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deltamel · 18 days ago

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Big Man, Little Dignity

── MEMORISED ALL YOUR LINES, FANTASISE YOUR DEMISE. satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through tokyo tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you. word count. 5.5k

CONTENT. MDNI. fem!dom!reader, manipulative!sub!gojo, (brief mention of reader having a cunt but otherwise no description), bratty sub gojo, manipulation, foot humping, degradation, light choking, no prior discussion of kinks or aftercare, toxic dynamic, existing relationship, friends with benefits, pwp

MEL'S NOTE: what began as a character study of manipulative!gojo devolved into sentencing him to come in the most deliciously humiliating way. title insp. is the namesake song by paramore. a massive thank you to my gorgeous beta @nyxomniax (nyx's ao3) <3

“I really don’t like your attitude.”

Although attitude is a crude euphemism—Satoru’s sharp gaze seems to penetrate even through his blindfold. If looks could kill, as the saying goes.

You sigh. Tonight was supposed to be a taunt, a challenge, a plea—all rolled into one tight, conniving quip that would snake its way around Satoru until the tips of his ears turned red where he knelt before you. You shouldn’t be surprised, really, at how your words roll off him, as though they’ve physically hit his Limitless and have slowed to the point of non-existence.

“Well,” he starts, petulant. “I really don’t like how long this is taking.”

You scoff, crossing one leg over the other as you lean further back into the cracked leather of the sofa you're sitting on. It creaks beneath you in protest.

“So how about we skip to the good part?” Satoru grins widely at you, utterly unashamed even as your eyes dip down to the hard outline tenting his uniform slacks.

You’re bored, you realise. Uninterested in acting out the same scene and reciting the same worn, tired script to a man who, to your knowledge, couldn’t give less of a shit if you were completely mute as you let him rut into you.

It is… strange.

Months of hushed, sweaty hook-ups flash through your mind, like some kind of slideshow that should be playing all of your favourite memories before you die. These are anything but; they’re a twisted amalgamation of simmering anger and bestial grunting way too close to your ear to be enjoyable.

Why had you let it get this far? Spin this far out of control?

“Oh sure, I have all day,” Satoru says, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Absolutely no rush whatsoever. Take your time, even!”

You press your lips together, unimpressed.

Shame burns through you like you are no more than bone-dry tinder unfortunate enough to be in its path. You wanted to lead tonight, to set the pace—and you believed forcing him to kneel at your feet and feeding him the command to behave would be sufficient. That he may finally take the bait. Naturally, you seem to have asked too much, and you’re utterly lost as to how you’ve deluded yourself into such a fictional image of him. One that is flushed and moaning and writhing beneath you. One that would beg you for more.

He’d never.

Satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through Tokyo Tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you.

“Now, I may look the picture of youth, but if I’m sat on my knees any longer, we may have an issue when I finally fuck you.” He laughs, presumably imagining himself as a hobbled-sorcerer or something equally inane, hell-bent on clumsily thrusting into you. “And we can’t have that, can we? How will I satisfy that greedy cunt of yours?”

It’s an unconscious impulse as you kick hard at the centre of his chest, anger flaring at the hit to your own ego, only to be rebounded by Satoru’s Limitless. You never stood a chance.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you snap. “I’ve never met anyone who loves the sound of their own voice as much as you do.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, admonishment smeared over his face. “Ask nicely.”

Breathing out through your mouth, you try to summon the patience that seems to be rapidly eluding you the more Satoru talks.

“‘Ask nicely’,” you repeat blandly.

“Yep,” he says, emphasising the pop of the p at the end.

“Like how I ‘asked nicely’ for you to behave?”

“I wouldn’t say you ‘asked nicely’...” he trails off, looking askance as though he’s working hard to recall the memory from only five minutes prior. “More like demanded and expected that I, bearer of the Six Eyes, would obey.”

“Huh,” you tilt your head, “that’s funny. I’m pretty sure you’ve been demanding to fuck me.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, heaving a labouring sigh, as though you’d told him that his favourite coffee shop—the quaint, crumbling building a few blocks away from the school run by an elderly couple, that you’re near positive Satoru only frequents because he can bat his lashes and they will give him free coffee—has run out of the sugary atrocity he usually drinks.

“Did you miss,” he waves his arms down his body, presenting himself, “the bearer of the Six Eyes part of my sentence? That was pretty integral info.”

Wishing you were surprised at the lack of gravity he’s giving the situation doesn’t come easily. He’s always been like this, since as long as you’ve known him anyway; years of dropping ill-timed jokes and unbothered banter in the face of national threats and almost always imminent death. It’s illogical. And above that, it’s quite frankly insane. So why would you be the exception to his whims? Why would he afford you real concern when it proves no benefit to him? You could tear at those towering walls surrounding him, brick by brick, until your bare hands are broken and bloody and unrecognisable, yet there’d hardly be a dent big enough to warrant his attention.

Before you have a chance at spitting back any lacklustre rebuttal, he speaks over you.

“So let’s cut whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. Honestly. What are you trying to achieve with me down here and you up— wait.” He perks up, likely seeing you anew from behind his blindfold as he rambles. “Was this all an elaborate plot to get me to eat you out? Because baby, I do not have to be on my knees to have you on yours. Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

You launch forward, sinking a hand deep into his unpigmented hair—allowing yourself only a split-second of astonishment that he allowed you to make contact with the real him, not his Limitless—before yanking him forward to unbalance him. That’s all it takes. One slip-up, intentional or not, and you use the momentum to force his face down into the floor between your feet, pressing his cheek against the rough grain of the wood. The connecting thunk is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard from Satoru all evening.

Against the dark wood below him, Satoru’s alabaster skin is downright ghostly. Stark and obvious in every way that Satoru is himself. It’s fitting, really. You savour the colour rushing to his cheeks, the strands of hair fallen over his blindfold, the blood welling in his lip where he must have bitten himself on impact. You want to taste it. To draw more than just blood from his lips.

The bounds of his Limitless do not protect him from himself, you think. How ironic.

Satoru’s chest stutters where he’s bent over awkwardly, still kneeling. His hands are trapped underneath him like he meant to stop his fall. You know he could have. So why didn’t he? And why is he letting you hold him down, making no effort to brush your hand from his hair or sit up as you watch him try to regulate his breathing?

Hell, he’s not even said a word. Quiet as a field mouse where he’s pressed down between your heeled shoes.

“You want to eat me out?” you murmur, leaning over your lap to study the side of his face in interest.

Satoru exhales sharply, and at first you think you might finally have him snared—a hunter’s high when the bullet rings loud and sharp in the air, the elation when their prey drops to the ground like a stone. But then he angles his head further to the side, twisting as though to catch your eye through the blindfold, and he smiles.

Smiles.

A scoff bursts from your throat before you can help it—an ugly sound, perfectly complementary to the resentful look smudged across your face.

Well.

You tried, at least. But it’s beyond clear that Satoru Gojo is a lost cause—a fool’s errand—and you are no such thing, not for him. No matter how much you desire to see his pale skin painted with deep red want as he pleads for your touch, pent-up and desperate, an orgasm withheld tenfold until he’s panting and whining, bucking his hips up to knock his dick uselessly against your leg—how he would tip his head back, baring the smooth, unmarked column of his neck for your teeth to sink into and… god.

Your imagination is painting cruel washes of colour over the pallid picture before you, and you bite your lip in frustration, yearning for some kind of restraint to resist being his fool. Shifting his knees slightly, Satoru hums thoughtfully and shatters the illusion your mind has conjured. The sound fills you with dread. Nothing good comes from his premeditated words.

“I’m not sure anymore…” he trails off. Does he sound breathless? No—he can’t, right? No. You’re the one who wants this. He’s just messing with you. “You’re being kind of mean to me.”

And now he’s pouting. The revered six-eyed sorcerer is pouting against the floorboards. You tighten your fingers in his hair, relishing how it makes him hiss at the sharp pricks of pain. Again you wonder, why hasn’t he put his Limitless back up?

The harsh treatment doesn't, however, stop him from barrelling forward.

“I have feelings you know! I’m not some sex doll you can push around however you like—although you’d probably love that, thinking about it now… you know, I can probably find a guy for you. I’m talking someone real shady. Under-the-table type of deals. All I have to do is put up one ad on Craigslist—’hot single in urgent need of a man who won’t talk back’—and the offers will come swarming in. It’ll be uncomfortable, but for you…” he laughs. “Just for you, I’ll bite the bullet if you’ll consider shelving this stunt indefinitely!”

His mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute, like it’s replaced his heart and is running to keep him alive. To pump the very blood around his body. You know he has it. Blood, that is. Your eyes flicker to the beads of it that are shifting on his lips as he speaks, hardly taking a breath between each sentence.

“Satoru,” you say, interrupting him impatiently. “Please shut the fuck up.”

He grins, all teeth. There’s a smear of red on them.

You stare down at him. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Satoru breathes through the ugly smile. “Probably. That would explain why I’m still hard, even with a psycho bending me over.”

You can’t even wipe the indignant expression from your face if you try, because your brain latches onto the fact that Satoru is still hard, and runs with it despite your protests. You try to form some kind of barb, a cruel insult at least—but you’re fighting a losing, bloody battle of the highest dishonour with yourself. You know every offensive and defensive move in your arsenal, and so you are defeated, your traitorous brain attempting once more to make the man underneath you submit.

“I’m the psycho?” you prompt.

He hums, his cheek still against the floorboards. You wonder if you’d be able to feel the reverberations of it under the soles of your feet were you not wearing heels.

