit. “Just a little more, sweetie. Just a little more for me,” he urges you, unrelenting and determined to fulfill his promise from earlier. Want to lick it up and make you come again and again and again on my tongue.

So you let him, moaning his name wantonly with his lips puckered around you, drinking every drop of you up until he’s had his fill, which is three more orgasms later. He starts stroking himself on the last one, a big smile on his shiny swollen lips as he kisses your clit. You whimper his name for the umpteenth time tonight, hips stiff from constantly grinding against him. Still, you think you could go longer, you want to, despite how exhausted you are. And while you know there’s more to look forward to with Choso, you don’t want this to end. You pull of him, readjusting yourself so that you’re facing the other way, in the perfect position to suck his cock. He growls beneath you, sloppily eating you out while you deep-throat him, hungry for his cum.

~~~

The two of you finally settle down for the night, cuddled in new blankets and bedsheets to replace the ones soaked with the aftermath of tonight’s lovemaking. Choso spoons you from behind, his face nuzzled to the nape of your neck, inhaling your comforting scent. He rubs your belly soothingly, voice a soft whisper on your skin. “Are you feeling okay?”

You smile, turning around to face him, snuggling into his chest. “I told you, I feel amazing. You don’t have to keep worrying.”

He kisses your forehead. “I just want to make sure you’re not sick of me yet.”

This time, you can’t help but laugh. “That’s impossible.” You listen to his heartbeat carefully, trying to memorize the steady rhythm of it. “I can’t get enough of you.”

#choso kamo #choso x you #choso fluff #choso smut #choso x reader #jjk smut #choso kamo smut #choso kamo x you #choso kamo x reader

437 notes · View notes