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4rticbolt · 6 months ago

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The Menacing Bra |Master-list|

Fluff, swearing, kissy-kissy, crack, cringe and cliche?? Longish-drabble

You and the cook have a moment, and he actually grew a pair to make a move

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Laundry day.

Oh boy. What absolute joy, the repetitive chore that tested your limits. Chipping away your mental capacity, and your motivation to do anything at all.

You’d spent hours on end, scrubbing and rinsing, only to wear the clothes again, ferevently repeating the cycle.

You cursed, pinching a clip to your nose. You had always wished there was some cheat sheet, some easy way out, other than free labor from the boys. Especially, when you’d gotten stuck with Nami and Robin’s clothes. You’d kindly asked them, seeing their closets were getting low and they’d never decline an offer like that.

Because honestly, who would? Washing clothes by hand was time consuming, and neither you nor the women had the patience for it. Sure, you might be throwing yourself under the bus here, but you cannot for the life of you fucking throw soap and bubbles for an hour.

Wiping the sweat from your brow, you scrubbed and submerged the materials hoping you could get done before lunch.

Luckily, the odds seemed to be in your favor. You hadn’t procrastinated as much as you normally did, so you’d be done with this before lunch. But the peace didn’t last, distant crash emitted from downstairs.

“Spoke too soon,” you sighed, hearing a distant laugh and girlish scream follow after another. A familiar angry shout rang from the kitchen and a chaotic catchy cackle echoed.

You didn’t even want know what the cook was dealing with now.

When paired, the trio of boys were a nightmare. Though speaking of them, if you even had to touch their laundry you’d pass away. That was an actual health hazard, and even thinking about it made your skin crawl.

You shuddered, shaking your head. A grossed shiver ran through your spine causing bubbles to fly.

Ew. Just imagining the men’s laundry was a shit show. Maybe not Sanji’s, as he actually cared about his hygiene—but regardless, it was still nasty.

Sanji, who seemed to holler again—made you crack a smile. Your thoughts centered to him as he consequently reprimanded the idiots for whatever ‘crime’ they outdrew.

Though the glimpse of his agitated face made your smile widen.

The way his brows would have creased into a frown, and the way his jaw would have clenched—sharpening his neck... You silently cursed as your mind filtered elsewhere, leaving the rest of you to the mercy of your imagination.

Ok, sure, maybe you had fallen for the hopeless cook but how could you not?

He’d always showered you in devoted affection—heartfelt compliments, and any craving you could possibly think of. You saw him as the perfect package.

Yeah, maybe he could be a little perverted in the terms of others, but that was just his charm. Or so you’d convinced yourself. You never had an issue with him, he’d always been kind—and that kindness easily swooned you.

Yes, he had unhinged compliments, but it was heart-felt. It had to be. Because deep down, his selfless acts and perverted thoughts felt more like a puppy love than anything. Appreciation, admiration, and his firm morals…were always so oddly refreshing.

Though, speaking of that appreciation, you were almost done. You just had to hang up one of your undergarment’s. The task was easy as the deck finally quieted, meaning lunch was ready.

So as quickly as you could, you stepped onto the rail, reaching to a height where you could hang the material. Ignoring the breeze that rushed by, you hopped down to deal with the soapy water—dumping it overboard.

“____, my love! Lunch is done,” Sanji called, his voice glowing with an excited smile as he steadily rounded the corner to take you inside.

“Yeah, just a sec.” You replied, shaking the soapy suds from the container, watching them fall to the ocean below.

“No worries, I can wait darling.”

Turning back, you weren’t met with the handsome face of the cook, but a sharp gust of wind and a wet towel. It speedily flew towards you, smacking you straight in the face.

“Shit—“ Thwack

“Damn wind—you alright?” His voice reached, muffled over the violent winds. The immeasurable pressure howled over the ship, shoving you against the Sunny’s rail with blunt force.

You managed a muffled holler as a response, but the towel had blocked your vision. Musky soaked flowers welcomed your sense of smell, but it quickly disappeared as it thudded to the floor. This wind died down, and you were left soaked. Your blue tank hard a darker hue, and your hard smudged to your face.

You annoyingly wiped the edges out of your face, quickly asking the cook if he was okay. But he wasn’t. You immediately froze at the sight in-front of you.

No.

Actually die.

He’s dead. You killed the man—or well, the bra that covered his face did. He was as red as a tomato, frozen in place.

You would’ve laughed at the sight if you weren’t so embarrassed.

Hesitant hands came in-front of you, debating what to do with yourself in this situation.

“Sanji?”

“S-so soft...” he whispered, dramatically plummeting to the floor.

There he goes…

A long huff escaped you, watching the pathetic trail of blood stream from his nose, and you slowly knelt beside him calling his name.

Sanji didn’t respond, so you tried again, and again, and again. But he was utterly helpless. He twitched like some possessed bug—far too gone to be saved, so you decide you decided to give him air.

Peeling off and tossing aside the bra, your hands hovered yet again, hesitating. You gently patted his cheeks, hoping to snap him out of his spell.

“Hello? Earth to sanji?” You called, patiently waiting. Though as time passed, you began to grow worried. You almost thought to call Chopper, but you didn’t really want to explain this situation.

Far too awkward, far too embarrassing.

So you took matters into your own hands.

“Hey,” You finally chided, swatting his face—leaving light pink marks. “Sanji, snap out of it!”

. . .

Nothing. Literally nothing.

God, how bad was he down for you? Like—religiously? Or—

Ok rude. That was rude. Don’t think that.

You regretted the act of your harsh hands, and impulsive thoughts, but this was ridiculous. His face was blissfully unaware of your torment, and he’d just been in heaven.

Thriving through the cusp of your bra—you couldn’t believe this.

A frustrated sigh escaped you, and you lightly cradled his face, quietly murmuring his name. No matter the frustration or embarrassment, you could never keep yourself from watching him, he was just too pretty for that.

Luckily, your gentle movement did the trick. It was almost instant.

“Yes, d-darling?” his eyes fluttered open, and he stuttered bringing a blue handkerchief to his nose, cleaning away the mess.

“Are you okay?”

“Haha, yes—lovely,” He breathed, locked in the aftermath of your bra. He couldn’t believe he’d seen the world.

You only seemed to grumble at his words, but your heart hammered when his eyes shined to your own. He gently smiled and you just froze, quietly watching him.

“Are you sure?” you asked, leaning a bit back.

“You’re pink.”

Ugh. Blow by blow, your heart was taking too many hits, and you wish you could just disappear.

This was not your friendly situation of: you could do this. This was embarrassing.

Sanji chuckled, leaning on his heels. He was far from you in your kneeled form, and it was just another hit to your chest.

“Positive Love,” he reassured, tucking his tissue aside. He seemed oblivious now, or—as he so acted, but for such a doting idiot he didn’t seem to take a hint.

“Are you alright?”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t I be,” you muttered, averting your gaze. You were quick to stand, but he’d been quicker helping you to your feet.

“Just wondering, that towel flew by before I could stop it,” he said, looking you over. Taking in your dampened shirt and messied hair�� he fell in love with you all over again.

An innocent silence went by as you fixed your hair, taking notice to his stare. You thought to comment on it, maybe to change the subject and flirt—but you’d just point out your own habits.

So you opted not to.

“Yeah—uh, it did,” you said awkwardly, transfixing your gaze to the deck, which he’d taken quick notice to. But you hadn’t been slick enough to keep to yourself.

“That wind was pretty crazy, huh? Pushed me into the rails.” you laughed, rubbing the back of your neck.

“That it did, is your back alright chérie?”

“Huh? Oh—it’s fine, I’m okay. Push and shove is fine, I mean, no—it’s not.” you didn’t even know what you were saying now, you were tumbling over your words but you couldn’t seem to catch yourself.

But Sanji didn’t seemed to mind, he loved your little rambles.

He could tell you were nervous, and he just loved it. Inside, he was a wreck himself, but seeing you like this made him confident. Sanji saw how he was affecting you, and he only wanted to see more of it.

So, he pushed to make you blush.

“I should—“ you went to say something, but his hand found your waist and your stomach tightened.

There it was.

The cook gave you the option to step away, but you didn’t and he continued. He stepped closer, keeping a kind smile to his face—patiently waiting for you to look up to him.

But you only panicked, you didn’t know what to do, but you didn’t want it to stop. You wanted to kiss him—but was that the wrong move? Was that he wanted? Probably, but you’d didn’t know how to follow through with it. You were a complete ditz to this.

Romance wasn’t your forte, but it sure was his. He knew how to sweet talk a lady, and he knew how to treat one. He was the embodiment of a gentleman—and he’d never dare hit a woman.

Not even if his life depended on it.

“I don’t bite, you know,” he murmured, watching your hands stiffly come to your front.

You finally turned to look up at him, and he wanted to kiss you then and there, but he held back.

Sanji always had with you. He was gentle, and he always made sure you were comfortable. He was a flirt, and you were awkward but that didn’t stop him.

Reactions had never been hard to get out of you, and he liked that, but as more of those nervous rambles drew out; he found himself wanting more.

Unknowingly, you drew him in like an addiction, something he could just go hours watching. Taking pleasure from it. Nervous or rambling he adored you more than he could ever describe.

“If I’m being too much you can tell me,” he reminded, keeping considerate.

“No, no not at all I just,” your voice trailed off and you found yourself looking to his lips.

He caught that, and he took the hint pulling you closer. You chest bumped against his and you leaned back.

“Sorry,” you muttered, averting your gaze.

“What? Don’t apologize, there’s nothing you to be sorry for,” he chuckled, dragging a tender hand along your back, sending tingles of warmth along with it.

He looked to you, and he was drawn to your lips like honey to a bee. But that train of thought was quickly interrupted. His eyes widened as you impulsively leaned up, kissing him.

But it wasn’t long before he melted.

A soft groan muffled against your own, and he cupped the back of your head deepening the kiss.

Sanji always thought you looked sweet, but this far surpassed any imagination he could conjure.

His lips longingly met yours, and he groaned when your hands slid up his chest to his shoulders. His legs almost buckled at the feeling, and he needily slipped his tongue across yours.

You parted to take a breath, but Sanji was too eager. He kissed you again muffling a noise, as he walked to push you against the rail, tilting your head back.

A warm breeze blew by and hands were everywhere, dragging along every part of you, carefully squeezing your shirt and skin. Fingers dipped beneath your tank, trailing up your stomach to the soft dips in your ribs—brushing against the underside of your bra.

SLAM

A door across from you opened, and an impatient captain ruined your moment. “Sanji! Can we eat now?!”

With quick reflexes, the two of you flew away from each-other. You quickly fixed you tank while he tidied up his tux, an awkward cough sounded from you.

“Hey what are you—“

“Nothing!” You dismissed, coughing again—trying to rid the burning feeling in your mouth. You looked beet red quickly passing past the boy.

“He just came to tell me lunch was done, we can eat now!” you chirped, wiping a thumb your lips to rid it of any dampness—fleeing the scene.

You couldn’t believe you’d been so close to being caught.

“Uh—____ wait—“ Sanji tried, but he was fairing off no better. A deep blush was absorbed to his face spreading down his neck. He was a mess.

But as soon as you left, he was seething. It was like a switch as it came to play Luffy had interrupted something that he’d have continued.

“Huh? What’s her deal—“

“Did you have to ruin that?!” He snapped, grabbing the stretchy idiot by his shirt, rapidly shaking him. He didn’t even bother to hide fluster.

“You idiot! Could you not see I was having a moment! I’ve waited forever for this—and you just had to plow through and ruin it!”

“What moment?! And what do you mean ruin it! I just said I was hungry!” his rubber head helplessly flopped back n’ forth, as he tried to avoid the cooks wrath, but he’d ultimately failed.

Yes, Luffy might’ve been hungry.

But, Sanji had been starving.

#sanji x reader #one piece x reader #one piece x you #onepiece masterlist #one piece x y/n #i am cringe but i am free #fluff #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji

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vyzz-undercover · 9 months ago

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pspspsps dinner time everyone

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,700ish words) (im cooked)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon [again]

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•discussions of virginity

•vague breathplay

•even more negligible aftercare

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•tumblr's pisspoor formatting as per last time

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im once again doing a free magic show here and pulling a rabbit (this fic) out my ass. so, without further a-do the tagging... @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @pluvio-tea, @the-raven-lady, @bispecsual, @egrets-not-regrets, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @lemon-russ. let me know if anyone else wanna be tagged if i do a part three HAHAHAHHAHA i might double down on the comedy-of-errors and have Guilliman get involved. Not like a three-way with this particular fic, even if I'd love to slut papa smurf out. There's always another time and another chance to sexualise an old man :3

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Cato finds you relatively easily.

Truthfully, you make no actual sport of it. But he's never going to pass up a cheap bit of entertainment at your expense.

At this time of the ship's cycle you're most likely to be in the east wing, pointedly the lower libraries. He knows this. He won't confess why or how he knows, though—so, fuck off.

You're lazy and predictable. To say nothing of the fact you're far too comfortable scuttling about his Father's vessel. If a hypothetical assassin ever could get onto the ship without being stomped into paste by him immediately, they'd have no problems tracking you down. You may as well be a sevitor running on rails for all your movements stay the same.

He notes you're not on the first level.

Nor the second.

You are on the third, in the leftmost quadrant.

In the restricted reading area.

You do have clearance—but the fact still irks him. Typically, this was for his more decorated brothers to catalogue Xenos. Typically, one needed to be accompanied to even access this level.

But oh, no—no, you're allowed.

You're allowed because you are a damnable leach of a woman. And also the bane of his existence, did he mention that? And you're—you're—tucked up in secure side-room, reading on a data-slate; half-asleep in a little blue robe and looking the pict of adorable sloth.

You don't notice him immediately.

Clearly too absorbed in your gerrymandering-for-servitors cheat-sheet.

And that annoys him even more.

Because, are you really that obtuse? So unassailable in your own mind that you're this blatantly fucking oblivious? He's an Astartes, damn it. Sure, he's in casual rest attire instead of clanking plate—but he's a large, two-and-a-bit meter tall trans-human war-machine standing in the doorway—and you haven't even noticed him. Ignorant like some little rodent chewing away at crumbs in it's hovel.

His Father's got a vermin problem on board, and the mice are stupid and bold and literate... along with rather cozy, apparently.

A finely woven navy throw is swaddled around you where you're lying on the chaise lounge. And the sight of you bundled up inspires a vivid déjà-vu of the last time you were alone with him with little more than a blanket over you.

Cato hesitates for a heartbeat, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat and sets his jaw.

He steps into the room and waves a hand over the laser-pad locking mechanism.

There's a fractional second in which you become cognisant to the sound of the shutter door closing and where you actively notice him.

Then there's a shrill scream as if you've pinched a nerve.

The data-slate goes flying, pelted at his head. But it hits the shutter door and clatters to the floor, far-off any hint of a good mark.

Useless woman.

Realising it's him a moment later, you heave out a racketing sigh.

"Throne of Terra, Ca—" you start, and it sounds like you're going to say his first name before you rightly correct yourself and say, "C-Commander, you scared me half to death."

He immediately sets about accosting you, "Have you been sitting here with the door open this whole time?"

"No," you nip out.

"You are aware that I can tell when you're lying?"

"I'm certain you can," your tone flattens in a way he's only ever heard you talk to particularly sleazy representatives with. It's not an honest exchange, it's double-speak. It's mocking. You're mocking him.

He grits his teeth.

You've grown more open in your defiance towards him as of late, certainly not because of any revelation or reason and it rubs him in a dangerous, new way. He's not about to let it slide, either.

"Is that so?" His words are sharp and accusative and he hopes—he hopes he'll get the delight of watching you cower like you usually do when confronted by him. "Have you been lying to me often, then?"

Half his hopes come true. You look away nervously and mumble something almost inaudibly, and he'd not have noticed if not for his far superior hearing.

It was, "...maybe," and all Cato can help but do being himself, is detonate.

"And what have you been deceiving me of, you scheming little whore?" He snarls, fuming—a dozen crimes and sins crowding his mind you might be tried for. Maybe he's been far too lenient to the actual reality of your evil. Finally, validation to corroborate his deviation—maybe you'll admit you're some Slanneshi fleshchanger, and that you intended to have burrowed so deep in his mind.

Nonetheless, you're nowhere near even close to fast enough to defend yourself. But it's not like he gives you the chance.

He's crossed the distance with a practiced speed. And quicker than you can even yelp, you are pinned to the lounge—a shackle in the form of his fist around your smaller throat.

The pressure is a limp handshake by his standards. You're not really choking. Just stifled slightly for good measure.

Still, it'd be a mere flex to break your neck. He could snap you like a stylus with what was to him, ultimately, nothing but a simple twitch of his fingers. And he would think more about the blatant contrasts between you both much longer if he wasn't far too distracted by the fact you even struggle prettily wantonly. Big eyes wide and glossy with animal panic. Involuntary tears gather at the corners as you register what's going on at last. The mad temptation to lick them if they so much as dare trail down your cheeks begins eating at him.

Some rational part of his rational mind reminds him he can't get the truth out of you when he's vaguely throttling you, though—and he lets you go begrudgingly. Instead opting for looming over you as you roll sidelong on the couch, breathing fast.

He crouches down to your level and grumbles, still absorbed in his raging.

"Speak," he barks, and pointedly grabs you by the chin.

"I–I hadn't actually—" you start, breathless as you mumble. "Actually, uh, laid with anyone, even though I nodded I sort of... had."

He's staggered at the statement, "...that's it?"

A vague lie of omission, but it's not the great corruption he sought to root out.

Then he actually thinks about what you've just admitted.

Like fog banished under a rising sun, his anger at the thought of treachery immediately dissipates into blistering revelation.

"Hold on, you..." Cato starts, baffled and completely knocked for a six, meeting your gaze slowly—genuinely stunned as he pulls his hand back fully. "I... I was the first?"

You look away cursorily, face reddening not only with your previous strains, but with embarrassment.

Now, that was the reaction of a guilty conscience.

Cato doesn't know what to do with the information. Nor does he really know what he feels.

He'd been the first. He feels like he's won something over his brothers. Therefore, fuck the lot of them—and fuck Titus, specifically. Even if he's not sure why. He truly couldn't believe it. There's success, sure—but then there's taking the laurels: whole and absolute. And this... this is exactly that. But oh, for some apparently vestal thing, you'd let him bully down to the hilt in your tight cunt; whining like a whore when he spilled himself inside you. Throne, it was almost suffocating to think back on it now. So willing to have your maidenhead taken, nevermind the fact you weren't the only one who'd had a new experience that day. But you didn't need to know that.

"Another notch to my mantel of victories then," he ultimately decides is the best thing to say, gloating to himself.

"Unbelievable," you sigh softly as you shakily sit yourself up.

But there's the problem again. The one tangible, constant problem with having laid you. It's made you mouthy. He only ever glimpsed your boldness when you interacted with other baselines in the past. You never sassed Astartes, or at least, he's never seen you do it. But now that stubbornness and unwillingness to back down in a political forum is on full display heedless of situation. As if you've suddenly become one of the auto-felating Imperial Fists—or any of Dorn's insufferable ball-busting scions, really. Worst of all, it's only managed to somehow make him even more enthralled annoyed with you than usual. You're still too good at quashing your anger, hard as it is to rouse. But he loves loathes that you bite the lure instead of shying off now.

"To think that I was the first—is your entire professional role not centred around charm? Would no one else have you with that rotten attitude you've been hiding?" he says, knowing he's being nasty, knowing he's twisting the knife; and absolutely praying for you to fall for it.

Cato watches a rainbow of emotions pass over your features, before you settle on one that makes you look like you ate something sour. He's hit a weak spot. But the sentiment holds true. His Primarch thinks you the best and brightest to sway planets? You couldn't even seduce some daft, drunken aristocratic fool to fuck you.

You, the prettiest baseline he's ever seen.

...maybe Guilliman is right in saying the Imperium has rolled belly-up with bloat.

"That's not—that's not why and you know it," you open your mouth and jumble your words briefly before getting out, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who won't have a panic attack because of the several Astartes that insist on following you around?" You continue, raving and flustered, "Do you think anyone would get near me with you—or—or... maybe Captain Acheran, or the good Chaplain, let's say, breathing over my shoulder?"

"You should be grateful any of us waste our time babysitting you," Cato oafishly shoots back like a petulant child, brows furrowing, "You should be thanking me for doing the brunt of it."

Your nose scrunches up, "Pardon me, Commander, it's surely entirely my fault that we are both at the whims of our Lord Primarch."

He pauses.

Something about this interaction isn't stirring his temper like it should.

He should be absolutely livid with anger, or at the very least blowing your eardrums out with a 'shut the fuck up,' at full Astartesian line-command volume.

Yes, he should be seething, and yet he's not. To his surprise, he's actually feeling more enthused than anything.

This feels... exciting, almost.

"You've only grown the backbone to talk back to me because I fucked one into you," he remarks sharply in reply.

You sputter, and go red, robbed of your words.

"Or maybe this is mere performance," He adds with a sneer, tipping his chin up proudly.

You roll your eyes and let out a dramatic puff of air, "Y-You're such a..." you start, but your voice tapers off—and you look away, pouting.

"I'm a... what?" He taunts, leaning close.

You grumble, apparently feeling brave again; meeting his gaze and puffing yourself up.

"You're a bully," you hiss, clearly upset but undeniably frazzled enough to be somewhat ranting again as you add, "A bully w-who's so disgustingly egotistical you've convinced yourself you're some great conqueror or... something... j-just for having been in me, as if I've never put anything in myself before."