“Huh, maybe you’re right,” you say, levelling your eyebrows and veiling the trepidation buzzing behind your features. “Hands behind your back.”

Your words are plain, and you hold your breath as he mulls over the request. His fingers flexing and flagging on the floorboards where his hands are tucked beneath his torso.

Please.

One of his hands moves to brace himself on the floor and you can feel the heat pulse in your core, expectant and hopeful, only to be slaughtered as easily as a curse in the face of his boundless power when he slowly pushes himself upright. He doesn’t dislodge the tight grip you maintain on his hair and you don’t bother trying to keep him pinned. Satoru has evidently decided he’s done with your little display of dominance and you can’t overpower him. Even if you wish fervently to have the ability to do so.

“I’m good, actually,” he says. Matter-of-factly and in a tone so chipper you want to strangle him just to hear his words wobble and break from the sure path they’re on. “But thank you.”

The flush you can feel creeping up your cheeks is humiliating, degrading you impossibly further when Satoru simply watches you. His face is an expressionless mask. Frustration wraps itself around you, coiling until you can’t breathe and you use your hold in his hair to shove him. Your palm forces his head to the side like it may give you a reprieve, but when you hand drops, his head simply swings back to face you a moment later. Bright eyes stare at you impassively, as though he’s watching a bug crawling by his stupid, shiny shoes. Too small to care about. Not worth the effort to catch, nor kill.

“Fuck you,” you say. But there is no anger in it, not anymore. You’re deflated, and the level tone you try to uphold barely masks the hurt you feel trembling through your words.

You’ve been a fool, after all.

Months spent convincing yourself 'one day’, while deluding yourself over scenarios that could never be—because you’re, well… you’re you, and Gojo Satoru is the Six Eyes. You’ve been kicking up circles of dust running from that very notion since the first time you slept with him.

“Come on,” he broaches, voice light as he shifts back to sit on his haunches more comfortably. “You still going to let me hit?”

You are nothing to him. You know that now—the ember is glowing bright and burning through you, sacrificial in every right—and you will only be saved if you are cleansed of Satoru.

“I’m done,” you mumble, eyes shifting to drink in the Tokyo skyline from your apartment. Thousands of minuscule lights flicker, each a person tangled in their cobweb of life as insignificant as your own. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.”

It’s ironic, really, that now seems to be the moment you’ve finally stunned Satoru. His mouth opens but no quick quip or joking response comes forth. He closes it again. You can see it in your periphery—the blinking lights call your name as you let your gaze drift over each building, every life, and the sun dipping slowly behind them.

“Hey,” he starts, voice guarded. “I thought this was all part of our give and take.”

An apology? No. An excuse? Hardly.

Of course he wouldn’t debase himself with atonement; you aren’t worth that. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Satoru apologise to anyone—not when he decimates acres of land fighting a curse, nor when he bumps into someone and knocks the coffee they held from their hand. Perhaps this should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. You inhale a deep breath.

“You take and take and take. There is no give with you— no—” you pause, eyes flitting over to Satoru but not lingering long enough to examine his expression before they drift back to the sunset. “I have nothing left to offer. You have wrung me dry.”

You don’t expect an immediate response. After all, when have you ever rejected his advances? When have you before had the courage to sever those threads trapping you both together? He may have a silver-tongue, but that does not mean he cannot falter.

“Okay.”

…okay?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you drag your attention to the man kneeling before you.

“Okay,” he repeats. “You want me to give or you leave.”

His tone is blunt, no trace of a question to be found where it should be. He’s got it wrong—as though reading the lines of your reaction backwards. Has Satoru ever tried to understand you?

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you say tiredly. “We’re done.”

We’re done.

You’ve never referred to what was going on between you and Satoru as we, and even as it rolls off your tongue, it feels strange; like an ill-fitting sheet with its seams stretched beyond repair just so that it may barely clutch onto the mattress. It feels fraudulent. But the words have been spoken and you cannot swallow them back.

“I can give.” Satoru implores, his large hands rest on his thighs, painting the very picture of composure.

“I don’t want what you offer.”

I want your submission.

You can’t say it, even now. Even with this goodbye between you forming the perfect stage for one last hurrah—an act he won’t forget. That he may even care about.

It won’t matter, you remind yourself.

The silence branches between you, pushing you further and further and further from Satoru with each passing second.

He won’t reply.

You have been his fool, through and through—played the part well enough one might think you’d been bred for such a role. Perhaps you do not want him to reply, because if he speaks, if he pushes, you don’t know what you will do—for better or worse. So, bringing your hands to the sofa underneath your thighs, you tense and begin to push yourself to stand—to leave—when Satoru moves all at once. Clumsy and disorganised in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Urgent in a way he never is. You pause.

Satoru shuffles forward on his knees, closer and closer, until he’s a hair’s breadth from your crossed legs. The peculiar twist of his mouth has your gut swooping, a foreboding feeling rising within you at the serious expression. The distrust must be plain across your face, but when you open your mouth to protest, he leans forward. Cautious, like the possibility of you striking him is a real one—like he wouldn’t just block you with his Limitless—and gently, he places his chin on your crossed knee.

You freeze, and the breath you were inhaling lodges in your throat.

A long, slender finger hooks under one side of his blindfold and lifts the corner up to reveal a wide, beseeching eye staring up at you. Your own widen in response. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He looks…

Harmless. Almost innocent.

And then, as if you’re not preoccupied worrying over whether in the time you were looking out the window, Satoru had been somehow possessed, he speaks.

“This is what you want, right?” His voice is so soft. “You want control.”

He’s demented. There’s no other explanation. Not as to why he’s kneeling in front of you like an entirely different person. Not as to why his tone and his stupidly big eyes have heat rushing to meet you like it never left. How does he know? All this time you believed him to be oblivious, he’s—

You have underestimated him. Again. He knew.

“You want me to beg,” he continues, his eye glued to yours. “To ask to touch you. To come.”

The leather sofa creaks underneath your fingers, where they curl nervously into the material.

“I…” you trail off, unsure as to what you’re even trying to say—what you even want to say.

The heat from his chin is leaching through your trousers, penetrating the layer of fabric and you fear it may scald your skin, marring it permanently. You can smell his cologne. He doesn’t let you breathe before uprooting your entire world—destroying the threads woven through you both that have kept you safe, that have kept him happy.

“Please,” he breathes. Breathes, not whines, because if Satoru Gojo just propped his chin on your knee, looked up at you with his pleading, blue eyes, and whined, you really would be convinced he’d been possessed.

The wave of heat that washes over you is so filthy you barely have the forethought to worry if Satoru can feel it radiating from you as you screw your eyes shut against it. Against his exposed eye and its analysing stare.

“Please.”

You choke on a sound at the back of your throat, scrabbling to keep it inside you. To not allow him to stoke the burgeoning fire threatening to engulf you. The smoke is thick and blinding. Why it has taken you near leaving for him to play along with a desire he’s clearly known about for god only knows how long baffles you.

You can’t think straight.

It’s like any semblance of logical, rational thought has fled you to safer grounds, abandoning you to deal with the consequences of your desires alone as though it’s what you deserve. Perhaps you do. Wanting to grind Satoru, a man who holds Six Eyes and the most powerful sorcerer the Earth has ever encountered, into mere dust beneath your heel cannot possibly be normal.

Gradually, as unassuming as the approaching tide, a sick curiosity calls out: would he let you? The urge to answer that question commandeers your mind, screaming and hollering for attention that you can’t help but grant it because… what if he does? Months of yearning for this very scenario are ploughing through your defences like they are no more than reeds swaying in a breeze. Is Satoru offering you a chance for the control you have been desperate for? What if this is it? Your one and only opportunity. A test.

Take the leap or never know.

Perhaps by permitting yourself to finally release the perverted desire—that which has simmered higher and higher each time you slept together—you may develop an addiction with no prospect of your next fix. But the screaming is reaching its peak—loud and distracting and you can’t think around the blaring curiosity to taste it regardless; to ruin your palette once and for all; to at least know. So you open your eyes again and unclench one of your fists from the leather sofa, raising it slowly, cautiously, to cup the side of his face and stroke your thumb over his cheekbone. Only then do you look into his eye.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft. Re-emboldened, you test the boundaries again. “Are you going to behave?”

Satoru leans his weight into your hand, so lightly you may not have noticed if your world hadn’t narrowed down to the sorcerer before you. He swallows before he speaks.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting on his knees and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before he lets it pop back out, slick and shiny with his spit. You can feel your heart thundering like a brewing storm in your chest. “I’ll behave for you.”

A switch has flipped. Satory hasn’t been this agreeable in any of the long years you’ve suffered his acquaintance, and you feel lightheaded knowing you may be the first person to see him like this. You nod, trying to disguise the way you shiver at the realisation.

“Hands behind your back.”

The blindfold slips back over his eye when he lets go of it, and you would mourn the loss of eye contact if not for how he immediately obeys. The pliancy sends you reeling. You want to see. Are his hands clenched? Relaxed? Fidgeting? But you stay. The novelty of your situation isn’t lost on you—the things you want to do to him are so great in number that it’s overwhelming. You’ve had practice, however; you’ve imagined Satoru like this enough times you may well have thought through every possibility as to how this night could go. You don’t hesitate.

“Good.”

He swallows.

Feeling suspicious would probably be a smart idea, one that would prepare you for the rug he may pull out from under your feet. Because the possibility that his actions are a means to an end or a new opportunity to laugh in your face before he flips you over and ploughs into you—like his submission was a mere hallucination—is real. But you can’t quite bring yourself to commit to the feeling for more than a few seconds before there’s an itch under your skin telling you to touch. Your other hand joins to cup his face, and you tilt his head away from your knee until his throat is entirely bared. His blindfolded eyes study the drab ceiling above you both.

“So pretty,” you mumble, eyes tracing the long line of his pale neck.

You want to lean forward and bite, but the night is young. There will be time. You do not have to rush something so precious. You must savour this like a woman on death row with her final meal.

Satoru’s mouth drops open slightly, baring his teeth, and you can see his chest rising and falling fast. Intrigued to test a hypothesis you’ve held close to your heart for months, you dip your thumbs down below his jaw and dig them into the soft skin there. He releases a breathy sort of ‘hah’ at the sensation, shifting again on his knees. You press harder, the skin turning white beneath your thumbs. His pulse is pounding, but it’s not enough—you want to hear him. Releasing the pressure, you study the irritated pink that frames two deep nail marks on either edge of his jaw.

Ever so slowly, your palms cup his nape and you drag your thumb nails down either side of his windpipe, hard enough to leave two trailing scratch marks. Satoru muffles a surprised noise that tapers off when your thumbs come to rest at the base of his throat, your hands collaring him.

Squeezing your hands against the base of his throat, you listen to how his breath chokes off at the pressure. The tip of his ears begin to redden as you hold his breath between two states. His mouth drops open further, desperate. You let go and listen to how he heaves in a deep breath before releasing it, controlled in an attempt to level his breathing. To keep the spots dotting his vision at bay. You can see the tears clumping at his lash line—a response no one can control in the face of being choked—but fuck, the power rush you feel as you study the tears threatening to spill over is hedonistic.

Slipping your fingers back up the sides of his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, you hook your thumbs underneath his blindfold and tug it off, dropping it on the ground by your feet. He doesn’t protest, eyes fluttering open. Leaning back in your chair, you sever the contact between you. After a few seconds, he drops his head down and looks at you, making a confused sound in the back of his throat.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks.

Is his voice hoarse, or is that your imagination?

No.

His voice is hoarse—rough with a desire you’ve instilled into him.

You quirk an eyebrow and Satoru flushes in response, eyes darting around where you sit. Wordlessly, you uncross your legs, stretching one out until your foot rests against his thigh.

“You don’t want something…” You drag the toe of your shoe up the inseam of his slacks, voice low. “More?”

“I…” Satoru swallows. “Yes.”

Lifting your foot, you press the point of your heel into the meat of his thigh, hard enough you’re sure the pressure must be uncomfortable. He doesn’t do more than clench his jaw. Your lips purse and you nod silently, content to wait.

The lull stretches between you, thick and sticky like sap gathering at the wound of a tree.

“Uhm,” he starts warily, “please?”

The corner of your lip twitches.

“Can you touch me?” he asks, voice firmer now at your reaction. “Please?”

Satoru sighs in relief when you remove your heel from his thigh, but the calm is quickly shattered when your leg extends further, the ball of your heeled-foot coming to rest on his cock as you press gently against it.

“Ow,” he gasps, but he doesn’t sound very pained at all. In fact, the red flush creeping across his nose bridge is all-too incriminating. You smile.

Running your fingers through your hair, you push it back from your face before straightening your barely-wrinkled clothes, steadfastly focusing your attention on anything but the man in front of you. It doesn’t take long for Satoru to squirm, and you only increase the pressure of your foot in response. He makes a strangled noise through his clenched jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for,” you say, tapping your nails on your thigh impatiently.

Satoru’s bright eyes flick between your own curiously. When you don’t say anything further, he lifts his hips into your foot slowly, watching you. A breath escapes him at the pressure. His eyebrows scrunch up in concentration and he reaches out a big hand to wrap around the back of your calf, forcing your foot forward as he begins to gently roll his hips. You let him—the effort is not yours to expend.

“Surely you can do better than this?” you ask when he continues his cautious, slow thrusts, voice bored.

He huffs, eyes flitting up to meet yours before focusing back on where the bright lacquer of your heel meets his dark slacks, and the arousal slowly bleeding through. The hand clutching your calf is uncomfortably warm, yet the tightening fingers and low moans on every thrust command your attention.

“To think that I’ve let you fuck me,” you say through a sigh.

Satoru bristles beneath you but the stutter of his hips gives him away. These cruel words you spill are a means of catharsis, months of bitterness rotted down to pure acidity—never would you have guessed he’d enjoy the taste.

“This is as humiliating for you as it is for me, Satoru.”

You’re lying—of course you’re lying. You would wear Satoru’s humiliation like a second skin if such a scientific feat were possible; something so intrinsically tied to your body it may never be taken from you. Satoru huffs a strained laugh, feigning indifference as though it could fool you.

“I’d hope— it is—” he says between pants.

Leaning further back on the chair, you spread your other leg, tracking how Satoru’s other hand is curled tight into a fist atop his thigh. Blood pools in his cheeks, infecting his face like a virus he can’t fight.

“Bearer of the Six Eyes,” you drawl, letting the words hang in the air between his pants before you continue, “humping my foot like a dog.”

“Haah— shut— up—” he spits between each sticky press of his crotch against your shoe, fingers digging into your calf painfully in punishment.

It’s filthy—the way his thighs strain in his slacks as he moves; the way his baby hairs stick to his forehead; the way Satoru bites his lip to contain his noises.

“Why have you resisted this for so long?”

Satoru doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you’ve asked him a question and your ego bruises. He’s too caught up in the chase of his high to bear you a second thought. You dig your foot into his cock cruelly.

Ignore me now.

“Oh fuck—” he gasps, his movements stuttering underneath you. “Ah— you’re— mean—”

You take in his reaction, humming. A moment passes before you deign to reply.

“I’m being mean?” you pout. “You seem to be enjoying it, though.”

Satoru moans aloud, harsh and tortured. You dig your foot in again just to hear his voice catch in his throat. The pace of his hips is frantic now, and he uncurls his fist, splaying it out on the wooden floor behind him so that he can roll into your foot faster, harder. Satoru’s head tips back at the new angle and he pants, open-mouthed, into the air. Barely-there moans escape on every exhale. You watch with fascination.

“You’re close, huh?” you tease, all-too pleased when Satoru nods his head rapidly.

“Yes— ah— yes.” His voice is thin and torn. Glassy eyes watch you carefully when he tips his head back down and you hum in recognition.

“I want you to say ‘thank you’ when you come.”

Satoru’s eyes flare wide, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, the roll of his hips grows unforgiving, his pace quick and punishing as he drives himself to the edge he’s so desperate for—the one that you’ve granted him. Enraptured, you increase the pressure on his cock, trapping it harder against his pelvis. Satoru groans as he ruts against your foot. The trembling wracking his body worsens, and he squeezes his eyes shut when his back bows towards you.

“Thank you,” he keens, mouth dropping open as he comes, hips still quietly rolling against your foot as he rides it out. “Thank you, thank you, haah— thank you, oh— thank—”

Leaning forward, you press your finger into his open mouth and pet it across his tongue to quiet him. His eyes flutter open to take in your dangerous grin.

Satoru is finally human like this. Mortal, even. Skin flushed and damp. Breaths coming short and fast. At last, you can reach him. Hooking your finger into his cheek, you drag him closer before he has a chance to calm, until you can feel the warmth of his feverish-panting on your chin.

“You’re welcome, Satoru.”

thank you for reading, reblogs are always super appreciated if you enjoyed! <3

✦ masterlist ✦ ao3 ✦

#mel writes #big man little dignity #s. gojo brainworms #sub jjk #sub gojo #sub gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #dom reader #sub character #fem reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo satoru x you

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codenance · 2 years ago

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Create your own Dating APP with Codenance's Tinder Clone PHP Sript

Looking for an instant solution to create a #Dating#App like #Tinder? Look no further. The #TinderCloneScript from #codenance is your perfect match!

With this script, you get all the features like Swipe, Match, #Chat & more already built in. Plus it’s highly customizable so that you can give your users an experience that stands out.

Help users to find their perfect match. Get flying with your own dating app today with #codenance!

#tinder #tinder app development #mobile app development #web development #web developers #trending #technology #it services #hire mobile app developers #dating app php SCRIPT

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businessadvisorrobert · 8 months ago

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Revenue Strategies for a Successful Tinder Clone App In the US

Many millennials didn't experience the ease of online dating in their youth, as the internet was not as widespread then as it is today.

If you’re a millennial entrepreneur reading this, you likely remember the days of stalking, writing letters, making personal sightings, and calling out names loudly as common dating practices.

If you want to recreate that nostalgic experience in the digital age, an app like Tinder is your best bet.

In this article, we'll explore key revenue factors for your business in the US using the Tinder clone app.

Let's start by examining its market value!

Market Value of a Tinder-Like App

The market value of an app similar to Tinder has reached $430 million and continues to grow daily. Over the past year, it has attracted 75 million monthly active users and 9.6 million subscribers. Tinder's revenue has hit $1.79 billion, marking a 9% increase from the previous year.

Let’s dive into the details in the blog! But we see the revenue, let's see why you need this potentially filled app.

Why Does Your Business Need Tinder Clone App?

When you have a business idea like connecting unfamiliar people and building a bond between two people, a robust platform is important. Let’s see how the Mobile dating app clone script fits your business idea.