Oh, but wait, Cato likes the idea of that. He likes it so much he completely forgets to acknowledge the insults in your statement prior. He likes the idea of you suffering like he had been—alone, yearning—aching for something you didn't know the dizzying reality of. He can imagine you smothering your sounds, those blessed whines he's got memorised, into a pillow in that cushy little quarters of yours, squirming on your meagre fingers, or maybe cold silicon. You didn't need that lesser imitation now. Cato'd gladly fill that role. He'd gladly fill that hole, too.

Nonetheless, he immediately wonders who you were getting off thinking about.

He'd streak the length of the ship for it to've been him you'd been fucking yourself over.

"Who were you thinking of?"

You blink at the completely offhanded question, then start sputtering, stalling.

"What? I-I—" you stammer, "That's not important or relevant—I just... did it, it's—"

"Keep lying and see where it gets you," He cuts in, raking you with an aggravated frown, and oh, excellent, you're starting to relearn he's not fond of your half-truthing, finally.

You duck your head a little, cringing under his gaze, trying to scoot yourself backwards. But there's nowhere to go.

Cato realises belatedly that in the middle of your antics, the sleeve of your robe has started to fall from your shoulder. His brain short-circuits momentarily with the sheer amount of air that floods his head. Your warm, soft skin on display just for him. He didn't get to see all of you last time. He felt a good portion of you, yes—but he didn't get the chance to admire acknowledge the whole vista. Not because he was too desperate to rut against to try. Or because he was probably going to swoon like a fool if he did. Shut up, he's no coward. Afterall, his hands had been close to your chest, but now—now he can actually look.

He's going to absolutely ruin that lovely canvas you've given him.

"Nobody," you say softly.

"Groxshit," he snaps.

"Fine—" You swallow and start scrambling for a response, "Malum C-Caedo."

Cato genuinely cannot help but bark a laugh at that, "Spare me, you haven't even met the man, moron—you're only saying that because your most recent reading was on his last briefing," he rolls his eyes. "You forgot I was there with Guilliman when you were given it."

You look at him like a cornered little mouse, and finally—finally, your sleeve falls just enough that he's given a perfect view of one of your tits.

"You already..." you grumble softly. "You already know who, then, so I shouldn't even have to dignify this."

"It's me, isn't it?" He asks darkly, and while he tries to sound haughty, the fact he's thrilled by both the notion and the sight of your partial nudity ends up warping his tone into a vaguely manic chuff.

You glance aside and stammer loudly, "N-No."

No, you say—but he hears your little heart flutter. And sees your pupils dilate.

"I hope you're aware you can't lie to save your life," Cato drawls.

Your gaze snaps back to his, and for a brief second, your expression is flushed with embarrassment; until it changes to a sour little scowl.

"I'm not a bad liar, you're just an Astartes—" you start furiously, but check your flustered anger.

Cato smirks.

It's not a completely clean victory, but it's good.

It means his own lusting madness is at least reciprocally vindicated.

And at that realisation, Cato's impulse control violently loses balance; and he's painfully aware he cannot, for the life of him, contain the hungered almost purr-like sound that crawls up his throat.

You go back to looking transfixed at that, and he pauses.

There's something... pulling him in even more than before. He feels as if he's taken the bait, and the hook, and the line and sinker—hell, he's taken a good bit of the rod, too. Everything's a little too heated, and he's got an innate, intuitive feeling you're just as wound up as he is—wait. He breathes in deep and slow, and scents the air. Throne, he may as well have been cold-clocked at the temple by a Dreadnaut for all the innate information he suddenly receives. You're quite frankly drenched in want. You're getting off on this. Smothering him in a dizzying biological chant of hormones that scream—fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

He leans close, and puts a hand on the arm-rest; the other palm slowly moving towards your chest.

Your eyes follow it—but you voice no complaints nor rejections.

Justified now, he's ecstatic. And your skin is as perfect to the touch as he remembers.

His hand looks huge compared to the breast cupped in it, idly toying with the consistency of the flesh in his grasp. It's much softer and malleable than he thought it'd be. Almost like a water-skin. Thumb depressing your right nipple, before drawing a thoughtless circle.

You sigh lightly and relax a bit, and Cato takes that as another open invitation.

He uses the same hand to tug away the fabric from your other shoulder.

Quick as anything, he's practically stuffing his face against you without any real warning, ignoring your flinch at his haste. Cato's letting the urges he'd withheld in that wretched shack out. And it's so worth the wait. He groans, licks a fat band over your left breast, and worries at the perked little bud with his teeth until you're squirming; only to drag his attention up to nip at your fragile throat.

You're breathing hard, and you open your mouth as if about to speak—but ever spiteful, Cato rewards your attempt with the drag of his tongue and the press of his teeth; and that promptly shuts you up. The faint salt on your skin isn't half bad of a thing either, honestly. He rather likes it. It tastes like how you smell—and he's absolutely luxuriating in it. It makes it all the easier to map your chest from the curve of your breast to your collarbones, garnishing you with eager drags of his tongue and mouth-wrought bruises.

And now you're glorious. The marks on your skin are vivid—he's guaranteed you won't be wearing anything showy for a good while. No lovely vile plunging necklines for you to display to bastard dignitaries. Not unless you want to explain why they're Cato Sicarius sized. They'll also be a good reminder to you of exactly who's superior.

You're still too dazed by his efforts to realise the extent of his actions, but he knows exactly how hot and bothered it's made you. That honeyed reek of arousal is driving him insane.

Urged on, he digs a hand down and around your back and drags you off the lounge. Manoeuvring to turn so his back rests against the lip of the lounge, nigh dumping you before him on the rug.

"W-Why...?" You blink, stunned for a second before righting yourself and meeting his eyes. Cato's sat himself cross-legged, before letting them unfold, one tenting and the other splaying out.

"I did all the work last time," he starts impatiently, and leans up to grab you by the forearm; bringing your hand close close to the cradle of his hips, "Now it's your turn to do something for once."

...Cato's not sure you're actually listening, because he could've bet his helm you'd've become irate at that statement if you were. That, and you're glaring between his thighs.

Ironically, he also almost instantaneously finds he doesn't really care to continue the train of thought. Not when you trace the engorged bulge of him through the folds of his tunic. Groping at the base, before smoothing your palm to the rounded tip.

There's no accursed buttons between him and the open this time, thankfully—and that means he can simply tug aside the folds of his layered tunic and bare himself from the belly down.

His cock lays fat and heavy with blood, smearing precum as it moves from his navel to leftward on his hip when he straightens up.

You're staring.

He scoffs at your apprehension and says, "Alternatively, perhaps you can—"

A soft, "Shhh," leaves you.

He snorts like a big, angry stock horse, brow raised. No baseline, regardless of rank, would dare treat Cato like this; none would dare even think to treat to him like this. Except you now, apparently. You forget your station, your place. Making demands of an Astartes is nowhere near your clearance. Your best option is to implore, not command. Yours is to nod your pretty thick head and smile your fair rotten little smile and obey your betters.

"Did—did you just shush me, woman?" Cato's nigh instantly consumed by a rush of anger at the sheer audacity, sneering. "In what reality do you think you've any right to shush me? I'm Commander of the Victrix Honor Guard, Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of—"

Of... of something.

Suddenly your insolence is inconsequential to him. All that matters is the smooth glide of your dainty hand on his cock, and the sight of your thumb and pointer being unable to wrap around and meet given how thick he is.

You look up at him slowly for a second, before your focus returns to apparently sussing out how best to saddle him. It's a timid gesture, like you're anticipating overstepping—you're cautious.

He's about to remind you of the fact you've taken him before, so Cato's proven he fits and all this coyness of yours is arbitrary. But he guesses the point is moot when you're suddenly already stradling his hips.

With one small hand finding a place on his stomach, and the other holding his cock straight beneath the obscurity of your garbs, he feels you lower yourself enough to make contact; testing before offering a little more urgency.

With an agonisingly careful roll of your pelvis, the head of his cock catches against the soft ring of muscle at your entrance for a second.

He grumbles despite himself.

He can't watch his cock sink into you like last time thanks to the curtain of your robe, but at least he can certainly feel every millimeter of it happening.

Tight heat feels like a death shroud over his mind as he draws a blank on anything else.

And finally—finally he's stuffed down to the hilt—and oh, he's filled you to your end just like the last time. Throne, he's drunk off the spongy heat the thick head of cock is squared right up against.

This position's made your cunt just that bit shorter inside thanks to gravity.

You whimper, clearly trying desperately not to start shaking.

You start shaking anyways.

He's fascinated by the small, restless palms now pressed flat and trying to find a counterpoint on his broad, tunic'd chest. Soft and un-calloused aside from the small bump of a pen's rest on your writing hand. Everything about you is warm and soft. Inside and out, you're all his.

He exhales harshly through his nose and blinks, gaze shifting from your hands to your tits, then to your face.

You wear an even more flushed expression now, overwhelmed, with all your focus on him.

Right where it always should be.

"Hurry up," he grunts sharply.

You swallow hard, and promptly drop your gaze.

You, surprisingly, manage to lift yourself up despite your theatrics. And, little by little, he watches you strain up until just the tip of him is still buried in you.

Angling yourself, you keen, carefully sinking back down on his cock and reeling at the stretch again as you settle, ass meeting his dense quads with a soft plomf.

He can see you biting back a moan, pointless as the act is.

"Keep going," Cato grits out, "I didn't tell you to stop."

You frown halfheartedly, and your insides clench around him despite yourself.

You start a slow rhythm, the noise of colliding skin on skin echoes in his ears. Slick friction, and fucked-out, half-stifled cries. Your pace quickening. Riding him. Using him at your own leisure, like the precious wretched little thing you are. You repeat the same dizzying motion again and again, and again—rising and sinking—up, down, up, down; until it's clear you've found an angle that hits something just right, sending you over the edge with a rattling gasp.

A low groan crawls up the back of Cato's throat and slips free without restraint.

He's barely able to cope through the tight squeeze of your orgasm around his cock; but he steels himself, winning the fight to not spill in you right then and there at that. No small thanks to the furious couple hours he'd spent earlier in the simulated night cycle furiously attending his urges.

His calloused mitt can hardly compete with the nigh painfully silken clench of you. And the view—Throne, to simply watch is a level of spectacle he can't even put into words. It's nothing short of hypnotic seeing your face soften with fucked-out delight—he can't believe he'd ever thought it was good the first time around when he hadn't even seen you meet your end.

You stop suddenly, seated to the hilt, trembling and oversensitive—grinding back and forth, nails digging into his pectorals through his tunic.

"Just... n-need t'catch my breath..." You whimper, and that debauched tone wreaks havoc through his mind. An unceasing urge to pound you to tears overtaking what little sense he has left. It's the ravenous fact that you, the little parchment-pushing temptress, are all tuckered out from cumming on him so quickly. He's preening at the fact he feels that good to you—oh, he's going to send you limping back to your quarters.

He wants to watch you break.

"You lazy little cunt, you can't do a thing right, can you?" Cato groans, your thighs twitching as he lifts you by the hips and makes you sink back down.

He gets the treat of seeing your eyes swim back in your skull, dumb with sensation.

Lulled by the reedy, oversexed moans slipping from you with each motion; and he can't help but start thrusting up, matching pace.

"Hardly even four and a half minutes—and you're a mess, absolutely useless." He heaves, dropping you to full-hilt for a second to manoeuvre you better. You're nigh but a gasping dead-weight, delirious.

If you're going to act the entitled bitch, he'll screw you into something alike submission. Which is exactly why he's then pulling out, shoving you against the lounge on your back; and moving your thighs to bracket his hips as he half kneels on the rug. Just to slide himself back inside, balls-deep in willing flesh. The only dignity he affords you then is the space to wrap your arms around and behind his shoulders. Which you rightly do without demand.

Hold on, was the unspoken order.

Then he's fucking you into the lounge like his life depends on it. He's glad to notice it's bolted down, but the damned thing creaks—nonetheless, he can barely even hear it over the perfect sounds you're making.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, barely holding back the noises that choke his own gullet.

"You're so damn lucky you're a nice tight hole," he rasps harshly, "That's all you're good for, hm? For me to fill?"

There's a gutting sort of beauty in the way you're looking up at him with open desperation. He's trying so hard not to fall victim to the siren call of it, but it's perfect vile and he can't help but fold. He'd kill for that look to never leave your face when your eyes fell on him.

"Fuck, I must be in your womb at this rate—would you like that? My load in your womb?" Cato says between a great lungful of air, only to start huffing madly to himself when you nod drunkenly. "Good, because that's exactly where i-it's going."

Mind reeling with every resounding sticky slap of his balls against you, paired with scorching wet slide of him pumping in and out of you. You're crying, all your sensibilities lost in the thorough pace he's ploughing into you with; trying to pull him in by tugging at his shoulders, but with your meagre strength it's merely a vague suggestion.

Still, he leans into it, if only to finally seize the chance to lap the tears off your cheek, and you sob; trying to turn nose to nose with him. Your pathetic pawing at his broad back only exacerbates the overwhelming urgency in his blood.

He's so close.

Bliss crests up like a tide inside him, building and building, stunned with how it makes him buck into you. He's dazed in a way he surely wasn't designed to be resilient against. He can't even shut his damn mouth to stop moaning—and only technically manages to do so when you cover it with your own the very second he's about to finish; your legs squeezing impotently down on his hips, trembling through another climax.

His nerves light up like an orbital barrage, body rocking against the pretty, willing thing below him that you are. He has no idea what's going on beyond that. Are you kissing him? Is that what you're doing? Half his brain is stunned by the idea and the other half is flooded by the rushes of pleasure in his system making his tendons cramp, ravaging him with the sound of his hearts thudding in his ears.

Working himself right into agony; he's tensing against you as he empties himself as deep as he can. His pace finally breaks pattern and staccatos as his mind leadens.

Lulled by the molten satisfaction that swamps him soon thereafter, Cato blindly tries to chase forward and keep your lips on his. Emphasis on tries. He thinks he likes it, foreign as the sensation and sentiment is. He's got his tongue in your mouth, but no real clue what to do beyond lapping further in like a man dying of thirst—and then, of course, you decide to start weakly thrashing for air, blunt teeth grazing against the invading muscle—so, with a miffed groan; he pulls away, drooling as he slumps front-long against you and the lounge with a rumbling sigh, letting his eyes close as he basks in the afterglow.

You're panting still, nosing against the nape of his neck—likely having difficulty respiring under his weight—but despite that, you're still twitching around his spent cock, just like last time.

Wistfully, he wonders if he could sleep with you stuffed full of him like this. Slotted together and absolutely buried in your cunt; reaming you out as far as your small frame will allow. He enjoys the idea of that, and of holding you close.

He listens meditatively as your breathing steadily evens out, a soft in-out rhythm he can hear start in your chest only to feel warmly dancing across his collarbone a moment later.

Your small hand glides up the back of his trapezoid and combs through the short hair at his crown.

He shivers almost immediately at the act, thoughts clouding. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do, now. He can't really bring himself to do anything. He's locked in. It's like he's been sedated, or scruffed about the neck. Then your fingers trace the bare skin behind his ear, and he snaps from the trance enough to crack an eye open to glance down.

"Don't push your luck," he bites out automatically and leers away.

You immediately stiffen, and lurch yourself back—seemingly completely confused.

He's not exactly sure why he reacted that way either, but he's certainly not going to address it.

Ultimately, he opts to pull his cock out of you with scant decorum rather than linger on the topic. Then he settles into a kneel as he eyes the soaked-in stain below the bunched-up fabric of your robe.

"Well," he snorts.

And damn, it's difficult to hold a straight face at the overdramatic, painfully oblivious pout you shoot him.

So, Cato just continues watching you with a cruel sort of satisfaction as you sit yourself up shakily, and realise the mess.

You blanch, promptly shutting your legs and fussing—your ass is half stuck to the fabric of the lounge by your own slick and his spent when you move to stand on shaky, unsure legs.

He's aware of the fact you're after something to wipe away the aftermath. But he's far too content observing you struggle for the moment. Pleased, even. Especially when he's treated to the cringing gasp that slips from you when his semen no doubt starts dripping down your thighs.

You're panicking within seconds. He can hear your heartbeat quickening, plus the acrid tang of baseline stress hormones pervading the room.

There's nothing to spare. Unless you want to leave another smear across the lounge cushioning, but he doubts you'd go so low. He, however, has no such reservations—and yanks the plush velour padded square up to wipe his cock off. It's not as if he wasn't going to toss it down one of the incinerator shafts on the library's second floor anyways.

"Do—" you begin softly, but amend yourself, "Would y-you have anything... to..."

He stares at you, brows furrowed.

Floundering now, you waddle close and swallow harshly.

"To... wipe this up?" You finish, barely a whisper. He can tell you're sour at the fact you're stroking his ego and essentially too full of him to go anywhere.

Cato scoffs, holding up the seating cushion, "What? Too spoilt to use this?"

You cringe at him, "People have sat on that—hundreds of people, probably. I-I don't have your immunity to infection."

Cato cedes on that point at least, because he assumes being a baseline is hell. And so very not his problem, too.

Completely out of left field, comes the temptation to lick you clean. His mulish hind-brain reasons it's a brilliant idea, namely because you'd likely be squirming for him again. Even if he has no real idea of what to do beyond that. Lap at your clit, probably—he's not actually done any of this before except—well, except just slamming into you. He has the basic gist of all of this from biologis graphics and pornographic motionpicts. Yes, the latter are technically contraband on Ultramarine chapter vessels—Throne, he actually remembers when that was put into force. He was still green behind the ears when that'd happened. But those specific brothers had displayed it for abstract amusement, not... it's intended purpose—rather: 'Lo, look at this curiosity, brothers! See they're fornicating, how very so strange! Baselines am-i-right?'

Honestly, it's never actually anything heretical, except for maybe the terrible acting.

He'd deem that punishable by death.

Regardless, Cato's guessing the process of licking something can't really be some sage art form. Not like duelling, and fuck, he's stellar at that. He's stellar at almost everything, he reasons. So why not that? You're such a wanton little thing he'd probably make you finish on accident.

Yet he decides against it as soon as the logical part of his brain boots back up. Largely given the fact he's probably already going to have a hard time as it is trying to avoid others on his way to mask the stink of sex. His brothers have keen noses, it wouldn't be difficult for them to notice the smell of you on his way to his chamber if he's not careful. Let alone if it's smeared all over his face. Next time, however—

"Surely it's not that bad," he says off-handedly.

A surge of shame appears on your face as a red, blotchy belt across your cheeks, and you seem about to protest before he grumbles.

"Still, you really ought to find a solution," he remarks idly, and he notices the implication isn't lost on you.

You frown softly, and wrinkle your nose at him.

"Maybe some manners would help you achieve your goals," he adds, with a clearer spite.

Your frown grows nigh comically harsh.

Cato grunts wryly, satisfied at your annoyance and paws at the hem of his tunic—tearing a portion off and holding it out to you.

You grab the edge of it and tug, but he doesn't let go.

"And what do you say?"

"Thanks," you answer hastily.

He raises an eyebrow and pulls the torn fabric back towards himself ever so slightly, causing you to over extend closer to him.

His stare stays locked on yours, and he gets the treat of watching you dither and fluster under his focus momentarily before you amend, "T-Thank you..." you swallow, and break eye contact, adding; "Commander Sicarius."

"Was that so hard?" Cato scoffs, especially thrilled as he lets go of the scrap—eyeing you as you trot aside, and gingerly begin to wipe away the mess of satisfaction coating your thighs and rear.

When you're decidedly done, you stomp back over to him and hold out the soiled fabric.

He reaches for it, only to have it promptly pulled away.

Cato scowls, and takes a step forward into your space—only for you to inch forward into his.

You're tormenting him then, he decides; or rather he thinks. He's not sure. You don't look smug—you look... nervous? Your lips have drawn into a thin line and you keep glancing between his eyes and behind him randomly.

"What?" He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

"Lean down," you mumble, then quietly make the additional effort of throwing in a "...please."

Cato grumbles at the request but complies, and Throne, he's glad he does; because suddenly you're up on your tip-toes, your hand on his jaw—and your lips are on his cheek.

He blinks, dumb as a mule. It's over as fast as it started and he can't even begin to unpack the elation he's abruptly feeling.

Heedless of his dazzled state, you clear your throat with a bashful laugh—and then the rag is suddenly stuffed into his open hand. He's still frozen there as you practically rush out the room, scooping your previously flung data-slate up as you frantically wave the door mechanism open and vanish from view.

A long wheeze escapes his throat in the empty room, his face thudding with heat.

Oh, he's fucked fucked.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer fanfic #warhammer 40k x reader #space marine x reader #reader insert #ultramarines #cato sicarius x reader #cato sicarius #honestly its more like:#cato 'allergic to introspection' sicarius #writing

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 1 year ago

Text

Sneaky Link 💙 (Gojo x Black!F!Reader 18+ One Shot)

“You know you want this.”

Pairing: College Student!Gojo Satoru x Professor!reader (FWBs to Lovers)

Synopsis: You’re a stressed-out mom and college professor who has been swamped with your job and mommy life lately. You’re so knee-deep in your work and kids that you need some kind of release. Unfortunately, you’re not finding any of that in your husband, but luckily, that’s what Gojo Satoru is here for…even though he’s way too young for you and is your student.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS GTFO); College AU; MILF!Reader; FWBs/Fuck Buddies; Toxic Fuckboy!Gojo; Switch!Gojo (MDom + msub); Switch!Reader (FDom + fsub); Infidelity/Cheating; Oral (Giving + Receiving); Some Analingus; Body Worship; Deepthroat; Facefucking; Spit Play; Pussy Drunk!Gojo; Cock Drunk!Reader; Daddy Kink; Mommy Kink; Multiple Positions (Doggy, Missionary, From the Side); Dirty Talk; Possession/Ownership; Scent Marking; Cum Play; Breeding; Unprotected PIV; Raw Creampie; Facial

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: I was listening to SWV’s “You’re The One” & got an idea for this. I love me some toxic!Gojo 🤤 Enjoy! -Jazz

**********

You never knew how loud a man could get until your husband orgasmed.