Save Time on Coding

Dating has traditionally been an in-person experience, but it gained popularity with the rise of digital platforms. As these platforms became popular, numerous imitations quickly appeared on the market.

By using pre-built software, you can save significant coding time. You can easily customize this software by modifying the existing code, or you can seek assistance from developers if needed. This approach helps ensure that your app is ready to launch on the promised date.

Labor Savings

Inspired apps can be cost-effective. With just one developer, you can bring your vision to life, instead of needing two. This makes it more affordable to turn your idea into reality.

Saving on labour is important. If you were to build an app from scratch, you’d typically need a large development team. However, you don’t need to invest in a big team. The key is to hire smartly and efficiently.

Easy Update

With the capability provided by the creators, you can fully customize the Android dating app clone whenever you wish. Beyond just designing, you can also make updates to the application.

Having the ability to modify the source code allows you to set trends and keep the app current. Simply update the code to keep it aligned with modern developments.

Now, let’s jump to the pinpoint!

Monetisation Streams Of the Tinder Clone App

Revenue is a key for a business as it assists you get back the invested amount in the entrepreneurship. Let’s see the revenue factors!

Subscription Model

The subscription model is common in on-demand online platforms, offering users exclusive features and higher visibility in search results. Users can opt for monthly, quarterly, or annual plans.

Subscribers benefit from unlimited swipes, advanced search filters, high visibility, and an ad-free experience. Free users face limits on swipes and profile views.

This model helps users find matches quickly and generates revenue for the platform. Advanced filters and an ad-free experience enhance user satisfaction, making subscriptions a key revenue stream for apps like Tinder. It is one of the best models of all. Build it optimally and have high-end revenue-generating entrepreneurship!

Premium Features

The Premium feature offers users the flexibility to access specific enhancements without a subscription. For a one-time payment, users can unlock individual features as needed.

For instance, the ability to undo swipes helps users correct accidental actions. Advanced messaging options, like virtual gifts and animated stickers, make conversations more engaging and strengthen connections, potentially boosting revenue.

Additionally, some platforms provide advanced search filters for a one-time fee, allowing users to maintain privacy or access other specialized features.

Choose premium options that best suit your needs.

Advertisements

Online platforms often use advertisements as a key monetization strategy because they are an effective way to earn revenue. By allowing third parties to place ads on your platform, ensure that the ads are relevant to your audience to maintain their interest.

How Do Platforms Advertise Their Products?

Banner Ads: Displayed as images, these ads are non-intrusive and blend into the user’s screen time.

Interstitial Ads: These appear as full-screen ads that interrupt the user’s experience briefly.

Beyond traditional formats, apps can also utilize:

Sponsored Profiles: These feature prominent placements within the app.

Native Advertising: This type of ad integrates smoothly with the app’s design and content, offering a cohesive user experience without disrupting the flow.

This advertising model benefits both platform operators and third-party advertisers. To leverage this model, build a platform that supports various advertising formats.

Virtual Gifting

Dating apps leverage virtual gifting as a key revenue stream. Users can purchase and personalize virtual gifts to send to their loved ones, enhancing their experience and boosting the app’s revenue.

As users engage more with the platform, they seek improved experiences, making virtual gifting a significant driver of income. Many dating apps have implemented this model after Tinder utilised it efficiently. Make sure that you include this model and get a potential business.

Offline Promotion

Offline promotion is an emerging revenue stream popular in Tinder-like scripts. By enabling offline mode, your brand can reach a broader audience.

These features not only boost business growth but also help build a strong community. Enhancing the offline experience allows users to stay connected and engaged, fostering a dynamic and vibrant community.

Bottom Line,

This blog highlights the unique revenue system of an On-demand dating app clone app and explains why creating a Tinder clone script is a great idea. As mentioned earlier, now is an excellent time to start developing a dating app like Tinder using a dating script. Build an app that generates profits and plays a crucial role in your business growth.

If you have any questions, consider reaching out to an online dating app development company that offers a fully customizable Tinder clone app.

#tinder clone app #On-Demand Dating App Clone #Mobile Dating App Clone Script #Android Dating App clone

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businessadvis321 · 10 months ago

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Making Money with a Tinder Clone in the USA: An Easy Guide

The dating app industry is booming in the USA.

As per Statista's report, the revenue in the online dating market is projected to reach US$1.39bn in 2024 and is expected to reach a market volume of US$1.51bn by 2029.

Tinder, the popular dating app, has paved the way for countless others.

But what if you could create your dating app?

Think of a Tinder clone.

This blog will show you how you can make money with a Tinder clone, using simple steps.

Are you ready? That’s good, let’s dive in!

What is Tinder Clone?

A Tinder clone is a dating app development solution that mimics the popular dating app Tinder.

The solution comes up with similar features such as swiping left or right to like or dislike profiles, in-app messaging, and location-based matching.

By using a Tinder clone script, you can create a feature-rich dating app without starting from scratch.

Why Create a Tinder Clone?

The USA has a massive market for dating apps.

People are looking for love, friendship, or just a fun date.

With a Tinder clone, you can tap into this lucrative market.

Plus, you can customize the app to fit specific niches, such as LGBTQ+ dating, senior dating, or pet lover dating.

Considerable Revenue Streams for Your Tinder Clone

Creating a Tinder script is just the first step.

To make money, you need to know how to monetize it. Here are some effective ways:

1. Freemium Model

The freemium model is popular among dating apps. Users can download the app for free and access basic features. To unlock premium features, they need to pay. These features can include:

Unlimited swipes: Give users the ability to swipe as much as they want.

Boosts: Let users boost their profile to be seen by more people.

Super Likes: Allow users to show extra interest in a profile.

Rewind: Let users undo their last swipe.

The freemium model attracts a large user base, increasing the chances of conversion to premium users.

2. In-app Purchases

In-app purchases can also generate revenue.

You can sell virtual gifts, profile themes, or extra visibility. This approach allows users to enhance their experience without committing to a subscription.

3. Subscription Plans

Offering subscription plans is another way to make money. Users can pay a monthly, quarterly, or yearly fee for premium features. Different tiers can offer different benefits. For example:

Basic Plan: Access to unlimited swipes and a few boosts.

Gold Plan: More boosts, super likes, and profile visibility.

Platinum Plan: All features, plus priority customer support and advanced matching algorithms.

4. Advertising

Advertising is a significant revenue source. You can show ads to free users.

These ads can be from other apps, products, or services.

Partner with brands that align with your user base.

For example, a dating app could partner with local restaurants, bars, or event organizers.

Creating a Successful Tinder Clone

To make money with your Tinder clone, the app must be successful. Here are some tips to ensure success:

1. User-friendly Interface

First and foremost. Your dating app should be easy to use for your users.

A simple, intuitive design will keep users engaged.

Make sure the swiping and matching processes are smooth and error-free.

2. Robust Security

Security systems are crucial for dating apps.

Users need to trust that their data is safe with your app.

Implement strong security measures, such as encryption and two-factor authentication.

And, update the app regularly to fix any vulnerabilities.

3. Effective Matching Algorithm

A good matching algorithm is key to a successful dating app.

Nobody will use your app unless it offers potential matches.

Therefore, the algorithm should evaluate user preferences, interests, and location.

The better the matches, the more satisfied your users will be.

4. Engaging Features

Keep users engaged with fun and useful features. Aside from the basic swiping, consider adding:

Video Calls: Allow users to have virtual dates.

Icebreakers: Provide conversation starters to help users break the ice.

Events: Organize virtual or in-person events for users to meet.

All these efforts may go in vain if effective marketing is not in place. It is crucial to make your app known. Let’s discuss this topic further.

Marketing Your Tinder Clone

Once your app is ready, you need to market it effectively. Here’s how:

1. Social Media Marketing

Leverage social media platforms to reach your target audience.

Create engaging content, run ads, and interact with users.

Platforms like Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok are great for promoting your dating app.

2. Influencer Partnerships

Partner with influencers who resonate with your target market.

They can help spread the word about your app.

Influencers can create content, share their experiences, and encourage their followers to try the app.

3. Content Marketing

Create a blog or a YouTube channel to share dating tips, success stories, and app updates. This will help you build a community and attract new users.

4. Referral Programs

Encourage your users to refer their friends.

Offer incentives, such as free premium features or discounts on subscription plans, for successful referrals.

Analyzing and Optimizing

To keep making money, you need to analyze and optimize your app regularly. Track key metrics, such as user retention, engagement, and conversion rates. Use this data to make informed decisions and improve the app.

1. User Feedback

Listen to your users. Their feedback can provide valuable insights into what’s working and what needs improvement. Regularly update the app based on user suggestions.

2. A/B Testing

Conduct A/B tests to see what features or changes perform better. This helps you make data-driven decisions and improve the user experience.

3. Competitor Analysis

Keep an eye on your competitors. See what they’re doing well and where they’re lacking. Use this information to stay ahead of the game.

Conclusion

Creating a Tinder clone app in the USA is a lucrative venture. By using a Tinder clone script, you can develop an app quickly and start making money.

Focus on user experience, security, and effective marketing to ensure success.

With the right approach, your Tinder clone can attract a large user base and generate significant revenue.

So, why wait?

Start building your Tinder clone today and tap into the thriving dating app market in the USA.

Good luck!

#tinder clone #tinder clone app #tinder clone script #tinder script #business #entrepreneur #startup

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fireya-x · 8 months ago

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family dinner

AO3 Link (for the full tag list) || masterlist

John Price x Reader

John asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for one night, to save himself from annoying questions from his family. Turns out, you're actually who he really wants.

[9k+ words]

cw: smut, piv sex, cowgirl, handjobs, come eating

Embossed golden script on cream white card paper - it was an invitation to his grandmothers' birthday party, alright. A subtle attempt at elegance from a woman who thought tea and a tin of biscuits solved most problems. John sighed.

He already knew the drill; his mother, every aunt and uncle, cousins and second cousins twice removed would be there, armed to the teeth with baby pictures and probing questions to make him wish he’d stayed in another country in some godforsaken warzone.

The phone ringing cut through John’s meager dinner of takeout curry, one of his favorites, when he was back in his flat for a short time leave. He picked it up and answered before checking, as he usually did, expecting it to be Laswell – but that voice wasn't Kate.

“Jonathan, my dear boy, did you receive the invitation?” His grandmother’s voice was a robust cackle for her age, a force of nature that kept her so fit at ninety.

“Just held it in my hands seconds ago, Nan.”

“Ninety years young, can you believe it?”

“Never a dull moment,” he answered, picking at the takeaway container lid.

She laughed lightly, then cleared her throat. “Listen, dear. The caterer is extra fussy. Your opinion is special to me, you know that. It’s not like I get to plan this every day”

Here it comes.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m asking you what you want, John. I have everything else planned.” Of course she did.

“It’s your birthday, Nan. I’ll eat anything,” he sighed. “Toffee pudding can’t be missing from any birthday, though.”

“Of course, that’s a must! Especially with you visiting! You’ve always loved it as a little boy. Now tell me, is your girl more a partial to fish or chicken?”

The fork clattered onto the styrofoam. John almost choked.

“You’ll be bringing someone, aren’t you?”

He should have said no. He should have clarified, for the thousandth time, that his occupation left no room for romantic walks on the beach and candlelit dinners. Maintaining relationships wasn’t something John did, especially when his job included more explosions than birthday candles on her birthday cake. And apparently, eliminating terrorists and global threats was not a suitable substitute for great-grandchildren.

But there was something in her voice. Hope? Excitement to finally see her grandson with a woman at his side? It was her 90th birthday, after all. Who knew how long John would have her still? Seeing him happy was the greatest gift he could give her, and he knew that.

John sighed. “Yes, I will bring someone.”

That she didn't squeal was unexpected, but he knew his mother was right there with her, listening to everything.

Fuck.

What was he supposed to do? Try Tinder, maybe? How hard could it be to find a woman who’d go on a date with him? But John hated every single aspect of using his phone for anything other than texting and calling — and he gave up when the app asked him too many questions about himself.

That’s when he heard footsteps outside his apartment. He remembered that beautiful, chatty neighbor of his. You'd watched his flat and watered his plants a few times when he was deployed. You’d only met briefly, but given John’s sparsely decorated way of living, he wasn’t worried you would steal anything. But his grandmother's plants were something holy to him, and you kept them alive, and that made you a trustworthy person in his book.

And he would be lying if he didn't admit he'd stolen a glance at you here and there, always hidden in a hoodie or a way-too-big raincoat that obscured your figure, and something about it intrigued him.

Before his brain could even process what his feet were doing, he stumbled to the front door and opened it, revealing you, arms full of groceries, struggling to get the key into the door.

“Need help with that?” A low, grumbling voice startled you, and you almost dropped the bag full of fruits and veggies.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

John chuckled, then took the bag from you as if it was something he'd casually do all the time. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, putting the key in the lock. You took the bag from him and wanted to escape this awkward situation with your way-too-good-looking neighbor as fast as possible. But before you could close the door, he intervened.

“Hey, uh, I have a question.” John’s hand ran through his hair, a nervous gesture that betrayed his usual confidence.

“Yes?”

“I – I kinda promised my grandma that I’d bring a girlfriend to her 90th birthday party, and, well –”

“You don’t have one?” The question came out sounding more shocked than you intended. You were certain he had women lining up for him.

“Yeah, I mean, no, I don’t.” His gaze dropped to the floor for a fleeting moment, as if suddenly embarrassed by the admission. You tilted your head, looking at him expectantly.

“So, you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend? What’s in it for me?”

“Free fancy food?” He smiled crookedly, and you were done for. How could you say no to that smile? The same smile that had been haunting your thoughts ever since he’d given you his keys to his apartment? Your heart was pounding.

“It’s a date,” you said, the words slipping out before you could overthink it. The relief that flooded his eyes made something inside you flutter.

“Thank you, I owe you one. Six p.m. on Friday, alright?”

“What should I wear?”

John wasn’t prepared for that question. And he didn’t mean to check you out – but he did. His eyes wandered from your boots, over your hips, up to your breasts – where his gaze lingered a second too long— and then to your face.

“It’s a garden dinner. I’m sure you’ll look nice in anything,” he said, the words feeling ridiculously inadequate the moment they left his lips.

“Very helpful, thanks.” He braced himself for a sarcastic retort, but you chuckled, shaking your head. “I’ll figure it out. Have a nice evening.”

You retreated to your apartment, leaning back against the closed door, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your heart was still pounding. Did John, your neighbor, ask you out? The same John who seemed so unapproachable, wrapped in that aura of intensity he always wore, who disappeared for weeks on end to go on “business trips” and returned with a deep shadow under those blue eyes?

What did he even do when he disappeared? You'd never asked. Even when he'd given you his keys so you could look after his flat while he was gone, there was nothing that gave away what exactly he did or where he went.

The small conversations you’d shared had always been just that— small nothings, polite exchanges with your friendly neighbor. Still, those infrequent encounters always sent your stomach into a nervous frenzy.

You rummaged through your closet, trying to find something that screamed “I'm a cool, collected woman who casually dates mysteriously handsome men ” without looking like you’d overdone it. A garden party could literally mean anything, especially since you knew nothing about his family. Were you supposed to pick a nice, flowing dress or stick with casual jeans and a shirt? You had no idea.

You stopped your mind from spiralling further. It wasn’t a real date. It was a fake date .

What were you thinking, agreeing to this? You were doubting your own sanity — but then you remembered the crinkled corners of his eyes when he smiled, the warmth that radiated from him when he’d helped you with your groceries – saying “no” to him wasn’t even an option. There was something about him that drew you in, a gravitational pull you couldn’t resist, even if it meant playing pretend.

The sundress you wore – he couldn’t even pinpoint the colour, something soft and warm, summery, like the sky just before dusk – hugged your curves in all the right ways, the delicate straps showcasing the elegant line of your neck and collarbone. His gaze traced the gentle swell of your breasts beneath the thin fabric, the way the skirt flowed over your hips, his mind already picturing how it would look bunched up around your waist when –

Fuck.

A wave of heat - he knew it so well, yet hadn’t felt it in what seemed like forever - crashed over him, settled deep in his gut, tightening his muscles, making his cock twitch.

He shifted uncomfortably, desperately hoping you hadn’t noticed the way his pants suddenly felt about two sizes too small.

He’d usually never been one for flowery dresses and delicate gold jewellery like the earrings that decorated your ears. They clashed with the brutal reality of his world. But on you, it was devastating. You were an innocent, oblivious creature walking straight into his hardened, cynical world without even knowing it. And somehow, against all logic and years of self-preservation, he wanted to corrupt every part of you.

His gaze snapped to the flesh of your delicate thighs that left little to his imagination, those toned legs wrapped around his waist while he pulled you closer and –

Jesus fucking Christ, get a grip.

He forced himself to look away, clenching his jaw so hard he thought he’d pull a muscle.

This was his neighbour. You , who’d watered his plants, borrowed his toolbox, offered a smile whenever you met in the hallway. The one who’d agreed to this incredibly stupid idea. You were doing him a favour, for God’s sake.

“Ready?” He shoved the word out harsher than he’d intended, the sound completely alien to even his own ears. But before you could answer, he shut his door and ushered you towards the exit. He needed air. He’d preferred an ice bath, preferably yesterday.

You didn’t mind adapting to roles and play pretend at all, but as soon as you arrived at the estate, your confidence got humbled. The house was huge, and the driveway alone was already filled with floral arrangements and all sorts of birthday wishes – an enormous ninety made out of entirely blush pink roses and lavender decorated the front yard.

The garden party was in full swing already when you two arrived. The air buzzed with the sound of laughter and chatter, clinking glasses and the distant beat of a live band. John seemed oddly out of place in between the flowers and the brightly dressed guests, like a lone wolf who had been dragged to a tea party.

But as soon as you stepped further into the event, the warm air surrounding you, the scent of freshly cut grass and citrus, the smiling faces all around you, your anxiety about the whole thing lessened.

“Don’t worry too much," John's arm brushed against yours as you navigated through the clusters of guests. He reached out to grab two drinks from a passing waiter’s tray. “The worst they could do is show you my childhood photos.”

He offered you a drink, and you took it from him, smiling. “Somehow, that’s not as reassuring as you think it is.” You earned yourself a deep chuckle that rumbled through his chest and did decidedly inappropriate things to your equilibrium.

When John took your free hand into his like it was the most normal thing in the world, you felt like this was going to be the easiest task. For a fleeting moment, it was easy to forget you were living a lie.

Until dinner.

The seating arrangements were strategically orchestrated, it seemed, to maximize family bonding - or torture, you hadn’t decided which. You found yourself sitting between John, radiating a mix of polite restraint and his usual natural intensity that set your pulse racing, and a woman with the same kind eyes as him.