Usually, you’d find this sexy. You love vocal men. You love your vocal man. All of his slutty moans, gasps, and groans that bounce off of your bedroom walls would usually trigger your nut quick.

“Cumming!” he moans, hovering over you, his face glistening in sweat as he rails into you like he’s trying to wake the neighbors with the knocking headboard. “Fuck, baby, I’m cumming! Cum with me! Are you cumming with me?”

But instead, you lie there underneath him like a dead fish, just staring and not moaning or orgasming like you should be. Like you used to. “Uh-huh,” you reply.

Even as his handsome face screws up the way you like, you don’t find it even remotely attractive. It isn’t like your husband isn’t a sexy man. Every time you go out, you catch the wandering eyes of women and men alike who ogle at your man despite the ring on his finger and being the father of your beautiful twins.

But what they don’t know is that the sexy man they all want for themselves is dry in the sheets. What they don’t know is that he isn’t attentive or a good listener when it comes to doing what you want and need to achieve pleasure. What they don’t know is that your marriage that seems so perfect and amazing actually isn’t.

Case in point, when your husband finally orgasms, gripping the headboard and pausing to cum while buried deep inside of you, he doesn’t even notice how quiet and stoic you are. You are not enjoying yourself yet he is completely oblivious to it. Just like he is every night…or any night he decides to fuck you, that is.

Finally, he lets out a shudder and a satisfied smile stretches across his mouth, a sign that the sexy was more than satisfactory. He pecks you on the lips and rolls over onto his back, lying naked beside you while you lie in your beautiful gown from tonight’s date night. You didn’t even take off your dress! That’s how unsatisfied you feel and how much you didn’t want any kind of sex tonight.

“Wow,” your husband sighs. “That was amazing, baby.” He turns to you, a sparkle in his eyes. You don’t look at him, instead staring at the ceiling. “Mmm-hmm,” you hum.

He moves in close and wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his sweaty chest. “I’m so glad we were able to do this,” he chuckles. “I know we’ve been pretty busy with work and the banquet tonight was tiring, so it’s nice that we always get time to have sex.”

‘On your time, that is,’ you sourly think.

“Yeah,” you say instead. “It was…okay.” Your husband ironically catches onto your bored tone and sits up, his flaccid dick hanging between his thighs. “Okay?” he parrots, confused. “But we tried that position you’ve been wanting to try! Y’know, the one with your legs up and your head hanging off the bed?”

You play with a loose strand on your gorgeous dress that you bought a month in advance for your husband’s work banquet.

The banquet you went to tonight and shucked your kids off to your parents for.

The banquet you were hoping your man would get drunk at, notice how sexy you look, and use all of tonight without your children home to make you cum your brains out.

And even though he did agree to do a new position for the first time in months, it didn’t feel any better. You felt no kind of enjoyment. “Well, yeah,” you say. “A-And it felt good, but—“

“But what, Y/N?” He sighs, sounding tired of your shit. You’re tired of your shit too, but also his. “I thought we had managed to squash this finally after our dry spell.”

Dry spell. You nearly scoff. Is he still convinced that this dry spell is moistened now? You glare at him, not liking his tone or his blasé attitude towards your needs. “You only noticed that it was a ‘dry spell’ because I wasn’t sucking your dick anymore,” you snap.

This has been happening for the past couple of months, especially since the beginning of spring semester. You’re a college professor working at one of the most prestigious Ivy League universities in the country, so half of your time is given towards work. And if your time isn’t given towards work, it’s given towards your two beautiful yet chaotic 5-year old twins.

You are married to a bigtime corporate lawyer, going on year six. They’ve been six years full of love, happiness, and great communication. But lately, that communication has been waning thin because of work. Your hubby is a very busy man, constantly at work juggling cases and sometimes working on the weekends when he should be spending time with you and the kids…especially with you.

Ever since the spring semester started for you, things have gotten worse with the stress of grading assignments and exams before your senior classes graduate. Your head is filled with planning things for the next month: planning class lessons, grading, what to fix the kids for their school lunches, etc.

You are drowning in your stress! All you want to do is be with your man. Hug him. Kiss him. Have him put you in the mattress again and again…but that’s barely been happening. He’s always tired or asleep when you’re in need of attention. And when you do get the attention you crave, it’s lackluster and half the time you end up making yourself cum when he rolls off to sleep.

It wasn’t always like this. Your sex used to be amazing, filled with connection and intimacy. Now it’s just…nothing. The fact that he doesn’t listen to what you want or even attempt to try is even worse. He is too busy for you and it’s starting to piss you off.

But not enough to hit up the one guy you know can get the job done. Not enough for that at all! So you roll your ass over and tend to your irked husband. “I’m sorry,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around him. “It’s not you, baby; it’s me. It’s just stress from work and the kids an’ all.”

And that’s the truth, though you left out that you’re also pent up, horny, and sexually frustrated. However, your husband embraces you back, so you don’t say anything to ruin your cuddling session.

After a while of soft kisses and snuggling, your hubby gets out of bed and steps over his suit that he quickly stripped off as soon as you got back here an hour ago. “You wanna shower with me?” he asks, putting his bathrobe on.

You open your mouth to respond with an excuse not to, but your phone ringing on the nightstand gives you one. “Uh, in a minute,” you reply. “I’ve gotta take a call.”

He nods and gives you a smile which makes you feel horrible. He truly is a great husband, but your throbbing pussy and rising libido tell you differently. Once he leaves, you answer the call to the one person who can truly understand your dilemma. “Answering my call at 10 PM on a Friday night?” She asks. “You either fought your man or the sex was bad. Good evening, Ms. L/N.”

“Hi,” you chuckle, quickly looking at the bathroom door where your man disappeared. When the water starts running, you speak louder. “And no, it wasn’t bad. It was just….average.”

Your friend laughs despite your pain. “Well, be happy that he at least had the time to reciprocate this time. Did you cum this time?”

“Uh….” You contemplate whether to lie or tell her the truth. If you lie, you’ll feel bad for doing so, but if you’re honest then she’ll berate him like she always does. Finally, you sigh and give in. “I tried, but no. There was zero trying on his end.”

Your friend isn’t happy to hear that. “Please tell me you didn’t fake it this time,” she groans. “If he’s embarrassed, let him be embarrassed!” You roll your eyes at the mention of you faking your orgasms for your husband at one point to appease him. You do things for the ones you love. “No, I didn’t,” you sigh. “I did as you said and kept quiet, but he didn’t even mention it!”

You put a hand on your forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “I took the kids over to my parents’ place for some time alone after the banquet. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with this.”

“Well, you could always come out with me and my man tonight,” your friend suggests. “They’re having this special called Freaky Fridays at the bar we like. You could meet a nice guy there.”

You can’t even picture yourself getting out of bed to get into your sexy clothes and cheat. You’ve done that already. “Thanks for the invite, but I’ve had enough drinking for one night.”

“Oh, how was the fancy banquet, by the way?” Your friend excitedly asks. “You looked so fuckin’ good tonight! If I were your hubby, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you.” You laugh at her referring to your photos on Twitter of you at your husband’s work party. Something about his firm celebrating their 50th year in business.

“Maybe I should’ve married you then,” you giggle. “It was fine, but all I could think about was gettin’ fucked in the bathroom. I tried to initiate a quickie before we left, but he wasn’t having it.” You sit up, ignoring the insistent throb of your clit and the need to get your vibrator out of your nightstand if not use your fingers.

“Plus I still have grading to do over the weekend before next weekend when graduation starts.” Your friend dramatically groans at the mention of your work.

“Girl, you’ve been busy since the beginning of the damn semester!” she scoffs.

“That’s the life of a professor,” you chuckle, taking your hair down and running a hand trough your curs/twists/locks/waves/braids. “And to make matters worse, I’m extremely horny.”

“That’s why I said come out and meet somebody!” your friend says. “But then again, maybe you don’t need that. You’ve still got Mr. Long Dick on speed dial, don’t you?” She giggles knowingly despite you cringing on the other end.

“Don’t even mention him,” you sharply warn her. “I told you before: what we had was just a fling and it should’ve never happened. That’s why I ended it. Plus, he’s my student!”

“Not for long!” she argues. “He graduates in a week, Y/N! And he’s a grown-ass man! He wouldn’t have agreed to fuck you if he couldn’t handle it.”

You squeeze your eyes to try and will away the thought of ‘Mr. Long Dick’ with his snow-white hair, alluring blue eyes, charming smile…and his long dick. His long, thick, perfect dick. And his sensuous, pink lips. And his tongue and fingers that he absolutely knows how to work.

Gojo Satoru. Straight A student, athlete, and renowned fuckboy. He has every girl and guy on campus going crazy for him. Yes, he is perfect. Yes, he is good in bed. But he is also too young, has community dick, and is one of your senior students.

You made the mistake of having a five-month long sexual relationship with him that you quickly ended last month before finals month. It first started when the chill of November came and your bedroom problems with your husband got bad to the point where he was sleeping at his brother’s place.

Gojo was always a flirt and made it clear to you that he had a thing for you—always complimenting your hair and outfits; holding the door for you and flashing you pretty smiles; always making excuses to stay after class or meet you in your office to discuss assignments.

You didn’t realize that he truly wanted you until he was in your office one day and happened across a photo of you and your twins together. “They’re beautiful,” he commented, smiling at them. Then he turned to you, his gaze soft and intimate. “Just like their mother.” You swear you’ve never been so wet before, your panties becoming soaked under your pencil skirt.

That was also the day you kissed him. Overcome with lust and desperation that your man wasn’t fulfilling, you stood up and planted one on him which he happily embraced. His kiss was electric and passionate, his hands soft and happily wandering your ass and hips. But you didn’t have sex in your office. Instead, you invited him over that night when your husband was at a work dinner and your kids were sleep.

There, in your marital bed, he fucked your brains out and made you realize how good young dick is…or maybe that’s just his. He made you cum three times before he left, keeping your panties in his back pocket when he did. For the next five months, you would see him behind your husband’s back.

You’d fuck him in your office. In his dorm room when his roommate was gone. In your house on your lunch hour while your husband was out and your kids were at school. In hotel rooms. In empty classrooms. It was the most alive you’ve felt in a minute…but despite how good it felt, it was also wrong, so you cut him off last month.

“No,” you sternly say. “Sure, Gojo was a good time, but it was inappropriate. Besides, who the fuck would I be fucking my own student? He probably would’ve started asking me to bump his grades up.”

Your friend, of course, goes to argue, but the bathroom door opens and you quickly jump up like your hand is in the cookie jar. “I’ll call you back,” you say and quickly hang up the phone. Your husband comes out in his robe, smelling of soap and cologne.

You watch him walk over to his closet and take out some fresh clothes. “Uh….where are you going?” You confusedly ask. He turns to you, putting on his shirt first. “Got a call from one of my working buddies,” he explains. “I forgot about this bar crawl my job is throwing just for my company. It’s the mandatory after-banquet after-party.”

You scowl at him, knowing he’s lying. “Mandatory?” You scoff. “There’s no such thing as a mandatory after-party. You just wanna go just to go.”

He shoots you a look as he drops his towel before putting on some boxers and jeans.

“Well, metaphorically, it is mandatory because of my position, just like the banquet was,” he argues. “And even if it isn’t literally mandatory, what’s the big deal?”

This is another thing you dislike about your husband: his inability to put aside his own wants. You do it all the time for him! “Well, I thought you were gonna stay here for a while so we could watch a movie or cuddle,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your bosom. ”Y’know…spend time together without the kids.”

You hope he’ll see how upset you are and reconsider. But he doesn’t. “Well…I’ve gotta get dressed, babe. Everyone is waiting for me.” And to add flame to the fire he’s already started, he scowls at you while buttoning his jeans. “And I just spent an hour here trying to make you cum!” he continues.

You gape at him, silently seething. So now it’s your fault. “Never mind,” you sigh. “Forget it. I’ll just grade these assignments.” Immediately, you shut down and scoot to the edge of the bed to dig into your nightstand for fresh panties.

Your husband realizes how bad he fucked up and quickly rushes to apologize. Like he always does, but never delivers. “Don’t be like that,” he huffs. “I’m sorry. I was gonna ask for you to come with me if you’d rather put the grading on the back burner tonight.”

He moves to sit next to you, shirtless and still damp from the shower. “Or I could stay here,” he continues. “You’re right—we should be spending more time together.” He puts an arm around you, willing you to look at him.

You do and instantly, you feel tired. Tired of doing this dance. You try to talk about your needs, you argue, you get angry, you fight, you stop talking, he apologizes, and then it starts again.

“No,” you say. “Go ahead and go. I’ll be here when you come back.” Your husband furrows his brows at you. “You sure?” he asks and you kiss him to silence him, cupping his face. “Yes, my sexy lawyer husband. Now go and tell your work buddies about how good I looked tonight.”

You share a laugh, another kiss, and all is forgiven (at least to your husband, it is). You watch him get dressed and begin to get a head start on grading, pulling out your laptop and glasses while still in your dress. By the time he is ready to go, you’ve already finished grading two papers.

Once he leaves, you regret it. Your horniness rears its ugly head once you are alone. Your pussy throbs insistently in your panties, desperate to be touched. You know that nothing you do for it is going to work, so you take a shower instead. You strip off your dress, jump into the cold water, and wash off tonight. You even squirt on some perfume to make yourself feel better.

But nothing works. While in the shower, all you think about is being held against the wall and railed by your Mr. Long Dick.

So you try other remedies to distract yourself with: a glass of wine; more grading; watching TV; calling your folks to check on the kids, reading a book, etc. But nothing. Fucking. Works. All you can think about is sex. Specifically sex with your FWB. Finally sick of your shit, you give in to your urges and toss your book aside before reaching for your phone.

You scroll down to your contacts until you get to “Tarou 💙” (the blue heart added by him). You couldn’t even bring yourself to delete his number, too emotionally tied to the dick to do so. You decided to keep him on call just in case. You’re so glad that you did now.

Taking a deep breath, you hit his contact and bring the phone to your ears. After three rings go by, he picks up. The first thing he does is chuckle, the silky, sexy voice making your stomach flutter. “Well, this is unexpected,” he chortles. “I thought you weren’t ever gonna call me again. You told me last time was the last time.”

You bite your bottom lip, your heart thundering in your chest. “Things change,” you impatiently reply. “I need you over here now. Are you busy?” You get right to it, not wanting to lose your nerve.

Gojo pauses for a moment, obviously surprised by your random call. “Uh…no,” he finally answers. “Just with Geto and Shoko, but they can watch the rest of this movie without me. I’m guessin’ he’s gone?”

You grip the phone to your ear, swallowing your shame. “You know he’s gone.”

Once again, Gojo pauses, weighing his options. “I’ll be over in ten,” he says and you sigh in relief. “Leave the door unlocked.”

You hang up and immediately begin to prepare for your dick appointment, leaving your phone on the bed. You replace your shirt with a sexy, satin slip and slather on some body butter to make your skin silky and soft. You put on lipgloss and spray on more perfume. You pour yourself a glass of wine to relax yourself. Then you venture downstairs to sit and wait with the door unlocked.

As time passes, you begin to feel sick with shame and second guessing. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe you should call Gojo to go home.

But before you can get up to go back upstairs for your cell, you hear a knock on the door. Your blood pressure nearly shoots through the roof. “It’s me,” Gojo says through the door.

That makes your blood pressure even worse. “C-Coming,” you stammer. Slowly, you slink off of the couch and walk to the door. With a shaky hand, you grasp the doorknob and yank it open like you would yank off a band-aid.

And there he stands: six-foot something and looking sexy leaning against your doorway in a leather jacket, jeans, and white tee that is way too tight on his toned upper torso with a gold chain on his neck that you want to yank on and kiss him. He smiles at you, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Hey, you,” he greets you. “I’ve missed you.”

You feel your stomach flutter at the sight of him, the sound of his voice, and his scent. He always smelled so expensive and sweet from the combo of his cologne and body wash. “I’ve missed you too.” The words come out naturally.

Gojo smirks, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Mmm, I bet,” he replies. At the sight of your frown, he laughs. “I’m kidding. Just wanted to see that sexy eye roll.”

“No jokes, please,” you sigh. “I feel worse even hittin’ you up again after I said I was done. Just come in before I change my mind about this.” You open the door further and let him come in before swiftly shutting the door. He walks into the empty living room, his hands in his pockets. He is quiet. Too quiet.

You don’t blame him for being awkward. It’s been a month since you’ve seen each other or talked. “How are the kids?” he finally asks. You nod, giving him a small, thankful smile for asking. “Good. They’re not here.”

He nods understandably though he didn’t ask. “Would you like a drink?” you ask, nodding at the bottle of wine sitting on your coffee table. “I’ve got juice, water…” He shakes his head, instead stripping off his jacket and placing it on his lap as he sits down.

He leans back against the couch, his long legs spread like the slut he is. “Come sit,” he says, patting the seat next to you. His inviting eyes and smile welcome you, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. So you sit down next to him, thigh to thigh, the slight touch making you scream inside.

Gojo wriggles his hands, obviously thinking to himself. “Sooo I don’t know if this question is allowed, but why did you call me over tonight?” He glances at you questionably and you flush with shame. “You know why,” you quietly retort. “You just wanna hear me say it.”

Your student smirks playfully at you. “Can you blame a guy?” he chuckles. “A gorgeous woman hittin’ me up late at night would be any young guy’s fantasy.” You passively shrug, not wanting to be any young guy’s fantasy except his…for tonight, at least. “I’m guessin’ things didn’t go well with the hubby? I thought that dress would’ve worked on him too.”

You look at him, confused, and he sheepishly shrugs. “I may have seen your pics on IG,” he chuckles. “Sorry for bein’ a stalker.”

Though you should be irritated by this, you’re not. Maybe it’s your arousal clouding your judgment, but you find this hot. “He…tries,” you sigh. “But he doesn’t listen and that’s the problem. You do.”

Gojo’s eyes flash with something familiar: passion. Something that has been seriously lacking in your sex life and missing in your husband’s eyes. You turn to your student and fuck buddy, holding his eyes with yours. “Listen to me very carefully,” you firmly say. “Just to be clear, this is just sex. I need something and I’m sure you do too, so we’re just giving it to each other. This isn’t a relationship and I’m not leaving my husband for you.”

Gojo’s brows rise at this statement. “I didn’t think you would’ve,” he chuckles. “Honestly, I can’t see myself playing daddy to your kids though they are adorable.”

“This is the last time,” you continue. “You graduate uni in two weeks which means we’ll never have to see each other again. You fuck me, help me get my nut, and then you leave. No cuddling, no calling, none of that. My husband cannot find out you were here.”

It is the same as it has always been, except this time is the last time. It has to be.

“Am I understood?” you ask lowly. The handsome, young man cocks his head to the side, searching your face for something. You try to keep your face as firm as possible, needing him to understand how serious you are.

Finally, he gives you one of those charming smiles that get your knees weak. “Absolutely, miss,” he purrs. Relief floods your body and you immediately reach for your glass to down the rest of your wine. “Good,” you exhale. You lower the glass down and then turn to him, beaming.

“Now fuck me,” you quietly demand.

You don’t have to tell him twice. Immediately, he wraps a hand around your neck and pulls you in for a kiss. You eagerly accept it, even crawling into his lap which he happily accepts by hooking your thighs over his to straddle him. You wrap your arms around his neck like a koala bear and press yourself flush against him, your thighs open and your panties gliding against his fabric-covered cock that you feel is already hard.

Gojo has always been a good kisser. He has the softest, juiciest, pinkest lips you’ve ever kissed in your life. His kiss is slow and passionate yet sloppy. His tongue swirls with yours as you softly moan into each other’s mouths, appreciating the way you taste. His kiss is full of longing and yearning, his hands gripping your ass and thighs as they hike your slip over your hips.

You grind your pussy down into his hard-on, earning a moan of pleasure into your mouth. You pull away from him, staring down into his hooded eyes. “Upstairs,” you exhale. “Please.”

Quickly, Gojo wraps his arms around your waist and hikes you up against him before picking you up and carrying you upstairs to your bedroom. He knows the way like the back of his hand having been here many times before. When he walks in with you, he kicks the door shut with the back of the foot and walks over to the bed before tossing you down.

You giggle slightly as you bounce on the mattress right before he pounces onto you. He begins peppering your body in wet, soft kisses—your lips, your neck, your chest. You run your hands through his soft, white locks of hair, moaning and arching your back at his touch. “I still can’t believe you wanted to see me again,” he murmurs. “I swore you never wanted to talk to me again.”

You sit up and watch him slide down to his knees in front of you, peeling your slip up to reveal your naked breasts and panties. “That’s because you started talkin’ ‘bout me leaving my husband for you,” you breathlessly retort.

Your slip comes up and over your arms, discarded onto the floor. His blue eyes tick up to meet yours as he kisses your stomach, a brow raised. “Correction, miss,” he chuckles. “I said to date me. I never said you had to leave your husband. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

His hands reach up to grope your tits, gently molding and massaging them. As he does this, his teeth lightly nibble at your thighs while attempting to drag your panties down your legs. You moan at the feeling of his fingers pinching your nipples, the sensations making your back arch off of the bed. “Gojo, fuck,” you exhale.

He finally gets your panties off and drags them down your feet one after the other before giving you a cocky grin, your drawls hanging between his teeth. He then lets them fall and pushes your thighs open, biting his lip at the sight of your sobbing, wet cunt, so puffy and pretty for him.