“This is my mother, Eleanor,” John had introduced her earlier, her smile so warm and welcoming you’d almost forgotten you were supposed to be playing a role. She seemed almost too impressed when you'd introduced yourself, as if she couldn't quite believe he was telling the truth about having a girlfriend.

You'd prove them wrong, not for their sake, but for your own growing satisfaction at seeing John surprised.

You were no stranger to the barrage of questions about your single status and lack of a partner from your own family, so you knew how tiresome it could get. You braced yourself for a similar interrogation.

Across the table, John's grandma beamed at you with a delight that melted your heart. You understood then what this was all about for him — fulfilling his grandmother's wish to see him happy, settled.

On impulse, you reached out to grab John’s hand beside yours, your fingers threading through his, offering him a reassuring smile, pretending to bring out your best I-am-so-in-love look you could muster.

He seemed taken aback, his entire body stiffening for a split second as if your touch were an electric shock. But then he recovered quickly, his fingers tightening around yours with a gentle pressure that sent goosebumps dancing up your arm. He raised your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against your knuckles that lingered a heartbeat too long.

Your breath caught in your throat, your gaze fixated on the curve of his lips, the way his beard scraped against your skin. Your stomach did a somersault, your senses flooded with a rush of longing that was as unexpected as it was undeniably thrilling.

“So,” John's aunt leaned across the table, her voice a bit too loud, as if intended to break the spell you’d fallen under. “What do you do?”

You blinked, momentarily disoriented, your gaze reluctantly leaving John’s hand and focusing on the plate of food a server had just placed before you. Shepherd's pie. But not just any shepherd’s pie. This looked like a culinary masterpiece compared to the frozen meals you were used to eating all the time.

“I work in healthcare,” you answered, your mouth already watering at the sight of the culinary heaven before you. “I’m an ER nurse.”

“Oh, wow,” his grandma chirped from across the table, her eyes twinkling with genuine interest. Her comment, however, was quickly drowned out by his aunt's next, slightly more probing, question.

“I'm amazed you two met with such busy schedules. To be fair,” she added with a sly smile directed at John, “I'm shocked Jonathan managed to find someone at all with his occupation .”

Your fork, laden with a generous portion of creamy mashed potatoes and perfectly seasoned mince, froze halfway to your mouth. Your earlier questions about the nature of John’s job came rushing back. What exactly did he do? You knew he was often away for extended periods, you even kept his plants from dying a slow death from time to time, but his reasons had always been vague. “Business trips,” he’d called them, with a shrug and that infuriatingly handsome smile.

“Right,” you managed, forcing a light laugh as you carefully set your fork back down, your appetite momentarily forgotten. “We make it work. We talk a lot on the phone."

“You do?” His mother, ever the perceptive one, turned to John, her brows raised in what you could only describe as disbelief. “How come you always tell us you can’t contact us?”

John cleared his throat and his hand reached for his beer, his fingers wrapping around the cold glass. “Kate makes some exceptions,” he explained, his gaze fixed on the drink.

Kate? Your mind scrambled for context, your internal “John’s-Life” file coming up short. “Kate” let him make exceptions? Who was Kate, and more importantly, what kind of job required someone to ask permission to make personal phone calls? And why did you feel jealous - you had absolutely no business to feel this way.

“Who’s Kate?” You asked, reaching for your champagne flute, unable to hide the accusatory edge creeping into your voice.

“My boss . Sort of.” The golden liquid got caught halfway in your throat. First name basis with his boss? His family knew his boss? So many questions came up, and you were slowly starting to panic. You were supposed to be a believable girlfriend, but you were scared the mask was slipping away by the second.

“Oh, right, Kate. Sorry, darling. You know how my weeks have been lately. It's a wonder I can remember my own name half the time.”

“She must be happy for you, too,” his mother commented, delicately spearing a piece of fish with a precision that made you suspect years of etiquette training lay beneath her impeccably polite facade. “Finding someone special, I mean. Might even spare her some of your, shall we say, moods .” She glanced at John, her eyebrows arched as if she was sharing a private joke with the entire table, except you.

Moods? You’d always found John to be quiet, reserved, perhaps a tad intimidating at times, but never moody.

You glanced at John, who was pointedly studying his plate, the faintest hint of a flush creeping up his neck. You wouldn't have thought the man capable of embarrassment. It made him seem unexpectedly human, and somehow even more attractive.

You were about to ask for clarification when Nan seized the conversational reins. “So, darlings,” she asked, her gaze moving back and forth between you and John, her smile widening expectantly, “How long have you two known each other?”

“I think six months?” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips.

At the exact same moment, John declared, “Almost a year now,” his voice deep and steady, completely contradicting your rushed estimation.

You froze. The silence that descended upon the table was deafening.

“Has it already been that long?” you exclaimed quickly, forcing a bright smile and injecting as much wonder and mock surprise into your voice as you could muster. You prayed that your sudden rush of amnesia would be enough to distract them from the giant, elephant-sized hole you’d just blown in your story. You reached over to slightly squeeze his hand. “I suppose time flies when you’re in love.”

You snuck a peek at John, expecting to see panic, maybe even annoyance, but what you found in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. He was watching you intensely. And that smile playing at the corner of his lips? It made something dangerous and delicious twist low in your belly.

“I believe that,” John’s grandma chimed in, her voice warm with the wisdom of nine decades lived. “You two are very lovely together.”

Eleanor nodded in agreement. “She’s good for you, Jonathan. Maybe having someone special to come home to will make those long missions away a little easier.”

"Speaking of which, how’s that new posting treating you, lad? Heard it’s a bit of a hot zone, eh?” John's uncle boomed across the table.

“It has its challenges,” John replied, taking a long sip of his beer as if to fortify himself for the inevitable round of inquiries. “But it’s good to be back in the field.”

You frowned. Field? Posting? What kind of job involved working in a “field”? And what exactly made it a “hot zone?” You felt more and more confused by the conversation, it was as if they spoke an entirely different language, a language riddled with code words and shared experiences you weren’t privy to.

“That I believe,” his uncle answered, also reaching for his beer as if to toast to a shared understanding. “Bet your rank will get you far, though.”

You felt John tense beside you, his hand tightening around yours, not letting go. His family's casual acceptance of his frequent — and apparently lengthy — disappearances made you increasingly curious. You knew by now he often travelled for work, but something about the way they spoke, the underlying thread of concern laced with pride, hinted at a world you were only just starting to glimpse.

“I imagine those long stretches apart must be difficult, darling,” John's aunt commented, her gaze fixed on you with a sympathy that only deepened your bewilderment. “But I’m sure you’re used to it by now, working in a hospital and all. Those long shifts must be a challenge, too.”

You smiled, still confused about what was going on—but you also saw an opportunity. It was time to take control of the narrative, to steer this conversation into a territory you could navigate — even if it meant bending the truth further than it had already been twisted.

“Speaking of long stretches,” you interjected, shooting John a look that was equal parts challenge and playful invitation. You’d gone from wanting to bolt to wanting to play this game, see how far you could push him, how convincingly you could both lie. “Remember that road trip we took last fall? The one where we got hopelessly lost in the Scottish Highlands and ended up sleeping in the car?”

As you spoke, you noticed that everyone else at the table had dived into their food, the initial round of introductions and polite inquiries fading into a comfortable murmur of conversation. Nan beamed at you both, her fork hovering over a generous slice of shepherd’s pie, her eyes twinkling with the quiet pleasure of seeing her grandson – even a pretend version of him – happy.

Beside you, John stiffened, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of surprise and what you could only interpret as wary amusement. “Ah, yes,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, like velvet draped over steel. “Scotland. Beautiful, isn’t it, love?”

“Beautiful?” you countered, tilting your head and letting out a soft laugh that you were fairly certain sounded far more genuine than it should have. You couldn’t help but admire his quick thinking, the way he effortlessly picked up on your cue and played along. “Those winding Highland roads. They were more treacherous than romantic, if I’m being honest. I was certain you were going to drive us straight off a cliff at least a dozen times.”

His smile widened, revealing a flash of teeth that made something deep inside you melt a little. “I assure you, love, my driving is impeccable. You were simply distracted.” His gaze lingered on your face for a beat too long.

A delicious warmth flooded your cheeks. “Distracted? I seem to recall you being the one with wandering eyes," you countered, your voice dropping to a low murmur as you met his gaze head-on. You weren’t sure if the heightened awareness you felt buzzing between you was a product of the lies you were weaving or something more.

“That’s because you are quite the sight to behold, love,” he said, his voice husky, the words brushing against your senses like a caress.

You stared at him, your mind scrambling to process his words, their unexpected sincerity throwing you off balance. Had he just complemented you?

“You are—” He paused, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering on your chest. He didn’t even try to hide it. You held your breath, waiting, as the air thrummed with a sudden, unexpected intimacy.

“Breathtaking.”

What was he doing? you thought, your heart pounding. Was he still playing the part, or was there something more simmering beneath the surface? And why did the possibility excite you?

The air thickened, the sound of his family’s conversation fading into the background as the world seemed to shrink, the space between you charged with an energy that was impossible to ignore. You weren't sure if you wanted to laugh or lean across the table and kiss him senseless.

Just as you felt yourself leaning into that dangerous impulse, Eleanor cleared her throat delicately.

You both startled, like students caught whispering in the back of the classroom. John's cheeks, you noticed with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction, were flushed a faint shade of pink. Even a man like John wasn't immune to a mother's watchful gaze.

“Those rolls are delicious, dear,” Eleanor commented, and turned to you, her tone light but her eyes sharp with amusement. “Why don't you have one?”

You reached for a roll, suddenly starving, the earlier tension dissolving into a relieved chuckle as you caught John's eyes. He winked at you, a playful glint in his blue eyes. You winked back, feeling a warmth spread through you caused by the man sitting beside you, a man who, despite your best efforts to resist, was quickly becoming more than just a convenient prop in this game of play pretend.

You'd managed to escape the clutches of the dinner table without completely blowing your cover, even when, at some points, you weren’t so sure how nobody saw right through you. But then came the real challenge — mingling. The party had moved inside the house, and you were separated from John.

You silently cursed yourself for agreeing to this whole fabricated scenario. What if you told completely different stories to his relatives? What if someone asked you about his work, for God’s sake?

Glasses of port in hand, John’s extended family seemed very determined to catch up on months’ worth of news in one evening. You did your best to smile politely at every occasion, your inner monologue continuously reminding you to simply not say anything stupid.

Suddenly, a very chipper and well-dressed woman intruded on your personal space, waving her phone in front of your face. “You must be John’s girl!” she exclaimed, and before you could even answer, she swiped through numerous photos. “Look at her – isn't she adorable!”

You leaned in, attempting to make eye contact with the child in the photos while subtly taking a step back, her perfume a bit overwhelming. “Absolutely adorable,” you agreed, putting on a wide grin, and the woman beamed. “Oh, I can’t wait to see what children you and John will bring into this world. Aren’t they the greatest thing?”

Children? Your smile faltered. You opened your mouth to respond, to stammer out some vague response about “one step at a time”, but before you could even get a word out, the woman had moved on, already excitedly showing off her offspring to the next unsuspecting relative.

Note to self: Avoid eye contact with anyone holding a baby photo, you thought, your internal panic rising. This whole “fake girlfriend” thing was rapidly becoming a high-stakes obstacle course, and you weren’t sure you were agile enough to navigate it without falling flat on your face.

You were trying to reach John, a plate of sticky toffee pudding on your plate, wanting to show off that you were going to try his favorite dessert – when a booming voice cut through the chatter, catching your attention. “There he is!” A tall, older man with curly hair approached John and shook his hand with a force that could crush granite. “That last mission you pulled off? Absolute textbook. A captain leading his own task force? The old man would be bloody proud.”

John’s posture stiffened ever so slightly. “Cheers, uncle,” he responded, raising his glass, his gaze darting towards you for the briefest of moments.

Mission? Captain? Task force?

The people around you, completely oblivious to your internal meltdown, continued chatting, casually dropping words like “deployment,” “classified,” “weapons,” and all other sorts of military jargon as if they were discussing the weather.

Suddenly, everything fell into place.

All those late-night departures, when you heard heavy footsteps echo through your shared hallway; the vague explanations about “work trips” when you met him outside your apartment; those calls he received at odd hours, his voice tight, his tone clipped, echoing through your shared walls; those calls that always seemed to coincide with a breaking news report or some global crisis. John, your sweet, infuriatingly attractive, seemingly normal neighbor – was leading a deadly task force.

Not that it was any of your business what he did. He owed you nothing.

Then why did this feel like such a blow? That he didn’t tell you beforehand, throwing you into the midst of his family who were clearly all about that life, and leaving you in the dark, making a complete idiot of yourself?

You had been looking forward to trying the famous dessert all evening, but suddenly, your appetite completely vanished. The plate that you held suddenly felt as appealing as cold porridge.

“Everything alright, love?” John approached, noticing the shift in your mood.

You forced a smile, hoping it was convincing. “Peachy,” you replied. “Just, fascinating, hearing everyone’s stories.” You stabbed the pudding with your spoon, not sure where the feelings of anger came from.

You shoved the plate into his chest, forcing him to take it from you. “I just need some air.” You turned and made your way towards his Nan’s beautiful rose garden.

He’d lied to you.

Well, maybe not lied, exactly. Maybe it was the sudden awareness of the danger that shadowed his every move, who he really was, who he was compared to you.

You had every right to feel foolish, to even agree to such a stupid idea. But betrayal? You had no idea where it came from, it seemed like an overreach for a situation that had been, from the beginning, just a constructed lie.

Stepping out into the cool of the garden, you breathed a sigh of relief. The scent of flowers seemed to calm your racing mind a little, a welcome contrast to all the voices you just escaped. You found your way to a small bench underneath an old oak tree, sinking onto the cool wood, straightening your dress doing so.

You didn’t hear John approach, but then again, stealth was probably part of his many talents. You didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.

“Enjoying the party?” he asked, stopping right next to you, an arm leaning on the backrest of the bench.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, frustrated by all these emotions you were feeling. “Well, the food is excellent, your grandma is adorable, and I haven’t witnessed any international incidents first-hand - yet. So that’s a win, I guess?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, a welcome contrast to the tension that had been knotting your stomach ever since you’d pieced together the things about his life. You’d grown accustomed to that sound, to the way it rumbled deep in his chest, unexpectedly gentle for a man who, apparently, spent his days navigating a world far removed from yours.

He shifted slightly, settling beside you on the bench. You felt the heat radiating off him in the cool air of the evening, an awareness that lingered even though he wasn’t touching you.

“Look,” he began, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, a gesture that was strangely endearing on a man who usually was so confident. “My life –” He gestured vaguely towards the party, the house. The unspoken explanation – “ my life is a full-blown, military-grade soap opera ” – hung in the air between you.

“You know,” you interrupted him, turning to face him. “A little heads-up about what you do would have been nice. Especially that it’s such an important thing in your family.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. It wasn’t fair to throw you into that without a warning. I guess because it’s so normal to me, I just completely forgot about it.”

“I’m a nurse, I don’t really specialize in disarming bombs or whatever it is your uncles like to do for fun.”

He laughed then, a full, hearty laugh, that made your heart flutter faster in your chest.

“It’s not funny.” You said, looking away. “And I know I have absolutely no right to feel – ” you struggled to find the right word.

“To feel –?” he prompted, leaning a little closer.

“Disappointed,” you breathed. “It’s silly, I just felt like I was left out of inside jokes during dinner. I tried so hard to not let this lie slip, but it could have been so much easier if I had known.” You took a deep breath. “So, while I was keeping your plants alive," you added, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice, "You were out there doing what exactly? Neutralizing threats? Saving the world? I missed that chapter in the ‘Good Neighbor Handbook.’”

You couldn’t help the edge that crept into your voice. At first, it had just been a fun little game, a chance to play dress-up and enjoy delicious food. But now, now it felt different. You were, suddenly, uncomfortably aware of just how much you didn’t know about the man sitting beside you.

The silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the gentle chirping of crickets and the soft rustling of leaves overhead. John stared at you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

“You probably think I am a complete idiot,” you continued, the words tumbling out in a rush, a jumble of emotions you couldn’t quite decipher. “I'm sorry, I'm being absolutely dramatic –”

The words died on your lips as his hands shot out, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks with a touch that was both possessive and unexpectedly tender. His gaze held yours captive, those blue eyes burning with a fierce intensity that stole your breath away. And then, without a word, without warning, his mouth crashed down on yours.

His lips were hard, demanding, hungry, devouring yours as if he couldn’t get close enough, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, unyielding dance.

It was primal, raw, untamed. It was the kind of kiss that stripped away the pretence, obliterated the boundaries, and left you gasping for air, your mind reeling, your body aching for something you couldn’t name but craved with every fibre of your being.

Time seemed to stand still — the garden, the party, the lie — it all faded away. There was only the feel of his lips on yours, the light scrape of his beard against your skin. The taste of him was intoxicating, the heat of his body radiating off him in waves.

Eventually, he pulled back, his breath mingling with yours in the night air. His hands lingered, resting on your face, slightly tracing the lines of your jawline. His gaze was wild, eyes dark and burning into you with an intensity that made you want to melt into a puddle.

You stared back, your mind racing. This was the moment the lines blurred. There had been something there — you felt it. It was more than pretend, more than just playing a game. Desire. Interest. Even though you felt like you no longer knew this man at all, you wanted to get to know him all over again. Taste him, touch him — you blinked, trying to collect your thoughts.

“Would you prefer to leave?” John's hand, still warm from its possessive grip on your face, gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture both intimate and oddly reassuring.

You shook your head. “It’s your grandma's birthday. You can’t just leave because I feel uncomfortable.”

“I think we’ve both had enough of the party for one night,” he murmured, a quick smile flashing across his face. “I’m going to let her know you aren’t feeling too well. Alright?”

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against your cheek, then, with a low rumble, he whispered in your ear, “Wait here.”

In front of both your apartment doors, the silence was an awkwardly long stretch. It felt like you were both trying to understand what had just happened, unsure where to begin.

“So, um,” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that you found strangely endearing. “Thank you for coming.”

You nodded and smiled, “Of course. It was nice to get the dust off this dress again.”

He leaned towards you slowly, and your breath hitched. For one heart-stopping moment, you thought he might kiss you again – would he? Was what happened in the garden just an impulsive decision?

But he hesitated, the moment frozen, and there was something indecisive happening between you. But you didn’t mean to push, neither did he.

He cleared his throat and finally spoke. “Good night,” he said, his words careful, as if he were holding back from saying something else.

“Good night,” you echoed, your voice barely a whisper. The small hope that you'd taste him one more time evaporated.

You turned, your hand reaching for your door, keys almost to the lock, when strong hands grabbed you, spinning you around in a dizzying motion. Before you could even register what was happening, his lips were on yours again — silencing all those unspoken doubts and hesitations.