“C’mon now, baby,” he whispers. “Why would I ask you to break up such a lovely marriage for me? Is my dick that good?” He leans in, pressing teasing kisses to your pussy lips and clit that cause sparks of pleasure to explode in your body, coursing through your muscles. “You really wouldn’t stay with your man and just date me?”

He looks up at you between your thighs, his long, white lashes fanning his cheeks. Suddenly, his tongue slithers out of his mouth to toy with your clit and all coherent thoughts and words are stolen from you. “N-N…Oh, fuck yes,” you moan, tilting your head back in ecstasy.

He chuckles, his hot breath making your cunt throb. “Guess I‘ll have to convince you a little more.” He suddenly sits up and yanks on your ankles, pulling you closer to him. “After all, it’s been a month since we’ve been together. We’ll have to make up for lost time.”

“God, Satoru!” You whine. “Just shut the fuck up and use your mouth on this pussy instead.”

He stares at you, shocked by your outburst, and then begins to laugh. “Someone’s eager,” he chuckles. “I like my women eager.” He stares back down at your pussy, tutting at the beautiful, brown rose petals of yours. “Aw, look at my girl,” he coos. “So wet…so lonely. Your hubby ain’t take his time with you tonight, huh?”

He leans in and begins finally tasting you, though his tongue strokes are slow and deliberate to tease you. Make you insane. You can feel yourself quickly becoming impatient, your body squirming for more. “Satoru,” you whimper.

He instantly stops and you realize your mistake when his sapphire eyes pierce into yours, as firm as his tone: “Sorry, who?” He asks, narrowing his brows at you.

You swallow hard, that forbidden name you only call him at the tip of your tongue. “Daddy,” you whisper. “Please just give it to me.”

A pleased smile stretches across Gojo’s lips and he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “Gladly.”

And the man damn near dives into your pussy, slurping at your juices and sucking on your clit with his pillowy-soft lips. He alternates between swirling his tongue around your entrance while swiping his nose against your clit and sucking on your sensitive, little button, his hands pinning your thighs apart as far as they will go. You are losing it, your voice box turned on autopilot so your mouth makes whatever noises it feels like.

“God, yes, yes, yes!” You moan. “Right there, ‘Tarou, fuck, right there!” His hot tongue, tinged with cool metal from his tongue piercing, swirls about over your slit and pussy lips, making a mess of your pussy.

“Right there?” He teasingly asks. “Not right here, baby?” You then feel his finger gently probing you, slowly slipping inside of you and aimed upward to rub against the underside of your clit. “Ain’t you weak here?” He chuckles, his tongue still working its magic on your clit.

Your eyes roll back like you’re possessed as your thigh clamp around his head, desperate to keep him where he is. “Fuck,” you whine. “How the fuck are you so good at this?”

Gojo chuckles, feeling cocky and proud at his work. “Only for a needy pussy like this,” he hums. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed this pussy.” He pauses to spit on your cunt, letting it drip with a copious amount of saliva before slurping it back up. “Obviously, she’s missed me too,” he chuckles. “Look how wet she is for me.”

He spits on you again, this time letting it drip down to your ass. You feel his tongue there, the hot, wet sensation making you gasp as his tongue travels from your asshole up to your pussy. “Satoru,” you whine. “Don’t be so nasty.”

His eyes twinkle at you, ever the mischievous man he is. “But you love me at my nasty, baby,” he pouts, his bottom lip poking out. “Don’t you?”

And then he shows you that yes, you do. You really fucking do. When he moves his hands under your ass to hold you up and eats your pussy like he would a bowl of spaghetti, you nearly lose your shit. You grip the sheets and shamelessly grind your hips against his mouth, riding his face as he finger fucks you and eats you out.

This is it. This is what you’ve been missing with your husband. This is what you needed. He listens to your words and your body, paying close attention to how you respond to his movements. He keeps gliding his finger in and out of you while he sucks your clit, quickly bringing you to your peak. Shit!” You gasp loudly. “Satoru, baby, you’re gonna make me cum!”

He pulls away from your clit only to command you to do so. “Do it,” he growls. “Give it to me, baby girl. Give me that fuckin’ cum.” His eyes lock with yours and you are suddenly put in a trance as you stare into his ocean blue gaze. “Let go for me,” he purrs, his words just as hypnotizing as his eyes. “I’ve got you now.”

And like a puppet on a string, you do as he commands. With a loud scream-like moan that echoes throughout the bedroom and would no doubt wake your kids if they were here, you cum all over Gojo’s mouth, squirting down his throat and on his pierced tongue. He greedily slurps it all up, teasing your sensitive pussy until he can feel it throb in your mouth, pleading with him to stop.

But he doesn’t. He makes it a point to continue to eat you out even through your orgasm, making it last longer than it should. Your back arches so hard that you’re afraid that it will snap. Your vision blurs, fat tears sticking to your lash line. Your words become slurred and jumbled as you beg Gojo stop: “S-Satoru,” you whimper. “Please…oh, fuck, please! S-Stop! I-I can’t…oh, I can’t…it’s too m-much.”

Fortunately for you, he finally stops and stands between your thighs, his chin and mouth glistening with your cum. He gently takes his finger out of you and sucks on it, staring into your eyes as he does. “Betcha man can’t make you cum like that, can he?” He breathlessly chuckles. He then raises his brow at you, a smirk on his lips. “You’re sure this can’t work between us?”

You ignore him, suddenly feral at the sight of seeing your juices glistening on his lips. Immediately, you sit up and cup his face between your hands before mashing your lips passionately with his, tasting yourself. You taste so good coming off of him.

Then you pull away and stare into Gojo’s twinkling, pussy drunk eyes. “Shut up and take off your clothes,” you growl. “Stand at the edge of the bed.” Once again, he doesn’t need you to tell him again.

With quick fingers, Gojo strips off his shirt, leaving his toned body up for your full indulgence while he works on his pants. The sound of his belt buckle loosening and his zipper coming down excites you, making your stomach and pussy flutter in tandem. A small, excited smile crosses your lips as you watch him strip, his arms, stomach, and pecs making your cunt clench around air.

After his socks and shoes are off and on the floor, off goes his underwear. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, he peels down his briefs and his long, thick cock slaps against his stomach. He is already dripping with precum for you, the pink head glistening with it.

Immediately, you crawl to him on your knees and wrap one hand around the base, noticing how much prettier your nails look wrapped around him. “Look at you, so hard for me,” you purr. “I’ve missed this pretty cock so much.” You begin to stroke him, pumping him up and down while using your other hand to gently massage his balls.

Gojo instantly reacts to your touch and furrows his brows in pleasure. “Ah, shit,” he hisses. “M’sensitive, baby.” You continue to touch him, pulling delicious whimpers and low moans out of you. You smile, feeling powerful and oh-so sexy. “Perfect.”

That’s another thing you love about Gojo: he isn’t afraid to let you take control. He is a big time switch—sometimes taking control of you, but also letting you take the reins and submitting to you. You can’t get enough of it. The power you feel making this beautiful man writhe and beg for you to make him cum is like a drug to you. Your husband would never even imagine doing this for you.

That’s why you give Gojo the best blowjob of his fucking life as a thank you. It is sloppy, passionate, and absolutely amazing judging by his facial expressions and the sounds he makes. He watches you suck and slobber eagerly on his cock while your hands pumps him up and down through slitted eyes, the sight almost too much for him. His moans are almost high-pitched and slutty, the sounds doing so many delicious things to you.

“Mmm, shit, Y/N, that’s good,” he groans. “Let me fuck your mouth already, c’mon.” His hands clench at his sides, desperate to grab your head and force his dick deeper down your throat. You pull away, narrowing your eyes at him. “Um…who?” You sharply ask.

He gnaws on his bottom lip, a blush on his cheeks. “M-Mommy,” he murmurs. “Please let me fuck your throat. I wanna be such a good boy for you.” Those are the magic words. The embarrassing words that your husband wouldn't even think of uttering.

You smile, pleased. “Okay,” you giggle. “Just don’t cum. Save all of that for me.” He nods, a delighted twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, miss.” You then take him back into your mouth and allow him to wrap a hand around your hair before he begins thrusting his hips and fucking your mouth.

With each thrust, he goes deeper and deeper, his cock quickly filling up your throat. You accommodate to his girth and length by opening your throat up more, breathing through your nostrils as Gojo pumps away, using your mouth like he would a pocket pussy. You hold his hips and drag your nails down his toned thighs and stomach, indulging in his muscles.

The sounds coming from Gojo’s gorgeous, pink mouth are sluttier than you’ve ever heard them. He is loud and unashamed, his face screwed in pleasure and his white locks of hair sticking to his forehead. “Fuck, Mommy, m’gonna cum!” He gasps. “Have to…pull out!” Quickly, he does so, leaving you to breathe.

As he pulls away, a string of saliva connects from his cock head to your bottom lip that is coated in spit and pre cum. He begins to slowly stroke his cock, heavy and glistening in his hand, as you wiping your mouth and lick it off your hands. “Mmm, good boy,” you praise him. “You didn’t cum for me at all, but you did leave me a preview.”

Gojo is losing his self control, his hand quickly speeding up on his shaft. “Tell me what you want,” he begs. “Please or I’m about to fuckin’ bust.” You could easily watch him blow his load for you and get off just from that, but no. You want more. If this is the last time, you want to go out with a bang.

You sit up and place your hands on his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Lay back and let me fuck you,” you whisper, taking a nibble of his ear. “I wanna ride you.”

As quick as a flash, Gojo jumps onto the bed and leans back, quickly getting into position. He spreads his thighs for you and aims his cock upward, right where you want it. Once you straddle him, he lets you take the reins while he holds onto your hips for balance. “Easy now, mama,” he coos. “Take it slow. You look so beautiful up there.”

You smile, his compliment making you feel warm all over. He never fails to make you feel gorgeous despite your body after your kids and your older age. You take a hold of his dick and begin to grind against it first, nudging it up against your pussy and between your slit.

Looking into his eyes, you slowly press the tip to your entrance and slide him in, emitting a gasp from the both of you. You don’t stop there. You do more, taking it inch by inch, grinding against him as you do. “God, Satoru,” you moan. “You’re so…so—“

”Big?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you. “Thick? I know that’s how you like it, baby. Just take it slow. After all, this is the last time.” He holds your hips and stares up at you, locking your eyes with his. “Do what you want with me. I’m all yours, Mommy.”

And you do. You brace your hands on his chest and squeeze his pecs as you begin to slowly ride him, alternating between grinding and bouncing on top of him. You can’t describe the feeling you feel as you feel his cock plunge in and out of your body, disappearing and reappearing from between your thighs. “God, Tarou, yes!” You moan. “You’re so fucking good!”

Gojo watches you, ogling your jiggling tits and pretty face blissed out above him. You look down at him, watching him struggle to take you. You giggle, cupping his face in your hands. “Does it feel good, ‘Tarou?” You cooingly ask. “Is this pussy too much for you?” You roll your hips back and forth, rubbing your clit as you do.

The sight is too perfect for Gojo and he bites his lip, holding himself back from cumming right there. “Fuck, b-baby,” he moans. “You’re makin’ this so hard for me. Tryna…hold back…fuck!” He grips your hips tighter as you continue to ride him, quickening your pace.

It doesn’t take long for your second orgasm to rise, making you ride Gojo’s cock like it’s stolen. “I’m gonna cum again,” you warn him through a gasp. “Want you to cum with me, ‘Tarou. Fill me up.”

Though Gojo is a moaning, whimpering mess underneath you from how good and tight your pussy is, he doesn’t cum. Instead, he grabs your ass the way you like and fucks you back, hitting that spot you love again and again. “Cum for me, Mommy,” he begs. “Please, please, please cum for me. Cum all over that cock.”

He begins to babble—“Please, pretty girl, gimme that cum, fuuuck, please, please”—and his words, soft pants, and moans tip you over the edge. You become aggressive, rolling your hips forward and back, Gojo’s hand now on your clit and working it until you finally cum. “Fuck, ‘Tarou, yes!” You whine as you finally reach your second orgasm, making his cock wet and sticky with your cum.

Your mind goes blissfully blank for a few seconds as your second nut courses through you, making you sink your nails into Gojo’s pectorals and slow your riding as you ride out your orgasm. When you look down at him, he stares up at you almost lovingly, his cock still hard inside of you. “You…didn’t…cum,” you gasp out.

He shakes his head, smiling. “No,” he states. “‘Cause I wanted to watch you first. I wanna finally cum inside you when I’m fucking you stupid…with your permission, of course.” His eyes flash with a fire that you know that only you can put out. You feel that same fire blaze within you.

Your need to be held down and fucked takes over, making you willing to take whatever Gojo gives you. You hold his gaze with yours, gently rolling your hips to persuade him further. “Then do it,” you demand. “Take me, put me however you want me, and fuck me, Satoru. I want you to take control this time.”

Those ocean blues darken and a devious, sexy smirk crosses his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles and before you know it, you’re being flipped onto your stomach. Gojo slides off of the bed behind you and grips your ankles, yanking you all of the way to the beside toward him. You squeak and giggle as he does, loving his strength and how unafraid he is to be rough.

You immediately assume the position: hands and knees, your back arched and ass in his face. “So,” he says, his voice dipping an octave, “you want me to take control now, hm?”

Smack! His hand comes down onto your asscheek, making it jiggle. The sharp sensation makes you gasp, your toes curling at the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. “Such a nasty girl,” he sighs. “Gettin’ wet over one little spanking. You really are touch-starved, poor baby.” His hand slides down to massage your ass while his cock slides up against the puffy, wet lips of your pussy. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, his lips at your ear. “I’ll help you. Just do everything I say, okay, mama?”

Feeling his breath fan across your face and his cock slide against your slit makes you want to do anything he wants. And you will. You turn to him, staring at him over your shoulder the way he loves. “Yes, Daddy,” you whimper. “I will.”

That’s all Gojo needs to hear. After planting a kiss on your lips and another smack on your ass, he positions his cock and in one swift motion, slides back home inside of you. “Oh, fuck,” he moans while you let out a gasp, gripping the sheets below you. He doesn’t start off slow either. Instead, he gets right to it, pistoning his hips against your soft, jiggling ass with full intention of making you cum again.

“Fuck, ‘Tarou, sh-shit!” You moan, your knees and arms quickly becoming weak with the force of his thrusts. “Daddy, wait! D-Don’t…oh, fuck!…don’t go so fast! Ohh, my God!”

Gojo cackles at your pathetic stammering and babbling in between your moans and gasps as he drives himself into you again and again, gripping your hips so tight that his fingers dig into the fleshy parts of your ass. “Why?” He puffs. “I’m tryin’ to make you cum. And after all, we don’t know when your man will be home.”

He pauses mid-stroke to hike his leg up on the bed and continues to drive his cock into you, making your jaw fall slack at the deep angle. Every time he thrusts, his balls slap against your clit, filling your body with absolute pleasure. His hand swoops around your neck and squeezes, tight enough to make you feel restricted but not enough to cut off your breath.

“Or do you want him to come in and see you like this?” He teasingly asks. “You want your hubby to see you get this pussy stuffed by your side dick?” He tilts your head up by your neck, emitting a choked moan from you.

“I betcha do,” he giggles. “I bet you want to get caught with your boy toy…show your dude how a real man fucks a woman.”

Your eyes shut and you see your husband walking in under your lids. His expression is written in shock and horror as he watches Gojo pound into you, his wife, from behind, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. You hate to admit it, but the idea of that makes you even wetter.

Gojo continues with that breakneck, agonizing pace, alternating between fast, short pumps and long, slow strokes that make you see stars. His other hand leaves your hip to rub your clit while he continues to choke you, moaning about how pretty you look for him getting railed by his cock.

You feel your third orgasm rising, your pussy tightening around his dick while that knot in your core begins to tighten as well, signaling your end. “Yes, ‘Tarou!” You cry out. “Fuck, m’almost there! I’m almost—“

Your words are cut off when Gojo suddenly stops, putting an end to the symphony of moans and skin slapping against skin. You look over your shoulder at him, confused. “W-Why’d you stop?” You pant. The white-haired hottie smirks at you. “Because I wanna see your pretty face when you cum,” he answers.

He then flips you over onto your back and slides between your thighs, standing between them. Without waiting for you to give him permission, he slides into you again and tosses your leg up, your painted toes pressed against his hard chest. His thrusts now are slow, long, and deep, his cock stroking your pussy walls and making you arch your back.

Your mouth falls open, soft moans and gasps leaving your lips that Gojo relishes. He can’t believe how good you look taking him, your soft titties bouncing and your pussy sliding up and down his dick. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants. “Your man is so fuckin’ lucky to have you all the fuckin’ time. What the fuck is wrong with him?”

You think he’s pretty too. His face is flushed and glinting in sweat, his white locks sticking to his forehead. His eyes are dazed with lust and pleasure as he stares down at you taking his cock so well, his brows furrowed as if he’s in pain. You’ve never seen him look prettier than now, completely pussy drunk off of you.

“Fuck me, ‘Toru,” you beg, tossing your arms over your head to grip the sheets. “Fuck me and make us both cum. Do it like you won’t do it ever again.”

Gojo shifts into another mode immediately. It’s like your plea has pushed some button inside of him that makes him shift into a setting where he is merciless, pounding into you with every intention of either A. Making you cum or B. Breeding you with his baby. Or both.

You bounce and jiggle on the bed as he fucks you silly, making the bed creak and moan underneath you. He looks so good on top of you, his white locks hanging in his face, his blue eyes dark and blown with lust. “Really though,” he growls. “What the fuck is wrong with your man to not fuck you like this every night, hm? Why does he neglect such a perfect slut like you?”

He pauses to turn you on your side, hooking your knees to your chest before grabbing your ass and drilling your shit from the side. You are a hot mess—moaning, gasping, crying out for more, your hair unkempt, your skin coated in sweat, and your thighs dripping with your juices and Gojo’s pre-cum, making your pussy a lot sloppier than before and easier for him to fuck as much as he wants to.

“But that don’t better,” he continues. “Because I’m your man now. I’ll fuck you like this any time, any day you want, baby.”

He gives your ass another smack as he continues to fuck you. “You know you want this,” he says, a smirk on his face. “You know that I’m the one for you, Y/N. You know you want me…you’d even want my baby.”

Your loud moaning pauses as his words process. You look up at him, not sure if he’s playing or not. “W-What?” You gasp.

Ding!

You turn your head to look at your phone sitting beside you. You stretch one arm across the bed to grab it, but Gojo beats you to it. While still stroking your shit, he reads the notification and his brows raise. “Huh,” he says. “Looks like your baby daddy is home. He just pulled in.”

“What?!” You shriek, your words breathless and broken as your fuck buddy continues to put you into th mattress like your husband isn’t home. “Gojo, he’s back! H-He’s in the driveway!” You try to push him off, but he pins you down, tossing your phone aside. He goes faster, harder, using your pussy like he would a fleshlight.

He has never gone this hard or this fast before, gripping your ass and hips so tightly that you’re sure he’ll leave bruises. ”What are you doing?” You attempt to ask.

“Don’t move,” he demands. “I need you to cum with me first.” He leans down to press his face into your ear, rutting into you like a wild animal. You grip his back and shoulders for dear life, holding on tightly and moaning into his ear while you sneak a hand between your thighs to furiously rub your clit. “God, ‘Toru, yes!” You moan. “Fuck, right there, ah!”

“You’re mine,” Gojo pants into your ear. “You’re all fuckin’ mine, you understand me?”

Even in the haze of pleasure and above your mingled moans, you can hear the sound of your husband’s car door opening outside and him chatting with the neighbor. Fear bursts inside of your stomach, somehow making your pussy clam tighter around a feral Gojo. “Satoru, please!” You beg. “He’s coming!”

“So am I,” he groans. “But not until you do. Tell me what I wanna hear and I’ll make you cum, pretty girl. Look into my eyes and tell me you wanna be mine.” He leans up to stare down at you, his blue eyes transfixing and hypnotizing you as his giant hands knead your tits and ass.

You stare at him in horror. You want to cum, yes, but to do that, you’d have to tell him everything he wants to hear. Therefore, ruining your marriage and your vows…but then again, you already did that. “N-No!” You shout, delirious.

Gojo frowns and immediately slows down, his thrusts shallow and slow. “No, you don’t wanna cum?” He asks. That devious tinkle in his eye is there as he continues to slowly fuck you, teasing you.

A choked hiccup leaves your mouth, tears wetting your eyes. You can’t take this. This is torture. So you swallow your pride and let yourself break: “Goddammit!” You sob. “I want you, ‘Tarou! I wanna be yours! I’ll be your baby, your slut, your girl! I’ll be whatever you want me to be! Just make me cum!”

A wide, gigawatt smile crosses Gojo’s handsome face. “Good girl,” he chuckles. “Now give me that fuckin’ pussy.” He grips you and speeds up his thrusts, putting his whole back into it, his cock drilling your wet cunt over and over and over again until…

”Cumming!” You whimper. “I-I’m gonna cum!” Gojo’s lips part as he pants and groans at the feeling of you squeezing around him. He leans down, wrapping a hand around your throat. “Kiss me,” he demands. Without waiting for you to do so, he leans in and captures your lips in a sloppy, moan-filled, open-mouthed kiss.

Instantly, you are creaming all over his cock, his kiss swallowing your moans and gasps of release as your body tenses and writhes in his arms. With a few more thrusts and a high-pitched moan, Gojo empties himself into you, a stream of cum leaving his heavy balls and entering you hot, wet pussy, making you quiver and tremble against him. The orgasm is tense and dizzying, stealing your sense of self for a moment.

You then hear your husband’s footsteps click against the brick walkway outside to the front door. Suddenly, you are brought back to reality and to the man you just let fuck you raw that isn’t your husband, but your student.

You don’t get a chance to say anything though because Gojo gently slides his cock out of you. You look down, realizing that he’s still hard. He wraps a hand around himself and begins to vigorously pump his cock in your face, his hand turning into a flash with how fast he’s going. “Not yet,” he growls. “Gimme that pretty face. I want my nut all over that gorgeous mug.”

You don’t say a word and you don’t even move. You can’t. Your body is too exhausted to do so that you just lay there, helplessly watching Gojo jerk himself off in front of you, his pretty face screwed in pleasure and his lips pressed together in concentration. “Thaaat’s it,” he hisses. “That’s my good girl.”

And with a low groan, Gojo gives you a second orgasm, sending ropes of his cum all over your face and mouth. Your lips part in shock, causing some droplets to get onto your tongue. Some also fly onto your stomach, tits, and ass, coating your skin in cum. His cum. You can smell him all over you, marking you as his.

Gojo sighs in relief, his muscles loosening and a light chuckle leaving his lips. He releases his cock, soft and coated in your mixed cum, and tilts his head back to look up at the ceiling. “Now that was a nut,” he whistles. You don’t say anything, still too exhausted to do so.

Jingle-jingle.

You hear your husband’s car keys and then the lock on the door clicking open. You gasp, immediately sitting up and looking at the closed bedroom door. Both you and Gojo look at each other, panicked. “Shit,” you say in unison.

“Honey, I’m home!” Your husband shouts. “I bought you back something!” Like fire has been lit under your ass, you jump off of the bed while Gojo grabs his clothes, hurrying to put them on. “U-Uh, wait, baby!” You shout. “I-I need to get dressed!”

You yank your slip off of the floor and toss it in the hamper beside your closet, unseen and unheard of. You turn to Gojo hurrying to get dressed, quickly pulling his shirt over his head. “Hide under the bed,” you whisper. “I’ll distract him and then you leave.”

Gojo nods and Quickly, you dress into a T-shirt and some gym shorts, checking to make sure all traces of sex are gone, including the nut on your face (thank God you keep baby wipes in your night drawer). You even take your laptop and glasses back out to make it seem as if you were working this entire time. Once everything looks okay, you fix your hair and walk to the bedroom door to greet your husband.

But with your back turned, Gojo makes no move to actually get under the bed.

Too late to realize this, you open the door and smile up at your husband back from a night out. “Hi, honey,” you sweetly say. “How was the party?”

He gives you a smile and takes something from behind his back: a bouquet of colorful, sweet-smelling flowers. “I bought you these,” he says. “I wanted to apologize for…Gojo?”

His eyes trail behind you to meet the young man standing behind you. You turn, horrified to find your fuck buddy still standing there but fortunately dressed. “Hey there, sir!” He politely greets your husband like he didn’t just fuck his wife stupid in their marital bed. “Sorry to show up like this. I had to drop off a last-minute assignment to Ms. L/N and she invited me over with no problem.”

He walks over to shake your husband’s hand like his wasn’t just spanking your ass or wrapped around your throat. “Oh,” your husband says. “Well, I hope everything is worked out now.” He returns Gojo’s handshake. “Oh, it is!” He answers. “Isn’t it, Ms. L/N?”

You feel his hand sneak behind you to grab a handful of your ass. You bite back a squeak, instead forcing a smile. “Y-Yeah,” you stammer. “Everything’s fine now.”

Your husband doesn’t look the least bit suspicious which makes things worse. “Well, good!” He says with a smile. Gojo drops his hand from your asscheeks and gives you both a smile. “I’ll be taking my leave now,” he announces. “Thanks again for your help, Professor. I really appreciate it.”

Unbeknownst to your hubby, he shoots you a wink and walks past you to exit the room. You can feel the walls that had begun to close in on you begin to widen a bit, making you feel like you can breathe again, until—

“Oh, Gojo!” Your husband says, stopping the young man in the hallway. “You can look for me at the graduation ceremony. I look forward to seeing you at the firm.”

You blink at him, confused. “Firm?” You cluelessly ask. “What firm?” Your husband and Gojo stare at you, making you flush. “Oh, he didn’t tell you?” He questions. Gojo gives him a smile and a playful laugh. “I was gonna let her know at the ceremony.”

“Gojo recently got a full-time job at my firm and he’ll be working in my department!” Your husband joyfully states, passing you the flowers. “He starts next month in June with the training. He is quite an intelligent young man, so we intend on keeping him.” He shoots Gojo a proud smile, but your student is too busy smiling at you.

This smile isn't’ at all nice though. It is devilish, almost as if the devil has jumped into Gojo’s bones. “That means you’ll be seein’ an awful lot of me around,” he deviously says. “I’ll see you soon, miss.”

And as he turns to leave, you see in his back pocket your soiled panties.

You watch him go, standing there with your husband's flowers and your student’s cum still dripping down your thighs. ‘Oh, no,’ you lament to yourself. ‘What have I done?’

“Uh, sweetie?” Your husband’s voice drifts to your ears, sounding almost far away. “Why is the bed all wet? Did you take a shower?”

So much for ‘the last time’.

THE END.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #my fic shit #black coded reader #jjk smut #satoru gojo x black!reader #gojo smut #gojo x black y/n #gojo x black reader #satoru aka my boo #gojo satoru #jjk x reader smut

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chris-hallelujah · 10 months ago

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Home to Another One | c.s.

Summary: FuckBoy!Chris hooks up with reader who is in love with him.

Warnings: Toxic!Chris, FuckBoy!Chris, smut (p in v, pull out method), cheating and infidelity, foul language, angst

Word Count: 705

A/N: I do not condone or encourage cheating on your significant other, but I fear I am in love with Toxic!Chris. All ideas are my own, I do not give consent for them to be posted on any other platform.

<3 - Billie

╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝

Call me "baby" I know you go home to another one.

You laid in bed struggling to fall asleep. Another night of tossing and turning, your mind heavy.

Knock, knock, knock

It echoed through your apartment. You peaked out your bedroom window seeing a black car. Maybe your mind was playing tricks on you, but you could swear that was Chris' car. Why would he be here this late? But also if it wasn't him, why would anyone be here this late?

Your bare feet padded against the wooden floor as you made your way to the front door. A look through the peep hole confirmed your suspicions. It was Chris. You opened the door letting him in, "Chris it's midnight. What are you doing here?" Not that you weren't happy to see him.

The situation between you and Chris wasn't exactly ideal. You've been in love with Chris since you met three years ago. Problem was, he had a girlfriend. But one drunken night at a party a few months ago led to your current situation. You two hooked up that night and while you blamed it on the alcohol, for some reason, it never stopped. He continued to sneak over to your place at least once a week. While Chris didn't exactly have the best reputation, you felt terrible about the situation. But at the end of the day, you were so in love with him you were willing to take him in anyway you could get. Even though the next day you were often plagued with guilt and sadness knowing he always went home to another girl. That didn't stop you from holding out hope that one day, he would stay with you.

"Wanted to see you, ma," Chris mumbled quickly finding his way to your lips, his hands attaching to your hips. You smiled letting your fingers roam in his hair. The kiss was sloppy and aggressive as you both stumbled over to your bedroom. He laid you down on the bed, climbing on top of you, never breaking contact with your lips. His hips rolled into yours allowing you to feel the bulge in his jeans through your thin pajama shorts. A soft moan escaped your lips. Before you knew it both of you were naked, tangled up in each other. "Flip over," he grumbled, using your hips to put you face down into the bed.

"God- Chris, please," you whined, desperate for some sort of contact. He pulled your hips up to meet his and slammed into you with no warning. A cry left your lips as you gripped onto the sheets.

He chuckled softly, "Good girl, you can take it." His hand met your ass with a sharp smack. He bit his lip looking at the red print he had left as he continued to rail into you in rhythm. "Goddamn, ma, doin' so good for me, huh?" He moaned out. One of his hands found your hair, pulling slightly. The other hand reached around you, rubbing circles on your clit. You felt your legs get wobbly as your orgasm approached. Tears ran down your face.

"Oh fuck Chris! I'm so close" you whined out using all of your strength to keep your legs up.

"Go ahead, baby, cum all over me," he growled. That was all it took. You released all over him as you whimpered and cried out his name. He rode out your high and then pulled out, painting white streaks all over your back. He took a minute to catch his breath before getting up off the bed. You looked over your shoulder as he tossed you a towel from across the room and started putting his clothes on.

This is how it always goes.

You sighed softly and used the towel to wipe your back. You quietly watched him get dressed and check his phone. "Ah, shit, better go. Later," he said walking to the front door and letting himself out. Your shoulders began to shake as tears flowed quickly down your face. Deep down you knew tonight was going to be no different than the others, but you always wondered how he could call you "baby" and then go home to another?

Link to Part 2

#Spotify #chris sturiolo fanfic #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt stuniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo #the sturniolo triplets

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victusinveritas · 6 days ago

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Cheat sheets for the Qing dynasty civil examinations, 1644-1905.

Just think: failing this caused one guy to go off the rails, decide he was Jesus's younger brother, and yada yada yada tens of millions of people died.

#qing dynasty #cheat sheet #chinese history #civil service exam #civil service #taiping rebellion

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nanamineedstherapy · 7 months ago

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Velvet Sin & Clandestine Vows - Getting *ahem ahemed* by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party!

youtube

Minors DNI/Implied Cheating but not really/Shameless Smut/My First Smut

Summary: Nanami X F!Reader Porn with plot if you squint Nanami at a bougie party? Weird. Nanami getting dragged into a bathroom with a woman who isn't his wife? Even weirder. What’s hotter than luxury, mystery, and terrible decision-making? Spoiler: nothing. Let the chaos (and a closet with better taste than Gojo) ensue. Or Getting Railed by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party! This fic started as a joke & spiraled into a mix of billionaire aesthetics, deadpan sass, & unhinged party vibes. Buckle up—it’s classy, messy, & totally Nanami-approved. 💅 #Rewritten since I hated the first draft. TW: Maybe Cheating

A/N: This is my first time writing smut of any kind so let me know if it hits the spot ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖) Y’all, I swear, Nanami is loyal as hell, but who doesn’t love a little tension and mystery? If you’re living for the luxury or just here for the smut, drop a comment or a kudos—your chaos feeds mine. Cheers, besties! 🍸

The road twisted like a serpent through a dense forest, the towering pines stretching skyward, their shadows merging into a dark canvas under the fading sun. As Nanami’s Aston Martin DBS Superleggera glided past the last cluster of trees, the view opened into a scene pulled from the pages of an expensive dream.

The estate stood by a tranquil lake , its surface a sheet of liquid sapphire, mirroring the golden hues of the evening. The mansion, impossibly grand, didn’t merely rise—it commanded the horizon, almost otherworldly.

Towering walls of smooth stone enclosed the property, their minimalist design interrupted by intricate wrought-iron gates that whispered exclusivity rather than screamed it. AI-quipped security cameras, seamlessly embedded into the structure, blinking like mechanical sentinels, their presence a silent testament to caution wrapped in discretion. Guards in impeccably tailored suits patrolled the perimeter, some with guns, some with drones, some with androids, some with canines, their demeanor more akin to that of secret service agents than traditional staff.

The driveway stretched before him, a sleek ribbon of obsidian stone that gleamed like polished onyx under strategically placed lighting. The circular courtyard at the end was a gallery of excess : a Koenigsegg Jesko , a Bugatti Chiron , a Maserati Folgore , a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class , a Cadillac Celestiq , and a Rolls-Royce Phantom sat gleaming among other cars, their black, forest green or electric blue flawless exteriors reflecting the golden glow of vintage lampposts.

The lawns rolled outward like an emerald sea, interrupted by marble fountains with sculptures so detailed they seemed to breathe. At the edge of the estate, a private dock cradled a yacht —a floating palace that promised indulgence on the water. Above, the faint hum of helicopter rotors signaled rooftop landings, where multiple sleek, futuristic aircrafts waited in perfect formation.

The mansion itself was a contradiction brought to life. Its towering facade bore sharp lines and elegant curves, an architectural ballet where glass and steel met aged stone and brushed brass, each material woven into a seamless tapestry of power and refinement. High ceilings soared above, the kind that made you feel small without making you feel insignificant. The structure breathed genius—an intellect so vast it had turned ambition into reality.

As Nanami pulled up, the double doors opened before he even stepped out, as though the house had been expecting him. Inside, the ambiance shifted into a warm, inviting opulence. The grand hall shimmered under crystal chandeliers that fractured light into golden rain. Polished marble floors reflected the glow, amplifying the sense of space, while floor-to-ceiling windows turned the lake into a living painting framed by midnight silk drapes.

Walking in, he adjusted his Tateossian 18K gold cufflinks out of habit, the gold gleaming briefly in the chandelier light. The fabric of his Tom Ford silk Charmeuse shirt cooled against his skin as he rolled up his sleeves neatly, a testament to effort without indulgence. His tailored Mohair trousers—his entire outfit, his wife’s suggestion—fit him perfectly, a fact he acknowledged with a silent nod to her exquisite taste.

He knew she had spent more time selecting them than he ever would. She had an eye for these things, a maddening precision that made him trust her implicitly. He'd let her spend a good amount on tonight's party outfit to blend in with his office crowd, even though price tags were the least of his concerns. His wife, however, was a different story. Her taste was so particular that she rarely found anything worth buying at a store. But once she did, if it was casual, it would likely be inexpensive. However, if it was anything work- or party-related, it would undoubtedly carry a hefty price tag

The party coursed through the mansion like a heartbeat. In one ballroom , laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses as soft jazz played from hidden speakers. A smaller, more intimate space pulsed with energy, decked out like a private nightclub , where a few couples swayed to Spanish music under the prismatic glow of lights. Staff moved seamlessly among the crowd; their movements choreographed perfection, while their uniforms—a balance of practicality and haute couture—highlighted the wealth that surrounded them.

Each corner of the estate exuded thought and precision. From the soft, ambient lighting casting shadows on minimalistic art pieces to the way every surface seemed untouched yet lived in, the house wasn’t just a home; it was a living entity—one that whispered of brilliance, extravagance, and untold secrets.

Soon, before he knew it, corporate small talk had already grated on him; he’d barely resisted the urge to check his watch. Conversations about ‘exciting’ fiscal projections felt like sandpaper on his nerves, but years of navigating boardrooms had honed his stoic armor to perfection. He tilted his head just enough to feign interest in a junior analyst’s enthusiastic recounting of how they saved 0.5% on operational costs last quarter.

“Impressive,” he muttered, his voice so flat it was unclear whether he meant it or not. The analyst beamed anyway, oblivious.

His whiskey remained mostly untouched, a mere prop for these tedious rituals. He glanced down at the gold trim of the glass and thought fleetingly about hurling it through one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows—not out of anger, but for something more stimulating than listening to Steve from Compliance recount his golf trip.

“Nanami-san!” Steve called out, loud enough to turn heads. “What’s your handicap? Bet you’re deadly on the green.”

Nanami turned slowly, blinking once as if the words needed extra time to register. “I don’t play golf, Steve,” he replied, deadpan. “I have a job.”

Steve’s laugh was loud and awkward, his ego crumpling in on itself. Nanami allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction before turning back to the entrance, silently daring someone interesting to walk in and save him.

A marketing executive drifted over, a glass of champagne precariously balanced in one hand, their other already extended for a handshake. “Nanami, old sport!” the exec crowed, as though they’d survived war trenches together instead of working in adjacent departments.

“Hardly,” Nanami said, shaking their hand briefly before folding his arms, an unmistakable signal that the conversation was over before it began.

Then the intern appeared like a fly buzzing near a fresh wound, her enthusiasm bordering on suffocation. “Nanami-san, you look great tonight,” she gushed. “Is that Tom Ford? I could tell from a mile away!”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes the moment he saw her making her way towards him from the other corner of the room. Her extremely short gold dress barely covered anything, highly inappropriate for co-worker parties. Where was HR when you needed them?

He regarded her with the kind of cool detachment that made people second-guess speaking to him in the first place. His response was little more than a nod, a gesture so dismissive it might as well have been punctuation. “Yes,” he replied curtly, sipping his whiskey for the first time just to end the interaction. The burn of alcohol was preferable to enduring another comment.

“I’ve never seen you in anything so... relaxed ,” she added, eyes wide as though he’d arrived in a Hawaiian shirt instead of a $25,000 ensemble.

Nanami considered a sarcastic remark— yes, I’m positively unhinged tonight with my gold cufflinks and tailored trousers —but decided against it. “Enjoy the party,” he said instead, his tone as warm as a January morning.

Her persistence, however, was unwavering, her enthusiasm grating on his last nerve. She was the type who delivered coffee he never asked for, lunches he didn’t need, flushed cheeks, and doe-eyed stares he couldn’t unsee. What he had initially dismissed as professional eagerness was now so obviously a crush that even the office ficus had likely noticed. He didn’t mind admirers so long as they kept their distance, but this one was suffocating. Tonight, he had a plan: feed her to his wife .

He let her ramble, tuning her out while his colleagues began their usual background drone: glowing self-praise about the last quarter’s financial performance. Occasionally, Nanami nodded, just enough to seem engaged while maintaining an expression that screamed, I’d rather be anywhere else .

Then a peer from Finance leaned in, his smirk as oily as his hair gel. “You’re quite the magnet tonight, Nanami. What’s your secret?”

“Competence,” Nanami replied, without missing a beat.

The peer’s laugh faltered into a cough as he quickly excused himself. Events like this always managed to sap what little energy he had left after work. First, they stole every waking moment with deadlines and deliverables, then they expected polite socializing in his so-called free time. It was, in his opinion, borderline sadistic. He took another sip of his whiskey, wishing—not for the first time—that he hadn’t shown up. He didn’t much care to mingle, despite appearances. These events were breeding grounds for insincerity, where pleasantries masked ulterior motives. His colleagues jumped him, juniors seeking advice on everything from office politics to investment strategies, while his peers probed for weaknesses under the guise of camaraderie.

Then, previously flanked by armed bodyguards, she walked in.

He felt it before he saw it—the slight shift in the room’s energy, the way conversations seemed to falter for half a second. When his eyes finally found her, it was like everything else dimmed in comparison.

Time didn’t stop—not in some romanticized way, but it slowed just enough to emphasize her entrance. Classy, confident, and untouchable. The sound of her heels on marble cut through the hum of conversation, subtle but commanding. The red rubies on her dress flowed like molten lava, catching the chandeliers’ light with every step. The slit revealed long, toned legs that seemed almost deliberately designed to catch the attention of every person in the room. Her movements were languid but purposeful, as though she were fully aware that the entire party had turned their focus toward her and didn’t mind in the slightest. The siren-like glint in her eyes warned anyone brave enough to approach.

Nanami’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the whiskey glass, his chest rising and falling in a controlled breath. His gaze locked on her instantly, though he couldn’t pinpoint what drew him first—the way her dress hugged her or the quiet authority in her stride. One moment, he was half-listening to his coworkers drone about quotas; the next, he was captivated .

“Who is she?” The intern whispered, her tone laced with poorly concealed jelousy.

Nanami didn’t look away, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and even.

She didn’t need to seek attention—it sought her. Women flocked to her, showering her with warm greetings and effusive compliments. She reciprocated their affection with gracious smiles and her charm disarming even the iciest socialites. The men weren’t as brave, unsure whether to admire her or cower under her gaze—her siren-like aura daring any man to try their luck.

Except for one idiot.

Fucking Gojo.

Nanami’s jaw tightened as his white-haired colleague made a spectacle of himself, wrapping his arms around her from behind like an old friend reunited. Her face scrunched in irritation, a flash of disdain that Nanami couldn’t help but savor. But then she turned, her expression softening as she saw who it was. To his dismay, she hugged him back.

Nanami’s fingers curled harder around the glass of whiskey, the gold trim biting into his palm. Jealousy wasn’t his style— not like he wasn’t already married . But Gojo was a different story. The man had a knack for testing limits, his arrogance as boundless as his charm.

She, on the other hand, was the embodiment of contradictions: sharp yet soft, fun yet untouchable, her elegant demeanor veiling something far more dangerous. As if on cue, her eyes scanned the room lazily, not in search of anyone but allowing people to search for her.

And then their gazes locked. Her lips quirked into a knowing smirk, a silent dare.

Nanami’s breath hitched. Her smile—a challenge, a tease, a warning. His pulse quickened, a subtle betrayal against his otherwise calm exterior.

The intern beside him shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the weight of the unspoken connection between the two. Nanami almost pitied her. Almost. Definitely not.

His focus remained on the woman; she approached the bar with the kind of confidence that made the world rearrange itself around her. Even the bartender seemed to straighten his posture, offering her a champagne flute without so much as a question. Her long fingers, adorned with a curious glove-like jewelry piece , brushed the glass as she murmured her thanks, her tone effortlessly polite but laced with disinterest.

He didn’t notice the minutes slipping by; time blurred under the soft hum of chandeliers and the muted conversations he was no longer part of. Her every movement consumed his attention, the sway of her hips in that red silk dress a calculated provocation.

When she slipped through the gilded archway leading toward the bathrooms, his decision was already made.

Keeping his drink down, Nanami barely registered the figure stepping into his path until he heard the familiar sing-song voice that grated worse than nails on glass. “Nanami! Where’s your wife? Haven’t seen her yet tonight,” his rival cooed, wearing his trademark smug grin that Nanami fantasized about erasing.

“Still at work,” Nanami replied smoothly, his tone devoid of emotion but cutting enough to silence further prying. He didn’t slow, leaving behind muttered speculations about his sudden interest in someone other than his wife .

The hallways had the richness of the place amplified. The further he moved from the party, the quieter it became, the noise receding into a distant hum. The mansion’s grandeur became starker in the silence. High ceilings arched above, their ornate crown moldings gilded with gold that caught the soft light of sconces. The black marble floors shimmered under his polished shoes, stretching endlessly toward the private quarters. Staff passed like shadows flitting through the ethereal glow of this labyrinthine estate.

He paused in front of the bathroom door, glossy black with intricate gold fixtures, left slightly ajar as though inviting him in. The faintest sliver of light spilled out against the marble.

Knock. Knock. Two taps. Firm. Purposeful.

The response was immediate. The door cracked open, and before he could utter a word, her hand shot out, grabbing his shirt and yanking him inside with a force that surprised him.

The door closed behind them with a soft thud as he was shoved against it, followed by the decisive click of the lock. Her scent lingered in the air, both grounding and intoxicating, cutting through the bathroom . Then her mouth was on his, hot and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

“Not even a hello?” He murmured against her lips, his tone low, strained, yet laced with wry humor.

“Hello,” she whispered mockingly, her voice syrupy sweet, before pulling him back down. Her nails grazed the nape of his neck, sending an electric jolt through him.

Oh, she was definitely a siren. He thought as she drew him in with effortless ease, leaving him half-convinced she could drag him into the ocean and he’d thank her for it.

Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, deft yet impatient. When one refused to cooperate, she let out a soft growl, yanking hard enough to send buttons scattering across the tiled floor.

“They’re custom,” Nanami deadpanned, his voice thick with effort. “My wife chose them.”

“No wonder they’re ugly,” she shot back, her smirk as sharp as a blade. “Send me the bill.”

Her sass drew a low chuckle from him, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. She was cutting through his composure so easily, leaving him disarmed in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

In a swift motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her against the full-length mirror. Her front hit the glass with a muted thud, the chill drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. For a moment, he held her there, his gaze sweeping over her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, pupils blown wide with a mix of defiance and desire.

His reflection caught his eye in the mirror—a man undone, his hair disheveled, his usually sharp expression softened by raw hunger. He barely recognized himself, and for some reason, that didn’t bother him.

“Temptress. You’ve already got me obsessed,” his voice dark as he leaned down to press his lips to the curve of her ear.

“Stop talking,” she countered, her tone dripping with impatience. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan softly.

He obliged.

The kiss turned feral, finesse abandoned in favor of raw, unfiltered need. His hands roamed, the fabric slipping against her skin like water.

Once she turned in his arms, more of his buttons clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space as she ran her fingers on his chest then abs. The room filled with their gasps and whispered curses, the sterile luxury of the bathroom a backdrop to the pandemonium unfolding. She took off her handpiece, chucking it on the counter just to feel his skin against her fingertips unhindered.

Her scent was everywhere now, filling his lungs, embedding itself in his memory. It was familiar in a way, like déjà vu dancing on the edge of recognition. Unsettling, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.

“Careful,” she murmured against his lips, her voice teasing. “You might just fall for me.”

Nanami pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Highly unlikely,” he replied, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smirk.

“Your loss,” she quipped, her voice light, but her hands circled around his shoulders, pulling him back toward her.

Whatever this was—whatever dangerous game they were playing—Nanami knew one thing: he didn’t want it to end.

The bathroom’s air carried a subtle mix of sandalwood, bergamot and cedarwood, understated yet lingering—a scent that seemed designed to make every breath feel curated, the kind of understated opulence that whispered money rather than screamed it

Yet for all its grandeur, it wasn't the decor that took center stage. It was the mess unfolding next to the countertop, where passion replaced polish.

Nanami now had her pressed against the large, mirror-backed counter, its polished surface now marred with the aftermath of their urgency—smudged fingerprints, scattered toiletries, and the faint condensation of their mingled heat. The cool marble against her back seemed to amplify the fire between them.

His grip was firm yet restrained, one hand steadying her thigh while the other trailed upward, tracing the daring slit of her dress with deliberate slowness. His fingers paused at the neckline, the silk sliding under his touch like water. His hold spoke of possession, but his eyes, half-lidded and burning, betrayed something deeper—curiosity, defiance, and a hunger he rarely let surface.

She kissed him again, her lips a demand he had no intention of denying. Teeth scraped against his lower lip, the sting pulling a soft groan from him that melted into a low chuckle. His hands roamed with precision, finding her waist, her hips, her breasts—each touch firm, unapologetic, and met with a sharp inhale or muffled moan. Every touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and disarray.

He lifted her with ease onto the countertop in one fluid motion. The chilled mirror behind her elicited a gasp as her dress slid higher at her thighs. Her legs tightened instinctively around him, pulling him closer.

“Not bad,” she teased breathlessly, her voice a mix of amusement and provocation.

Nanami’s lips quirked into a rare smirk as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “I aim to impress.”

Her laugh was soft, intoxicating, and far too knowing. “You’re getting there.”

Her scent enveloped him now—a crisp, briny ocean breeze tinged with something wild and woody, a sharp contrast to the muted, earthy warmth of the bathroom. It was a siren’s scent, designed to disarm, to enthrall, and it worked far too well.

The sounds of their frenzy filled the room, chaotic yet rhythmic. Her nails dragged along his back, leaving faint crescent imprints as if marking her territory.

Then, with a devilish smirk, he dropped to his knees, his large hands splaying across the backs of her thighs.

“On your knees already?” She started, her voice faltering as he pushed the fabric of her dress higher. His lips ghosted over her inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing.

“You talk too much,” he murmured, his tone flat but edged with mischief.

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he tore through the delicate lace of her underwear with his teeth, the sound of ripping fabric punctuated by her sharp intake of breath.

His mouth found her core, hot and demanding; his tongue moved with deliberate precision, drawing broken whispers from her lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, long nails digging into his scalp as she arched into him, every nerve alight with sensation.

Each touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and chaos. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as she raised her head, her eyes wide at the sight of him.

When his fingers joined the fray—one, then two, then three—she let out a muffled cry, her hands trembling as they gripped his hair tighter. The rhythm turned torturous, each stroke a ploy to keep her teetering on the edge.

“Quiet,” he murmured against her, though the command was half-hearted at best.

Her laugh, shaky and breathless, cut through the haze. “Make me.”

He obliged, taking off his shirt & shoving it into her mouth to muffle her moans.

The room, a masterpiece of design and decadence, bore silent witness to their undoing. The perfection of its lines, the care in its curation—all of it had melted away, leaving only raw, unbridled chaos in its place.

Her body trembled, hips bucking against his mouth. His tongue and fingers were moving in perfect harmony. Her mewles grew higher in pitch, her body arching further as the tension began to pool in her belly.

Nanami’s grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her steady as her body trembled beneath him. Her moans, muffled by his discarded shirt, vibrated against his chest as he felt the waves of her release pulse through her. She clawed his scalp, a claim he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t enjoy.

When she finally collapsed against the mirror, her breath came in uneven bursts, fogging the glass behind her. Her flushed face, her dress still bunched at her waist, chest rising and falling as aftershocks wracked her frame left her looking like Mayhem personified. Still, he didn’t stop, his tongue lapping up every drop of her release like she was the finest wine.

Few moments passed, & Nanami stood, brushing the back of his hand against his lips, catching the faint taste of her. He was the picture of disheveled restraint—his hair tousled, his chest bare, and his trousers hanging low on his hips. The hunger in his eyes, however, was anything but restrained.

His gaze lingered on her as he reached for the straps of her dress. Tugging them down, he exposed her bare chest, the fabric sliding away like water until it pooled uselessly at her waist. Her breasts bounced with the movement, drawing a low growl from him that rumbled deep in his chest.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he leaned down. His lips closed over one breast, flicking her nipple with his toung, while his hand found the other, his touch alternating between firm and teasing. She gasped, her back arching off the mirror as he bit gently before soothing with his tongue, leaving her gasping & mumbling incoherently, her voice ragged but threaded with laughter—the kind that would have thrown a lesser man off balance. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” She spoke against the fabric in her mouth.

He paused, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “You started it.”

She smirked, sharper than the edge of the counter, biting into her legs. “And I’ll finish it.” She gestured.

Her hands fumbled with his waistband, still trembling but determined. The flicker of impatience in her eyes was oddly endearing, though he’d never admit it. Nanami stepped back slightly, watching as she struggled with his belt, her fingers clumsy but relentless, then the same belt clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space.

When she finally freed his cock, her hand paused holding it, her eyes widening as her lips parted slightly.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teased, his voice dropping into that smooth, sardonic tone.

“Shut up,” she muttered, voice muffled by the shirt.

He bit down lightly on her neck, one hand busy kneading her breast, while the other left faint crescent moons in the flesh of her ass.

Despite her reservations, her hand moved, slow at first, tentative strokes exploring him with a curiosity that bordered on reverence. The low "fuck" that escaped his lips emboldened her, and her fingers became bolder—squeezing at the tip, letting her thumb tease the slit, earning sharp hisses from him.

His control, usually ironclad, wavered, catching himself before her touch unraveled him entirely.

“Enough,” he growled, his hand wrapping around hers as he guided his cock to her.

She braced herself, her legs parted further instinctively as Nanami growled, guiding his cock toward her slick entrance. She mewled softly as he deliberately didn’t push in, instead teasing her, the thick head of his cock gliding against her swollen folds. The wet slide was maddening, the tension building as he refused to give her what she wanted. Her breath coming in shallow bursts as the tension coiled between them like a spring wound too tightly. Her eyes flashed with impatience, and the look of anger made him smirk through his own restraint. Then she hissed something, muffled, her voice low and threaded with irritation.

Nanami’s smirk was infuriating. “Patience.”

That patience didn’t last long. With a sharp thrust, he pushed inside her, his jaw clenching as she clenched around him, her walls tight and pulling him deeper. He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust; the intensity of the moment mirrored in their matched gasps and muffled curses.

Once he was fully sheathed, the restraint snapped. He withdrew almost completely before slamming back in, forcing a loud, uncontrollable moan from her.

His pace turned brutal, his hips slamming against hers with a force that made the marble countertop tremble beneath them. Her cries morphed into curses, each one sharp and biting, and directed at him with a venom that only fueled his hunger.

“You—oh my God—” she let out a muffled gasp, head falling back against the mirror as he drove her higher.

Nanami leaned down, yanking the shirt from her mouth as he captured her lips in a messy, heated kiss. Her teeth immediately bite his lower lip, drawing blood, but he didn’t care. Their tongues clashed, the kiss more battle than affection, each one pushing and pulling, neither willing to yield.

Breaking away to catch his breath, Nanami's thrusts didn’t falter.

“Still talking?” he muttered against her lips.

“Shut up,” she replied, biting him again, the taste of him & herself lingering on her tongue.

His hips slammed against hers, forcing cries from her throat. Her nails raked down his back, desperate, as though she needed them to fuse on a molecular level.

Despite his relentless pace, his lips softened, trailing kisses along her jawline, down her neck, and finally to her breasts. He nipped and sucked at the delicate skin; his attention split between breaking her apart with his cock and worshipping the parts of her he loved most.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—a brutal rhythm that matched the pounding of her heartbeat. His hands roamed over her body, his nails leaving faint crescent moons in her thighs, her back, wherever he could reach.

Her body arched into him, trembling & walls tightening as another wave of pleasure threatened to overtake her. He knew she was close; his hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit and circling it with a precision that left her gasping.

Her reaction was instant as she came with a sharp, keening cry, muffled when he cupped a hand over her mouth, entire body clenching around him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

“She’s sucking me in... so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse, as his control finally broke. Movements turning erratic as he buried himself deep, his groan muffled against her neck. His eyes fluttered shut as his own climax surged through him, leaving him breathless and trembling. He barely managed to catch himself before collapsing onto her as the aftershocks rolled through him.

Two forces of chaos colliding. Neither of them moved, just staying for a bit; she rubbed his back as they caught their breaths, the occasional tremor running through her as she adjusted to the lingering sensitivity.

The bathroom was a battlefield of indulgence and chaos. Perfume bottles lay toppled on the black marble counter, the delicate crystal shimmering under the ambient lighting. A faint mist lingered in the air, clouding the oversized mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, capturing distorted reflections of disheveled hair, flushed skin, and heat that had yet to fully dissipate. The mingling scents of bergamot, cedar, and salt—the sharp tang of the ocean—clung to the air, layered with the undeniable intimacy of their aftermath. Despite the mess around them, the silence between them felt clean, untouched by the outside world.

Soon her fingers were idly tracing patterns on his back, grazing over faint red marks she’d left moments before. When she finally broke the silence, her voice was teasing but warm, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Your technique hasn’t changed.”

Nanami froze, the words cutting through the lingering haze like a cold blade. He pulled back just enough to study her face, his brows furrowing. “What?”

“You heard me,” she replied, her tone deliberate and light as she brushed her fingers along his jaw. Her touch was deceptively soft, almost disarming.

Before he could spiral into overthinking, she laughed—a sound both melodic and cutting, slicing through his composure with surgical precision. “Relax, Mr. Nanami,” she teased, her lips curling into a smirk. “I’m just grateful for the first million you invested in my company when no one else would even hear me out.”

The tension in his shoulders eased as realization dawned, corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “Mrs. L/N,” he said dryly, his voice laced with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Should I prepare my chequebook again?”

“Always,” she quipped, her smirk softening as she leaned up to kiss him. Her lips brushed against his with a familiarity that belied the game they’d been playing all evening.

“You’re still mine, Kento,” she murmured against his ear—almost biting them, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

Straightening himself, hand lingering at her waist, he pulled her closer to hold as the reality of her presence grounded him. When they finally pulled apart, her tone shifted. “Nice house, by the way.”

“Thank you, Mrs. L/N,” he replied, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The simple gesture felt intimate, grounding, a contrast to the disarray they’d left in their wake. He arched a brow, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Though I do have to ask—what was the dress for?”

Her smirk deepened, her silence deliberate.

“Y/N,” he pressed, his voice carrying a mix of affection and exasperation. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“I was informed that you looked miserable out there,” she said simply, shrugging with nonchalance that only made her look more self-assured. “Your coworkers are vultures. I couldn’t just stand by and watch you suffer.”

His exhale was slow, measured, but his forehead dropped against hers, his voice softening. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me plenty,” she countered, her hands sliding over his chest with a teasing confidence. “But I’m not done yet. My company just hit a billion-dollar valuation, which means—"she smirked, her tone mock-serious—"you can finally quit working for those corporate overlords. Effective immediately.”

Nanami blinked, her words settling in slowly. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off with a single raised finger.

“And don’t start with the ‘backup plan’ speech,” she added, rolling her eyes in dramatic exasperation. “I’ve secured enough for the next fifteen generations to sit around and squander. You’re free, Ken. ”

He let out a long exhale, relief washing over him like a tide pulling him out to calmer seas. His hands tightened gently at her waist as he pulled her closer, his forehead brushing hers again.

“I can finally retire,” he mused, a rare chuckle breaking the steady timbre of his voice. “What a dream.”

Her grin was wicked and teasing. “Don’t worry, I’ll deck you out with butlers, drivers, private pilots—the works.”

He shook his head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” she said, her voice lighter now, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before stepping down. She fixed her dress, the fabric shimmering under the soft lighting as if it had never been touched. After quickly rinsing & drying her hands, she shuffled for something in the drawer below the sink counter, then gestured Nanami to turn around, who obliged and then winced as she sprayed antiseptic healing spray on her nail scratches on his back. Then, putting it back with one hand while she rubbed his shoulder with the other, soon she adorned her handpiece again.

“Now, pack your bags. We’re going on a month-long vacation. We’ve barely seen each other this quarter.” Her tone practical, though the playful glint in her eyes was still sparkling while Nanami, who knelt on one knee to zip up her askew heels with a gentle touch. This was a stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor; he radiated a quiet eagerness to serve her, even if she had never asked for it—or even forbade him from kneeling—for anyone, including herself. His care for her was unwavering, as he found joy in these small devotions.

Raising up to his full height, Nanami tilted his head, arching a brow. “When do we leave?”

“An hour.” Her smirk was maddeningly smug, the kind that always made him want to both kiss her and roll his eyes. “Don’t worry about clothes—we’ll buy what we need when we get there.”

His frown deepened slightly, his gaze flicking toward the door. “The house is still full of people.”

She waved a hand dismissively, her confidence unshakable. “The white-haired menace can handle it.”

As if summoned, a sharp knock echoed against the ornate black and gold bathroom door.

“Nanami,” Gojo’s unmistakable voice called out, muffled yet infuriatingly cheerful. “I know you told me not to disturb you, but if you want to leave on time, you should probably come out now.”

Nanami groaned audibly, burying his face in her hair. “I hate that he knows us so well. Or worse, that he was probably hovering outside.”

Her laugh bubbled up, light and unrestrained, as she turned to press a soft kiss to his nose. “Good thing no one will know,” she teased, her tone laced with mischief as she nodded toward the party still raging beyond the door.

“Small mercies,” he muttered. His hand reached down, scooping up her ripped panties. He shoved them into his pocket—a gesture equal parts practical and ridiculous. Housekeeping didn’t need to discover that.

He reached for his ruined shirt & still-ok belt while his cufflinks were probably lost to the similarly colored lines in the bathroom floor’s marble. Sighing, he shrugged the shirt on. With most of the buttons broken, the fabric barely clung to him, but he managed enough to appear vaguely presentable, then did his belt & washed his hands. Before stepping out, he winked at her, his rare smirk making her laugh again as she leaned on the counter, ogling him.

Walking out of the bathroom, Nanami was immediately engulfed by the sheer scale of the mansion. The vaulted ceilings soared above him, an intricate lattice of brass and black lines reminiscent of sharp geometry. Recessed lighting cast a warm, almost ethereal glow over the polished marble floors, their obsidian surface streaked with veins of gold that seemed to shimmer with every step.

Security was seamlessly integrated into the decor—discreet cameras nestled within decorative sconces, motion sensors hidden within the intricate carvings of doorframes, and biometric panels that blended effortlessly with the black lacquered walls.

Gojo leaned casually against the wall near the bathroom door, his smirk as sharp as the lapels on his bespoke electric blue suit. “Well, well,” he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Looks like someone had a productive break.”

Nanami cast him a withering glare, brushing past him without a word.

“Don’t worry,” Gojo called after him, clearly undeterred. “Your secret’s safe with me. Well Mostly .”

Nanami strode into his bedroom, its absurd luxury understated yet undeniable once he unlocked it’s door with his thumb. Warm recessed lighting bathed the space in a golden hue, highlighting the polished marble floors and the California king bed draped in silk sheets that whispered decadence with every subtle fold. The walls were a study in contrasts—one side a sweeping expanse of black glass overlooking the estate, the other adorned with minimalist art deco patterns in gold and dark maroon.

A walk-in closet occupied one corner of the room, its glossy black doors sliding open with a faint hum. Rows of designer suits, pressed shirts, and tailored trousers moved along tracks, neatly organized by color, fabric, and season. It wasn’t just a closet—it was an AI-driven sartorial fortress.

Gojo trailed behind Nanami, Martini glass in hand, his ever-present grin practically glowing under the warm light of the bedroom.

Nanami shrugged off his ruined shirt, revealing faint nail marks trailing down his back.

Gojo’s exaggerated gasp was immediate. “Knew you were freaks,” he declared, grinning like a cat who’d just discovered a fresh bowl of cream.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nanami replied, his tone dry as he waited for the first shirt the AI closet presented.

The automated system whirred softly, its sleek black panels sliding open to reveal a neatly arranged selection of tailored clothing. The closet’s AI chimed in, its voice smooth and masculine: “Good evening, Mr. Nanami. May I suggest the Maurizio Miri blue Sam Arold , double-breasted blazer for optimal sophistication?”

“No, a white shirt will be enough for now. Thank you.” Nanami replied smoothly as the closet handed him the shirt.

Gojo’s eyes lit up. “Hold up, your closet talks?”

Nanami buttoned up the crisp white shirt, the fabric molding to him like it had been made yesterday, which it probably had been. A subtle reminder of how far he—and this house—stood from anything resembling average. “Of course it talks. Everything here does. Wife is particular about it,” he muttered, casually pulling out a certain incriminating piece of fabric from his pocket & tossing it into the hidden incinerator bin while Gojo eyed the AI.

Then Gojo leaned closer to the closet; his curiosity piqued. “Hey, Mr. Closet—do you take orders? I need something that makes me look like a billionaire without actually trying. Extra points if it comes with a holographic logo of the Gojo Clan.” Gojo didn’t have such bad likes; he just enjoyed being a menace.

The AI responded without missing a beat. “My name is Winston, & I’m sorry, sir. My services are exclusive to Mr. Nanami. While I assure you, no attire could enhance perfection.”

Nanami’s lips twitched as he fought back a smirk. “Even the closet knows you’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I like this guy!” Gojo shot back, pointing at the sleek black panel like it was a long-lost friend. “At least he has taste.”

The AI, apparently more than willing to engage, added, “Taste, sir, is precisely what you lack.”

Nanami turned away, struggling to suppress his laughter, as Gojo gawked. “Traitor! I’m officially boycotting this brand,” Gojo declared, though his curiosity kept him glued to the closet. “Btw what brand are you.”

Nanami smacked his arm. “Do you forget my wife invents AIs for a living, among other things?”

Gojo shrugged, “I didn’t know it was one of hers.”

As Nanami folded his sleeves up again, Gojo shot one last look at the closet. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man, Mr. Closet-Winston. Once I babysit this house, bet you’ll miss me when I leave.”

“I highly doubt that,” the AI replied, its tone impossibly smooth.

Gojo huffed, muttering something about finding an AI closet with better taste, while Nanami finally allowed a small smirk to surface.

Once out of the closet, Gojo chirped, “Aren’t you going to thank me for organizing this amazing party?”

Nanami took the whisky glass Gojo handed him, savoring a slow sip. “Thank you, Gojo, for organizing this party,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not like we paid for it or anything.”

“Fair,” Gojo replied, recovering quickly with a shrug. “But I still expect to cash in the favor someday.”

Nanami nodded, flooding his sleeves with practiced precision before striding back toward the party.

Gojo followed on his heels like an overenthusiastic puppy, Martini in hand. Then looking back at the sentinel closet, he mused. “I need one of these. Think the wife will help me place an order?”

“She’s not your wife,” Nanami deadpanned, savouring the whisky burn as he sipped.

Once they had stepped into the grand ballroom, Nanami’s gaze swept over the room. Gojo, meanwhile, leaned in conspiratorially.

“So,” he began, his grin as infuriating as ever, “how was she?”

His gaze immediately found her. She stood along the far wall; an expansive bar carved from obsidian and gold stood like a centerpiece, its surface laden with bottles of rare vintages.

He didn’t falter in his reply, expression flat. “She’s a woman, Gojo. Not a secret.”

Gojo smirked as Nanami ignored the conspiratorial knowing smirks and whispers that seemed to surround him.

His gaze lingered as she laughed warmly, her head tilted slightly, the sound unguarded and genuine. She was speaking to two women he vaguely recognized as the CTO and CFO of her company, their expressions a mix of respect and admiration. For a moment, he simply watched. Despite himself, Nanami felt a rare sense of pride.

Just as he was about to make his way to her, a voice sliced through the moment.

“Nanami-san! There you are!”

The same intern with an unfortunate crush on him had caught sight of him again, waving over one of her equally annoying cohorts, a smug backstabbing bitch of a coworker Nanami didn’t even bother to remember the name of. They approached like vultures, the intern’s over-the-top enthusiasm clashing painfully with the coworker’s grimey smirk.

“Nanami-san!” she chirped, clasping her hands together. “This house is incredible! You must feel so inspired here.”

“I feel inspired to have another drink,” Nanami deadpanned, raising his glass slightly before taking a sip.

The coworker, clearly fishing for gossip, leaned in. “Yeah, no kidding. So, where’s your wife we’ve all heard so much about?” He practically sang the last part, his tone dripping with mockery. “Must be so busy to miss an event like this.”

Listening to this, Gojo moved closer to Nanami’s side like chaos incarnate, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” he asked, his grin practically weaponized. “Tsk, tsk, Nanami, keeping secrets from your best friends .”

The coworker scowled at the jab.

The intern blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Nanami bit back a smirk, swirling his whisky lazily in his glass.

When the intern finally recovered, her tone turned defensive. “Well, he’s never mentioned her to me!”

Nanami’s expression darkened, his patience stretching to its breaking point. One thing he wasn’t—had never been—was unfaithful. And this implication, no matter how cluelessly delivered, crossed a line.

Yet Gojo wasn’t finished. He turned his full attention to the intern, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “You know, he does talk about her all the time. But I guess you two must not hang out much, huh? Just acquaintances, then.”

“Excuse me?” Nanami’s voice was sharp, each syllable cutting.

The intern, oblivious to the shift in tone, pressed on. “You never mentioned you were married—”

“Please,” arching a brow, he interrupted, his expression one of detached amusement. “Do not imply that I’ve hidden my marriage. I’ve been married for years and have never avoided speaking about my wife when asked. If you’re unaware, perhaps that says more about you than it does about me.” Each word measured and sharp. It’s not like he cared to keep his job anymore anyway.

The intern blinked, stunned into silence.

Gojo erupted into laughter, clapping him on the back. “Kento, you’re killing it tonight. Who’s next on the chopping block?”

Without waiting for a response, Nanami brushed past them, his focus already shifting back to her. Gojo, naturally, wasn’t done yet. Turning back with a smirk, he delivered one final dig.

“He talks about her all the time with his friends. Trust me, I’d know since I’m his best friend. I know all his secrets ,” he said lightly. “Guess you’re just colleagues.” Nanami could hear the mockery directed at his coworkers, with a hint of possessiveness over their friendship in Gojo’s voice, along with the intern’s sputtering, behind him.

Once he approached, his hand slid around her waist, the gesture subtle yet unmistakable. It wasn’t a public claim so much as a quiet reassurance, a tether grounding him in the chaos of the room.

She turned to him, her smirk softening into something more intimate as she acknowledged the unspoken exchange.

“Hello,” he murmured, inclining his head with a faint smile toward the women she’d been speaking with. They were better than his coworkers; hence they were hired.

As Gojo approached them behind Nanami, she introduced him smoothly, her tone warm yet commanding. “Ladies, my closest friend, Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo’s professional smirk slipped into place with practiced ease. “A pleasure,” he said simply, his arm resting on Nanami’s shoulder again.

The conversation progressed for a bit before the sound of glass clinking drew their attention.

“Everyone!” Gojo’s voice rang out, cheerful and uncontainable. He was sitting atop the bar, manspreading, grin wide enough to rival the chandelier’s glow. “A toast to the lovely couple!”

Heads turned toward them, though many had already been stealing glances at her all evening while others were glaring daggers at Nanami.

Nanami cleared his throat, voice steady, effortlessly commanding the room. “Thank you all for coming to our housewarming party,” he began, his tone formal but with a warmth that felt uncharacteristic. His hand rested securely on her waist. “For those of you who don’t know, this is Y/N L/N. She’s my wife. She’s the one who bought us this house.”

A ripple of polite claps followed, though Nanami wasn’t finished.

“She hasn’t visited my office because she’s been working tirelessly on her company, Curse Cop, which, as of today, has officially reached a billion-dollar valuation.” He paused, his voice softening as he glanced at her, unguarded admiration flickering across his face. “Please, drink to your heart’s content, because starting tomorrow, I’ll be on vacation with her—and I’ll also be stepping down as Finance Director to spend more time with my wife, as I promised her.”

The room erupted in applause and a few ‘awws’ from mostly female guests, though Nanami barely noticed. His focus remained on her as she looked up at him, her expression a blend of amusement and affection.

From somewhere behind them, he heard whispers, envy poorly concealed.

“How’d he even get with her?” one muttered.

“It makes sense,” another replied begrudgingly. “He’s the kind of man every woman wants.”

But none of it mattered. Nanami leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, as if the room around them didn’t exist.

For him, in that moment, it didn’t.

Soon the evening had progressed—Nanami was comfortably leaning against the bar, whisky in hand, Gojo, still on top of the bar, flanking him as usual, when the intern caught sight of Y/N between them.

She stumbled her way toward her, clearly drunk, with newfound boldness, her barely-there dress doing little to enhance her sense of professionalism. Nanami’s lips twitched as he watched the scene unfold, hiding his amusement behind his glass. He wasn’t much for unnecessary public fights, but he was waiting for this one since she had really become a nuisance for him over the months, hence the reason she was invited today.

“Y/N,” Gojo whispered, sidling closer to her as she inquired about the launch of their latest multiplayer game with the COO of her company. “See that girl over there?”

Pausing, she glanced over, her brow arching slightly as she clocked the intern making a beeline toward her.

“That one’s been after Kento for months,” Gojo murmured, his grin wicked. “Unrequited coffee deliveries, surprise lunches... the works. You’re about to have front-row seats to her grand finale.” He had noticed it all while visiting Nanami’s office, along with Nanami’s look of frustration when she wouldn’t take the hint and leave him alone.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat, her expression remaining poised as she turned fully to face the intern. The air around her seemed to shift, her unapproachable aura sharpening to something razor-edged.

The intern, blissfully unaware, extended a hand, her confidence teetering on arrogance. “Hi! I’m Nat. I work closely with Nanami-san in finance. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked briefly to the outstretched hand before returning to the intern’s face, her expression neutral but distinctly unimpressed. “Oh?” she said coolly. “And what are you to him?”

The intern faltered, her hand dropping slightly. “I... like I said, I work with Nanami-san! He’s been so helpful to me in the office. Such a great mentor.”

Turning his head from his vantage point, Nanami’s smirk widened as he took another slow sip of whisky. He had actively avoided helping her since he discovered her hidden agenda.

“Is that so?” Y/N replied, tilting her head slightly. “And what exactly have you learned from him?”

The intern brightened, eager to elaborate. “Oh, just... everything, really! He’s so dedicated and focused. I can see why you married him.”

There was a pause—a beat of silence that stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then Y/N smiled, and it wasn’t kind.

“I see,” she said, her tone dripping with polite venom. “And yet, here you are, at a party in our house, introducing yourself to me like you’re a stranger. How odd for someone who claims to work so ‘closely’ with my husband.”

The intern’s expression wavered, a flicker of panic breaking through her confident facade. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Y/N interrupted smoothly, her smile widening. “To sound presumptuous? To overstep? Or to assume familiarity where there is none?”

Gojo, now openly laughing, gestured to Nanami, “Remind me never to piss your wife off.”

The intern stammered something unintelligible before finally scoffing & retreating, her confidence crumbling as she melted back into the crowd.

Y/N turned back to the COO, now flanked by CTO and CFO without so much as a backward glance as they dragged her off to introduce a potential investor, the conversation resuming as if nothing had happened.

Turning straight, Nanami finally let his smirk show, raising his glass toward Y/N in a silent toast.

She caught his eye, the faintest curve of her lips betraying her amusement, before she returned her attention to her companions.

“Worth every penny,” Gojo muttered under his breath, clinking his glass against Nanami’s.

“Agreed,” Nanami replied, his tone calm but his eyes glinting with mirth.

A/N: You thought Kento would cheat huh ☜(ˆ▿ˆc) Thanks for diving into this tangled mess of lust & love. If you caught the twist & liked it (or even hated it), drop a comment. I live for your chaos & crave your feedback like Nanami craves his wife. 🖤

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thinkerer24 · 6 days ago

Text

Guilty as Sin?

Summary: Jack can't keep his eyes (or his thoughts) off of Samira. Unfortunately for him, she belongs to someone else. Is it a sin to want her in his dreams?

Warnings: Suicidal ideations, mentions of cheating (but not really), SMUT, uhhhhh yeah, that's it.

A/N: A big thank you to @cosmclover for the idea and for being so patient. It was so much fun to write this. I kinda changed the exact meaning of the song because I love happy endings but hehe, there's adequate angst, don't worry.

Also the collage is made by me! On Pinterest! Don't steal! It took me like, 5 mins, I know, but still!!!!!!!

My boredom’s bone deep

This cage was once just fine

Am I allowed to cry?

I dream of cracking locks

Throwing my life to the wolves

Or the ocean rocks

Jack awoke with a gasp, fingers white knuckling the sheets as the remnants of his nightmare reverberate in his bones. He could still feel the asphalt beneath his thighs, chafing through the cargo material and abrading his skin, the black smoke thick around him, choking the remaining air from his alveoli. Phantom hands grasped at his shoulders, trying to pull a semi conscious Jack out of the rubble he'd been buried under. Twenty tonnes of concrete should've killed a man- and it would've-if it hadn't been for his competence as a trauma surgeon and hadn't torniqued his trapped leg right beneath the knee.

Rhabdomyolysis, he vaguely remembers. The muscles trapped under the pressure breakdown and the proteins enter the bloodstream. Clog the tiny arteries in the kidney vasculature. If your kidneys are fucked, your entire system is fucked. Ripping the tshirt from his body and tying it tight around his leg was the easy job, the tough part was slowly losing feeling beneath his knee and knowing it'd had to be cut off.

He shakes the memories off his body, shivering slightly in the chill of the Pittsburgh winter night. Safe. Far away from the artillery shelling and piercing shrieks.

Why didn't it feel safe? Why did the walls of the small on call room hundreds of miles away still get his cortisol spiking?

"Dr Abbot?" A small voice from the other side of the door speaks out, and despite his annoyance, his breathing immediately stabilises. Dr. Mohan steps into the room and shuts the door behind her, eyes creased with worry. Jack feels his hands stop shaking. He wants to thumb those creases away.

"I heard you shout. Is everything okay?"

Damn you, Samira Mohan. Damn you and your doe like visage.

Jack just nods, one finger lightly tracing the radial pulse over his other hand, noticing how his heart rate has already leveled out. He gulps once, twice, and looks her dead in the eye.

He remembers a time when his trips to the roof of the hospital were frequent; once almost every four hours. He never slept, never spoke to anyone when he was feeling that particular way; just beelined to the stairs and stood a bit too close to the edge on the other side of the railing. He imagined falling-- a niggling voice at the back of his head telling him to jump, could imagine the sickening squelch of his brain smattering against the concrete. Every day was getting tougher and tougher to bargain with, every moment felt like a negotiation with the inevitable.

Until Samira.

His Samira.

She would sneak up to the roof with him and stand off just a few feet away from the railing. She'd tell him about her day, how she found this insane article about treating a PSVT with rectal penetration or how her mother was making things difficult about her marriage back at home- Indian parents and what not. She spoke about one of the new interns- Santos? Who asked her out for girls night but she didn't know if it would be the "chill in your pyjamas and watch Hulu" typa party, or "get so drunk you puke in your ex's backyard" type. She would ramble until one of the nurses would page either of them and they had to trudge their way down.

He loved listening to her talk, rarely saying anything in return. He could feel himself looking forward to their time on the terrace, his eyes shifting eagerly to the clock in central, just so he could find the right moment to slink away to the terrace with her in tow.

Until one day she didn't arrive. He waited for a few minutes and decided against paging her, thinking it to be too desperate, or too weird, or too un mentor- like, or any of the other hundred bullshit thoughts that plague his mind at any given moment. He paced impatiently but gave up soon. It was the end of his shift anyway- he thought she might have left already. He leaned against the railing and sighed, when a loud giggle snapped his attention.

He climbed over the railing to the other side and bent a bit to see where the sound was coming from and -it felt so juvenile to even think it- but, his heart almost stopped. A blonde man, mid-late 30s, was carrying a huge bouquet of lilacs in one arm and grabbing onto Samira's waist with the other. She looked- radiant. Her hair was open and flowing in the harsh wind, curls almost forming a halo around her face. She was laughing at something blondie said (seriously, who spends extra money to stay platinum blonde? Draco Malfoy?) and wrapped both her hands around his neck as he lifted her effortlessly and kissed her.

"Jack?" Her voice brings him back from his reverie (it could bring him back from the dead, if she so wished, Hades no match for her sweet tone) He shakes his head and smiles weakly at her.

"Just a bad dream"

She nods and walks up to him and stands between his legs and oh, his breathing turns erratic again. She runs her slender fingers through his greying curls and smoothens it out. He thinks he could fall asleep again, just like this. He resists the urge to drop his forehead into her chest and take a deep breath, inhaling her scent-- strawberries and the harsh antiseptic mixed with something that could only be described as her.

"The wolves are gone, Jack. You're safe here."

He just nods.

Crashing into him tonight

He's a paradox

I'm seeing visions, am I bad?

Or mad? Or wise?

What if he's written 'mine' on my upper thigh

Only in my mind?

Samira doesn't remember the last time she could hear her heart valves beat open and shut.

Right atrium, then tricuspid. Pulmonary veins into the left side. Aortic valves beating thump, thump, thump.

Jack was right behind her, holding the guidewire with a loose grip as she manoeuvred the catheter into the jugular. It wasn't a complicated procedure but Jack insisted on showing her the ropes (again). The nurses shared a look which Samira clocked immediately but she was too aware of his proximity to her back, his breath over the nape of her neck to say anything.

The low cadence of his voice made something clench in her lower abdomen, right below her navel. It felt obscene; not appropriate for the public eye, she thought, as he recited the steps in a low baritone. His whisper made it seem something more intimate than it actually was, and Samira couldn't help but imagine that same voice in a more... Private setting.

As soon as she's finished, she pushes away from Jack with a grunt and shucks off her PPE before beelining to the bathroom. A hot flush creeps up her chest and her breathing gets more erratic as she shuts the stall door and frantically pushes a hand into her scrub pants. It was so embarrassing; she'd never done anything like this before, but Jack's voice was still echoing in her mind, his breath still hot on her cheek. She dips a finger into her folds and gasps.

Dripping.

She was drenched.

Rapid strokes of her fingers over her slick clit makes her vision go blurry and she can't breathe anymore. Her chest is heaving and legs are trembling already, flashes of grey hair and a wrinkled smile plaguing the back of her closed eyes like an old tape. She imagines the same cadence of his voice whispering praise into her cunt as he looks up; a wretched expression on his face as he devours her whole. She bites the palm of her hand as the other picks up the pace. She can't take it anymore, her gut twisting into something awful, something explosive.

"Come for me, Samira" she imagines him pleading and she's gone.

A broken sob leaves her and her knees buckle where she stands, almost falling. Her head slams into the stall door behind her and she finds herself praying that no one is in the bathroom to witness this moment of weakness. Her fingers are relentless as they ride her through her high. She comes to soon enough and sighs, when the ping of a message notification snaps her out of the post orgasmic bliss.

Nate🥰: Pizza or Chinese? I'll be done with work soon, can't wait to see you!

Shit.

One slip and falling back into the hedge maze

Oh what a way to die

I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top lip kiss

How I long for our trysts

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

"Samira- I, fuck, please"

Full bellied moans permeate the empty room as Jack clutches his pillow hard and almost smothers himself with it to keep the neighbours from hearing how pathetic he really is, how pathetic he feels. He'd been fisting the length of his too hard cock for the better part of an hour with no relief in sight-- he just physically couldn't seem to reach his peak no matter what he tried. His arms were hurting, back sore from being hunched up in one position, voice croaky and throat dry, grey tshirt drenched with sweat even in the Pittsburgh winter, but his body was betraying him harder than Judas himself. He lay himself down on the bed, the pillow smushed over his face in agony, while his other hand fisted himself dry to the thought of caramel skin, strawberry shampoo and those big brown eyes.

It's a longing he can't satisfy no matter how badly he wants it; the images of pressing his lips to her soft, full ones; her opening up to let him lick into her mouth; her biting his lips raw and smearing her spit all over his chin, his cheek; his Samira bending down slowly and kneeling in front of him, smiling up at him as her jaw drops open to swallow him whole - fuck.

He gives up, dejected, as his orgasm evades him again, for probably the fourth time that night. The visions weren't enough, his cells craving the tangible presence of Samira. He needed her here, needed to smell the tang of her cunt as he fingered her spot, make her spray into his open mouth. Needed to hear her squeal and cry and beg as he gave her everything she needed and more, because he couldn't say no, not to his Samira.

His. The word tasted sour on his tongue as he remembered her laugh and giggle in the arms of another man. Jack was sure Nate could lift Samira up without a crick in his back, without lurching to the side because he didn't have a bum leg. He probably didn't wake up due to nightmares of bloodied soldiers and orphaned children. He probably spent his time doing social service or something, not with his hands down his pants like a fuckinng pervert at the thought of his (taken) coworker.

Goddamn you, Jack.

I keep these longings locked

In lowercase inside a vault

Someone told me

There's no such thing as bad thoughts

Only your actions talk

Nate rocked into her cunt with as much vigor as a dead mole rat, which was giving the benefit of the doubt to the dead mole rat. It's not that he was bad in bed, per se, just-

Not what she needed right now.

"I know you can be good for me, Samira"

She gasped because her mind was playing tricks on her, she's sure of it. She closes her eyes and her brain supplied decadent pictures of Jack and his greying curls above her, slight smirk on his face as he rutted viciously into her. Her grip tightened on her lover's back as she squeezed her eyes harder; to prolong the scene. Jack, with his filthy mouth whispering in her ear-

"You're so beautiful, Samira."

"Yeah, wanna come for me? Take it, pretty girl, take it."

"Fuck, baby, you feel so good around me, could die buried in your pussy"

She doesn't know what has overcome her; it was so unlike her to think of another man in bed. She would be embarrassed, ashamed, really, under normal circumstances. But the very thought of Jack instead of Nate made her gush out a stream of slick, making Nate's cock slip further in. He stuttered above her, getting even sloppier in his movements and Samira fought the urge to roll her eyes at him. Poor thing, not his fault he wasn't really experienced. But Samira wasn't in the mood to play teacher right now. She didn't want slow, didn't want to guide him over the edge. She wanted Jack, her Jack, to bore his eyes into hers as he forced her to come over and over and over-

Nate groaned as he emptied into the condom, (finally, thought Samira), and pushed himself off and laid panting on the pillow beside her. She looked at him- his platinum blonde hair (seriously, who pays money for that?), his long eyelashes, those baby blues. The slight smile on his face as he stares at her longingly, kissing her shoulders and thanking her for being patient with him and sorry if it was awkward, he didn't really have much experience, he'll be more confident the next time. Her heart broke-- she didn't know how to comfort him, to hold him close and tell him- it's okay, it happens to the best of us. She couldn't find the right words, but she knew what she had to do.

She knew she couldn't carry this on any longer, couldn't keep imagining another man while the one in front of her fell deeper and deeper in love. She knew what was going to happen next- the screaming, the look of betrayal, the furrowed brows and clipped words as they both say stuff they don't mean.

She takes a deep breath, bracing for the inevitable storm.

These fatal fantasies

Giving way to labored breath

Taking all of me

We've already done it in my head

If it's make believe

Why does it feel like a vow

We'll both uphold somehow?

My bedsheets are ablaze

I've screamed his name

Building up like waves

Crashing over my grave

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

What if I roll the stone away?

They're gonna crucify me anyway

What if the way you hold me

Is actually what's holy?

If long suffering propriety

Is what they want from me

They don't know how you've haunted me

So stunningly

I choose you and me

... Religiously

Fuck what they think.

Jack paces the hardwood floor of his two bedded apartment, almost causing a fire due to the friction from his socks. He'd been rehearsing what he wanted to say for an entire hour, how he'd beg, plead, even kneel down in front of Samira to pick him, choose him, love him, her boyfriend be damned. He'd decided what flowers to bring (she loved lilies, not lilacs, you fool) and how he'd justify his selfishness, his bone-rotting greed when it came to her.

That's it, he thinks. Stop overthinking this.

Sudden, sharp raps from the front door pull him out of his spiral. He furrows his brows and looks at the watch on his hand.

8.24 pm.

He wasn't expecting anyone and a grating sort of annoyance builds in his gut at the thought of dealing with anyone right now. He grumbles all the way to the front door, mumbling his old-man tirade about don't you know what time it is? Who even comes unannounced -?

"Samira?"

His Samira stands in front of his door, drenched from head to toe from the rain. He didn't even notice the storm outside, much too preoccupied with his own turmoil, but the sight of her slightly shivering sent an alarm down his back.

"Oh my god, Samira, come in-what? What's wrong? Is something wrong? Did something happen, I-"

She hurries inside and places her hands on his mouth to shush him, and Jack just melts.

"Jack, I'm gonna need you to shut up, okay?"

He nods. He usually is unable to do much else when he's around her, to be honest.

She shuts the door behind her and walks further into his house and picks up the spare hand towel on his centre table and starts wiping her drenched curls with it. She looks around the house, noticing how clean and well kept it is; her eyes lingering at a framed picture of Jack and his battalion back in Afghanistan. She walks closer to the picture and notices multiple medals of honor neatly placed in the shelf below and lightly traces her fingers across them. Jack shudders in his spot, almost as if she'd run her fingers across him instead.

"I need to tell you something, Jack." She turns around and finally looks at him. His breath catches in his throat. "I need you to promise you won't over react. "

He scoffs and steps closer but she puts a palm up and stares him down.

"Samira, you're scaring me. Talk to me."

"I left him." She breathes out, confident, and decisive.

For a minute Jack thinks he's misheard her. He doesn't realise what "him" this could be in relation to. He quirks his head in query and fixes her with a stare. Slowly, he puts two and two together and-

Oh.

"What?" Super eloquent, Jack. Well done.

Samira sighs and steps closer to him. "Nate. I left him. I realised we ... Weren't compatible with each other."

"Uh, okay?" Wow, Jack. Five stars.

Samira looks like she could strangle him alive. She sighs loudly and looks up to the sky as if to beg for strength.

"Jack, it took me a long time to get the courage to say this, but it's the truth and I need you to hear it. I left him, because I realised I wanted you. I want to wake up next to you, every morning. I want to look forward to starting my shift with you, and ending it by your side. I want it all, the dates, the movies, the sitting idle and reading journals, the walks on the beach and the stupid county fairs and -fuck, I know I'm rambling and free feel to step in any time, but- i want you, Jack. Not Nate, not anyone else."

Jack remembers eating his mother's handmade chicken noodle soup for the first time after he had been through the amputation surgery. He remembers how grateful he was to be alive, how hard he cried when he held her close, how lovely the soup tasted going down his parched throat as she fed it to him with tears in her eyes. He remembers thinking- nothing's going to feel better than this.

Well, here he was, in front of his Samira, realising there's never going to be a better moment in his life than this.

"I was going to buy lilies" he says, still dumbfounded.

"I-what?"

"Lilies," he repeats, shifting closer to her. "I know they're your favorite. I wanted to buy lilies and go up to your door and fall to my knees and beg you to feel the same way I do because, fuck, Samira, you don't know how long I've waited for this. This moment, the slant of light as it hits your eyes, your fucking hair, fuck, I- I don't think you know how beautiful you are to me, what you do to me. I'd worship you every day if I could, I'd start a religion after you if you'd let me. I'd go to war again, if you just asked. Fuck, Samira, I love you. "

What if he's written 'mine' on my upper thigh

Only in my mind?

One slip and falling back into the hedge maze

Oh what a way to die

I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top lip kiss

How I long for our trysts

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

Their clothes were long gone, heavy confessions melted into filthy whispers, as Jack makes Samira come on his tongue again. She looks ethereal, hair still slightly wet from the rain and sticking to her forehead, perky breasts swaying lightly with her movement, her belly caving in with each tremor that racks her body. Jack licks into her reverently, wide tongue tracing every crevice of her wet, wet cunt. Her swollen clit begged for his lips and he happily obliged, sucking lightly as his tongue flicked the tip simultaneously. Samira's eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth dropped open in a quiet scream. Jack moaned into her slick, eyes not leaving her face for even one second. He eases two fingers into her and starts a decadent pace, the tips finding her g spot so quick it makes her head reel.

"Right there? Yeah? Is that your special spot, baby?"

Yeah, Samira thinks. Just as filthy as I'd imagined.

She nods and he smiles at her, something so genuine it makes her chest hurt. He licks up her clit once, twice, and she's gone, coming hard around his fingers. The rhythmic contraction of her cunt around him makes him see white for a second, and he drools over her cunt at the thought of burying himself inside her. Once she comes down from her high, he kisses up her body and lands at her lips, ravenous in his thirst for her.

He pulls back and pressed his nose against her. Breathes in.

Strawberry shampoo. His Samira.

He lifts her in his arms, but immediately regrets it as a sharp pain runs through his knee where the skin pinches against the socket of the prosthesis. He winces and Samira notices it immediately.

"Is it your leg?" Her voice was soft, like trying to soothe a caged animal. He nods and starts with some excuse, some apology, but she just shakes her head and pushes him off of her. She kneels down by the couch and holds his leg gently in her palms. She's completely naked and looking like one of those nymphs in Greek literature and Jack thinks he's actually died and gone to heaven. She takes off his prosthetic gently, removing the sock along with it and makes a sympathetic face at the redness along the skin there. She looks up at him and massages the stump gently, with such reverence, it makes him almost tear up. For the first time he couldn't maintain eye contact with Samira and she was not having any of it.

"Hey," she whispers. "Look at me."

She continues rubbing the skin there until it feels much, much more bearable and only then does Jack turn to look her in the eyes. She smiles.

"Hi"

"Hi" he replies. He offers his hand to her and she takes it, pulling herself up. She straddles his wide hips and immediately, Jack's pupils dilate, almost blown black.

Samira grinds softly along his bulge that's getting harder by the second, his palms slow and teasing in their path across her ass, her hips, squeezing her love handles and ribs, groping her breasts and tweaking her nipples as they find their way into her hair and pull her into a kiss. Her movements get quicker, needier, a spot forming in his pants with how wet she is. He quickly shucks down his sweatpants and oh, his cock is leaking, hard and so so beautiful it makes Samira's mouth water.

She slowly licks up the flat of her palm and pumps his cock steadily, making him hiss and roll his eyes back. She lifts up on her knees and rubs his dick through her folds, coating him in her wetness and Jack can't take it anymore.

His grip on her tightens and he pulls her to his chest, the movement causing his tip to pop into her pussy. She gasps so loudly she thinks the neighbours could hear, and doesn't give her body a chance to adjust as she slams herself down onto him.

They both moan, a sound so pathetic it would make them both blush if they'd heard it any other time. The friction felt heavenly and Jack was worried he'd finish before he had even started. Samira starts grinding on top of him, her wetness slipping easily over him and creating a mess in his lap. He didn't care, not in the least, as his head dips down and he stares at the hair at the base of his cock getting drenched in her juices. His tongue lols out and sucks a nipple into his mouth. Samira gets even more frantic, bouncing on his cock- up and down and up and down and up and down- until her thighs start straining and she gets slightly out of breath. Jack notices immediately- of course he does- and wraps his arms around her waist, plants his one good leg on the floor, and thrusts up into her with the vigor of a man half his age. Samira squeals in delight, his hard cock hitting every mind numbing spot inside her and stretching her out so good it's making her mind go blank.

"Oh Jack, fuck fuck fuck you feel so good, I-"

"Oh sweetheart I'm gonna need you to let go, yeah? I'm gonna need this pretty pussy to come and squirt all in my lap and just, fuck, just drown me, baby. I want to be smelling of you for weeks, i wanna taste you in everything i eat, fuck, baby, don't you wanna be good for me? Come for me so I can fill you up- don't you want that? My Samira?" And oh, fuck- she's gone.

An intense supernova crackles through her nervous system as she comes hard, actually squirting all over his lap, just like he'd asked for. She's crying and coming and holding onto him for dear life as he talks her through her orgasm, pumping his hips steadily. He follows soon enough, emptying his load deep inside her, his body finally achieving the relief he'd been craving for months.

They calm down eventually, and Jack finds himself stroking random patterns onto Samira's back with the gentlest touch. She shivers in his grasp and cuddles into his chest further, the squelch between their legs making her blush slightly. They were going to have to get up soon, take a hot shower and clean up, eat something solid since it'd been a while for Samira, and Jack promised he'd show her how to make chicken noodle soup since she was craving it for a while now. But that was going to happen in some time. For now, they were snuggled up close, content in each other's arms. And that was all that either of them needed.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt smut #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbot smut #dr jack abbott smut #jack x samira #jack abbot x samira mohan #jack abbot x samira mohan smut #mohabbot #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbott

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emeritusemeritus · 1 year ago

Text

No Good Deed [George Weasley x Reader]

Part 9 (final)

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Pairing: {George Weasley x Reader} mentions of previous Fred Weasley x Reader.

Timeline: Set a few years after DH, loosely following Canon.

Summary: A few years after Fred’s death, the investors of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes demand changes to the name. All it would take is two years of a fake marriage to fix the issues, but no good deed goes unpunished.

Warnings: Fake marriage trope because we love the cliché. Mentions of death (Fred). Friends to lovers. Slow burn but mentions of kissing and eventual smut. Swearing. George calls us Angel. Drinking. SMUT. The smut has arrived! P in V, oral (both). Angst, sadness, grief. Mentions of cheating, infidelity. Tags will be updated with each chapter. Not Beta-read or spell checked.

The final chapter of this whirlwind story 🖤

In complete contrast to the bustling crowd and noisy room of chattering people, Diagon Alley was practically deserted at this late hour, the shops king since closed with only the hospitality locations open. Looking up at the familiar orange building, you pulled out your wand and cast the series of spells to unlock the protective enchantments before stepping inside and locking back up. You slipped out of your heels by clinging onto the stair rail before scooping them up in your hands and carrying them with you as you ascended the stairs, for once knowing exactly what you needed.

You knew if you returned to the flat George would immediately find you before you could have the chance to clear your head, to work out what you wanted and what you needed to say. There was only one thing that would bring you comfort now and as if you were completely on autopilot, you climbed the stairs and entered the flat above the shop.

It was different to how you remembered it, much emptier now then how it had been so many years ago, of course due to most of George's practical things being at your flat. You paused, standing outside the first door on the left after the little closer and hovered your hand across the doorknob, taking a deep breath to stabilise yourself before you slowly opened the door. Fred's room.

It was almost exactly as you remembered it though it was lifeless and the air was a little stale, a natural consequence of it being shut up for so long. Paperwork, scattered notes still littered the desk, along with a myriad of bits and bobs that he used whilst working on his new projects. The bed was made, the mismatch of random sheets and covers making you smile as they looked so perfectly Fred, so much so that you couldn't help but walk over and run your hand over the soft fabric, remembering how it had felt against your skin so long ago. Just like George, he had a large dresser against the back wall, almost like a complete mirror of George's room layout in reverse and you found yourself drawn to it almost immediately.

You opened a drawer and reached inside, feeling tears welling up in your eyes at the sight. His green 'F' jumper, knitted so many years ago by Molly, folded neatly into the drawer, right on top. You pulled it out and held it up to your face, desperately searching for the smell you remembered. It still smelt like him, though it was faint. The sugary sweet smell mixed with a natural musk and a side note of smoke, like a marshmallow that had been toasted a little too long. It mixed deliciously with the scent of Molly's washing powder concoction and blended all together to create the exact smell of Fred. Sweet and smoky, warm and comforting, just like him.

Tears streamed silently down your face as you held the jumper up to your face, never wanting to stop smelling the scent that filled your nose and your mind, so desperately wanting to feel him surround you. You took a seat on the creaky chair at his desk, still clutching the jumper tightly as you allowed yourself a little cry, though you weren't quite sure what you were crying for. Was it Freddie? A longing for simpler times when it was just the three of you without any complications. Was it George, and the events that had happened? Seeing him with someone else or his declaration of love that had felt so vividly real? Either way, your mind was a complete mush of emotion and memories, everything seeming to haunt you in that moment.

"I'm so sorry Freddie," you said out loud, tears still streaming down your face. "I just wanted to help. I couldn't let them take this away from George, not when he'd already lost so much. We both have."

You knew it was pointless to have a conversation with him, to speak to him as if he was there, as if he'd reply to you but in that moment, it helped. There was so much you needed to say to him that it seemed like the perfect time to unload your feelings.

"It's ridiculous isn't it, I'm completely pathetic. You'd tell me wouldn't you? Tell me I was being a prat, to just talk to him, 'it's not like he's going to petrify you'," you laughed through your tears, imagining the words coming out of Fred's mouth. "I miss you so much." More tears flowed as you spoke the words out loud, the silence of the room only highlighting your loss.

You were about to speak again when a picture on the desk caught your eye, one you'd never seen before. It was taken on Christmas Day at Grimmauld Place, just after Arthur had gotten home from St Mungo's. It was you, Fred and George, all dressed in your Christmas gifts from Molly and Arthur, the matching scarves for the twins and your own though yours was slightly darker in colour with your initial stitched into the flowing bit at the bottom. You were all smiling and laughing together, though you couldn't remember what about, huddled together around the fire in the lounge. You were looking at Fred and belly laughing, hunched over a little and resting your head against his shoulder. Fred looked completely elated, eyes almost closed in laughter, from the looks of it he was the instigator, as per usual. George was looking at you, openly cracking up with laughter but his eyes were focused in on you, his hand on your shoulder.

That one photo alone had seemed to give you complete clarity. It had cleared your head of all complications and all the events of the night, the good and the bad, and had transported you back to the time you were happiest, forcing you to realise what was truly important.

"How the bloody hell do you always know how to get me?" You mumbled with a smirk, speaking to Fred again as you tore yourself away from the photo. You knew what had to be done now, the time spent amongst Fred's things giving you the adjustment you needed to realise what your priorities should be. You stood up and walked over to the drawer, folding up the jumper and pressing a kiss to the embroidered F on the front before you placed it back into the drawer.

Closing the door behind you felt like closing another chapter in your life, a parting of ways of your old self as you prepared for what needed to be done. You walked out of the shop, stopping to place your heels on and locked up before apparating away back to your flat.

"Angel?" You heard almost as soon as your feet touched the ground. He sounded a mixture of relieved and panicked as he stepped into view, calling out for you. "Angel, I was so worried."

He reaches out as if he's going to pull you in to his arms but stops himself, knowing that you might not want him anywhere near you after the events earlier. He sees the messed up makeup on your face, no doubt fat tear marks littering your cheeks and his face immediately drops.

"I'm so sorry, I know you saw everything and I can't tell you how sorry I am. I never should have been up there with her, I realise it was stupid now but I really believed her little tale about the thestral thrashers- not that that's important now." He cuts himself off, realising he was waffling but you could hardly listen to him, too occupied by the genuinely remorseful look in his eyes. He looked more devastated than you did, and that was saying something. "I know our marriage is... complicated... but I would never do anything like that to you, I just couldn't."

His words hang in the air for a few moments as you'd process them, believing his every word.

"I know," you say quietly, the first time you'd spoken since arriving home.

"I know you might not believe me and- wait," he says, realising what you said. "You really believe me?"

"Yes George," you say stepping forward to reach out for him. Like an involuntary response, he pulls you in to his arms, never once taking his eyes off your face. There's a few moments that pass as you hold on to each other in comfortable silence and it's like the tension, the hurt and the distance between you had disappeared instantly in that moment. Water under the bridge, you thought.

"I'm sorry I haven't been around much, I've barely had time to sleep in between running the shop, sorting the new lines and getting the investors off my back," he admits with a bashful smile, stroking your hair as you hold on to each other.

"I could have helped you," you say, enjoying the soft material of his suit against your bare arms.

"I already ask too much of you," he says with a dismissive shrug, though his tone is light.

"I'm your wife," you say with your own shrug, and a smile, as if it was the most natural excuse in the word.

"Yeah, you are," he replies with a wide smile, still stroking your hair, as if the information had slowly sunk in, making him realise that you'd do anything for him.

"I have to ask," you say softly, gently pulling away and walking him over to the sofa by your joined hands until you're seated with your legs grazing one another.

"Anything," he says honestly.

"What happened?" You ask quietly, trying to keep the emotions out of your voice but some slipped through. "The honeymoon was, well it was perfect but then everything stopped. You didn't touch me anymore, hardly looked at me, what did I do?"

He looks up at you with a look of complete heartbreak at your final question and he scoots across the sofa to grab your legs, making sure you were focused on him as his right hand comes up to cup your face and jaw.

"You didn't do anything Angel, it was perfect but I was being selfish," he explains, his eyes imploring yours as if he needs you to know that it wasn't your fault. "When I accidentally called you, that, well I realised how insensitive I was being, how I'd let myself get carried away with the whole thing. You agreed to marry me for the sake of the business, it was never meant to be more but I couldn't help myself. I'd gone too far and I'd not considered your feelings, so I pulled away to make things less complicated."

"Which complicated things," you retort, a slight smirk tugging at your mouth. He snorts and nods as he takes in your words.

"I realise now that it was a stupid idea," he answers truthfully, still gently nodding. "I just didn't want you to feel any pressure to you know... with me. The last thing I'd ever want was to feel like an obligation, especially if you weren't into me."

You can't help but let out a little snort through your nose at his words, realising how completely wrong he'd got it.

"Yeah because I don't want to have sex with the boy I've fancied since fourth year," you sarcastically retort with a slight roll of your eyes and a smirk.

You wished you could have recorded George's reaction to your words so that you could replay it over and over again for the rest of your life. He chokes on nothing, eyes bulging as he stares at you in complete shock.

"You.. what?"

"What?" You ask, not sure what part he was questioning.

"We've been married for nearly six months, friends for well over a decade and this is the first time I'm hearing about this?" He looks utterly bewildered and it's all you can do not to chuckle, though that would probably not be the right reaction for this moment. "That would have been very helpful to know six months ago," he says, slowly becoming less shocked and more smiley. You smile back at him and nod, realising that you should have just told him, even if you ran the risk of losing him like you'd always feared.

"I was terrified of losing you, or making things awkward," you admit, "the last thing I ever wanted was to make things uncomfortable between us."

"Wait, what about Fred?" He asks, suddenly remembering your past situation-ship with his twin.

This time, you reach out for George's leg, trying to force the words out that you knew needed to be said after taking a big breath.

"Fred knew I liked you, he used to tease me about it incessantly, he figured it out just before fifth year," you say with a smile, memories of his teasing flashing in your mind as he realised not long after their trip to Egypt just how hung up on his twin you were. "But you never seemed to notice me, at least not like that. But then you asked Angelina to the ball and I was so upset, I knew then that you'd never look at me like that. Fred came to comfort me and we ended up drinking this huge bottle of fire whiskey and he asked me to the ball, though I always knew it was more of a pity date he always insisted that it wasn't." You paused, thinking of the picture in your memory box of you all at the Yule Ball. "Watching you dance with Angelina, you just looked so happy and it killed me."

You paused to take a breath, trying not to cry as you thought back to that night and how painful it had been to see him look so happy with someone else.

"Fred kissed me that night, told me I was beautiful. He knew he wasn't a replacement for you but he was the 'next best thing'," you air quoted him, hearing his voice so clearly, a chuckle falling from your lips. "It was never really supposed to go anywhere past that one night together but I guess we became friends with benefits and though I did have feelings for him, it was always you. He knew that, it's why we were never truly together. But then you found out about us and we realised that it had pushed you further away, I'd never get a chance with you after that so we tried to make the most of it but we could never really be together. I always wanted you."

He was silent as he listened to you, which only made you want to fill the somewhat awkward gaps in the conversation but you don't, knowing nothing more needed to be said.

George surprises you by pulling you in for a steaming hot kiss, without a single ounce of hesitation as you'd laid yourself bare before him, finally admitting everything you should have said at the beginning.

He pulls away suddenly with a look of pure mischief in his eyes.

"If you wanted to date me you could have just asked, didn't need to trick me into marrying you," he snarks and you instantly gasp and hit him in the chest as he laughs at you.

"I didn't trick you! You needed me to marry you for the business!"

"Hmmmm sure," he says, still smiling as he kisses you again, his hand cupping your jaw as the kiss heats up once again, though this time it's much more playful and teasing. "I'll let you tell our grandkids that."

"Pppft tell them yourself," you snark as he pulls you closer to him, identical grins on both of your faces.

"Oh I will," he smirks once he's got you pretty much in his lap, an impressive feat considering your rather restrictive dress. "Wait."

He shifts you slightly until you're beside him on the sofa again and he moves to stand up from the couch before kneeling down in front of you, on one knee.

"I realise we've done this completely out of sync here but I have loved you for so long, never thinking I'd ever get to be with you in my wildest dreams. Would you do me the honour of being my wife, wholly and completely?"

You surge forward even before he'd finished talking and sweep him into a breathtaking kiss, your hands reaching up into his hair and across his shoulders as he clutches at your waist. When you pull away, you're both in complete bliss, smiling at each other like fools as you catch your breath.

"I'm so glad, because I couldn't keep my hands off you for one more minute, look at you baby, so beautiful," he says, voice dropping lower as his eyes wash over you and your slightly dishevelled dress. His hands sneak back around your waist and around your jaw after pulling your hair away from your shoulder, lips crashing down onto yours, ready to claim you anew as his wife.

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#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #harry potter #george weasley masterlist #George Weasley #George Weasley x you #George Weasley x reader #George Weasley fluff #George Weasley smut #George Weasley angst #no good deeds

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