This was real. You felt it; your heart screamed it; the way his mouth was devouring yours, displaying a hunger and desire that shouted it from the rooftops.

Your hands tangled in his hair, holding on for dear life, as his tongue traced the seam of your lips with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. You felt the rumble of his groan against your mouth as he backed you against your apartment door, his body moulding against yours as if he was starving for the feel of you. You were breathless, lost in the heat of his touch, the way his hands roamed your back and finally settled on the curve of your ass.

You realized then that you had always dreamed of kissing this man, silently, secretly, whenever his eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long right there in the hallway. You’d always dismissed those fantasies as wishful thinking, but clearly, he’d been wanting the same.

You heard a click as the lock on your door was turned, and you felt as his hand fumbled with the doorknob behind your back – all while his lips were still on yours, occasionally wandering to kiss your jaw and giving you an opportunity to breathe. He cursed under his breath, and before you even processed what was happening, he shouldered the door open and pushed both of you back into the darkness of your apartment.

The familiar space of your home was suddenly transformed, and John's touch was the compass guiding you. He didn't release you, keeping you close to his body as if you might slip away. With a smooth movement, he shoved the door shut, tossing your keys somewhere onto the floor.

His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you up flush against him, the gasp that escaped your lips quickly swallowed by his next kiss. He carried you, your legs wrapped around his waist, until he reached your couch, where he gently laid you down, his body hovering over yours, his eyes devouring you, making you feel incredibly vulnerable.

The sofa dipped as he planted his knees left and right next to your legs, and he leaned to hover over you. You were both breathing hard, the only sound in the silent room. The only light illuminating you was the sliver of moonlight spilling through the window above.

“Is this still pretend?” you managed to whisper, your voice a shaky breath.

His eyes locked onto yours, the slight smirk on his face sending a thrill to your core. His hands moved to your hips, deliberately grinding them against his groin. You gasped as you felt the hardness of his arousal pressed against you, hyperaware of the thin fabric separating your most intimate parts.

“Fuck, no,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. He moved his hips again, his hands slowly but intentionally pushing up your dress.

Your skin felt like it was on fire; your head was spinning.

One of his hands moved up to the line of your dress, and with a rumble in his throat, he pulled the fabric aside, exposing the swell of your breasts to his hungry gaze.

His pupils dilated, his eyes dark and intense, as he stared at you like a starving man presented with a banquet. You'd never been so incredibly turned on, no man had ever made you feel this way— John’s simple gesture of delicately tracing the skin around your nipples made you moan so loudly you immediately threw a hand over your mouth, slightly embarrassed.

“No, let me hear it all. You sing so beautifully, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hand gently moving yours away, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and unexpected tenderness.

"John,” you breathed, your voice a shaky sigh.

“This bloody dress,” he groaned. “Wanted to rip it off you the second I saw you standing at my door.” His voice was raw, unfiltered – gone was the nice, gentle neighbor; this was the Captain coming through, the darker, more commanding side of him that should have scared you, but only served to intensify the desire swirling inside you. You wanted to know all about the man he left behind as soon as he stepped into this building.

“Every fuckin' time I saw you in the hallway, those quick hellos were never enough,” he confessed, one hand tightening on your hip, the other slowly trailing down your skin beneath the hem of your dress. His touch was agonizingly slow, leaving a trail of heat in its wake that made you lose your mind. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His words were so honest, it caught you off guard completely. It must have shown on your face right then, because he smiled in return. “Never thought I’d stand a chance," he admitted. "You always seemed out of reach.”

You frowned. “Out of reach?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Figured I’d never stand a chance against the queue of blokes lining up at your door.”

“John, what? A queue, for me?” You laughed, your disbelief genuine, gesturing towards yourself.

He sighed, sitting up, his fingers playing with the lace trim of your panties as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re beautiful, and tonight, I learned it’s inside and out. You're you, and that's fuckin’ wonderful."

You shook your head in disbelief. His words made your entire body tremble. He wasn’t just looking at your body; he was seeing you. And it felt extraordinary.

He watched you intently, his eyes filled with a longing that mirrored your own. “I kept thinking about what you were hiding underneath those baggy clothes,” he confessed, his voice a husky whisper, his fingers slowly sliding your panties down your legs. He felt you shy away from him a little, a smirk on his face stole your breath, as he pushed your legs apart with his calloused hands. “Like I said, so beautiful.” He whispered, his voice so rough with what you could only describe as lust. It made you shiver.

“You know,” you whispered, “The funny thing is, I thought exactly the same.”

“What do you mean?” You watched as he slowly ran a hand along your thighs. A ragged breath escaped your lungs, and you struggled to continue speaking.

“You’re incredible – there’s no way you didn’t have someone to –”

“To what?” he asked, suddenly stopping his movements, his gaze intense. “Willing to take a chance on a bloke who doesn’t know a thing about flowers or romantic dinners? Who spends more time on planes than in his own flat? Whose idea of a good time involves dodging bullets and disarming explosives?” He let out a self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head.

He was being so completely honest with you, so vulnerable, it sent a sharp pang through your chest. He was seeing you – the real you, hidden beneath the baggy clothes and carefully constructed walls – and for the first time that night, you were truly seeing him . John, who looked like he could bench-press a small car, who radiated an aura of danger as naturally as he breathed.

He wasn’t some playboy who brought women home every other night, like you’d assumed. He could have any woman he wanted – and yet, here he was, his gaze tracing every inch of your naked body.

He liked you. He’d thought about you.

It felt surreal.

“Best decision I’ve made in a long time,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Asking you, I mean. Thinking I could never have you, and now –”

You held your breath, anticipation coiling in your stomach. “Now what?” you whispered.

“You’re mine.” He growled, and before your brain could even process what happened, his mouth was on your clit, kissing and sucking like he finally got to taste that delicious meal he was promised.

“Oh god–!” you moaned, your hands instinctively gripping his hair, your nails digging into his scalp. He moaned, and the vibration of it against your skin made your legs twitch uncontrollably.

John’s touch was relentless, his tongue swirling against your most sensitive flesh, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you that were unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. You arched against him, your hips bucking involuntarily, craving more of the delicious friction that was driving you to the edge of madness.

He seemed to sense your desperation, the way your body was begging for something more. He pulled back, his gaze meeting yours, his eyes dark with a possessiveness that both thrilled and terrified you. His hand replaced his tongue, fingers gently caressing your sensitive clit. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ hot.”

“John,” you breathed, you were speaking without any control over it.

“What do you need, love?” he asked, his voice thick with lust, his hand never ceasing its tormenting, exquisite torture against your aching core.

“I – I need –” You couldn't form the words. Your mind was blank, and your body was trembling with need that eclipsed all rational thought.

He seemed to understand, his gaze softening, a knowing smile curving his lips. He rose slightly, his hands moving towards the belt buckle, groaning as he released himself from the confines of his trousers.

He stepped out of his pants, the sound of fabric hitting the floor echoing in the sudden silence. His shirt followed shortly after, and you were captivated. His body was hard, sculpted muscle, his arousal straining against the fabric of his boxers, proof of the desire you'd awakened within him.

You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly peeled off his boxers, his gaze never leaving yours. His hand reached down, fisting himself, and your breath hitched at the sight.

“Still think you’re not attractive to me, love? Look what you’re doing to me,” he let his thumb slowly run over the head of his length, spreading the drop of pre-come that formed there, and he must have known it was teasing you, driving you mad. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded.

You opened your mouth to speak, to voice the desire that was burning through you with the force of a supernova, but the words caught in your throat. All you could manage was a whimper as your fingers were digging into the cushions, hips arching upwards, instinctively seeking out friction you craved.

You felt like if you couldn't have him, you might die.

“Uh-uh.” His hand reached forward to grab the soft flesh of your tits, one after the other, and his thumb brushed a teasing circle around your nipples, the pressure increasing just enough to make you gasp. "I said, tell me what you want.”

“You,” you confessed, the words torn from your very soul. “For God's sake, I fucking need you.”

John's gaze intensified, his eyes dark, and the corner of his mouth twitched, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. He loomed over you like a predator about to claim his prey. With a growl, he leaned down, pressing his mouth on yours, and you could feel his erection pressing between your folds.

One of his hands shot out, cupping the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair, holding you captive.

“You’re going to get everything you need, love,” he breathed, and followed by his promise, he entered you in a deliberately slow movement, almost torturous. He moaned, so raw and primal, it made you clench around him, and your entire body ignited as he filled you completely. His size, his heat, the intensity of the sensation – it sent your senses into overdrive, causing you to dig your nails into his back.

“Ohhh fuck,” you moaned, your voice a breathless whisper, lost in a world of sensation he'd created with his touch.

He paused, holding himself perfectly still within you, savoring the feel of your body clenching around him and the soft moans escaping your lips.

You whimpered, arching your hips up instinctively, desperate for more, aching for him to erase every thought, every doubt, every worry, with the overwhelming pleasure that throbbed between you.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine, and then he moved. Slowly at first, deliberately drawing out the sensation, his hips rocking against yours, each thrust a slow, agonizingly delicious torture that had you clinging to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails leaving trails of fire on his skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice tight with need as he buried himself deeper. “You're so fucking tight – so fucking wet.”

But even in the haze of pleasure, a primal instinct took over. He needed more. He rolled you both over, shifting his weight so that you were straddling his lap, your legs draped over his thighs, your core aligned perfectly with his arousal. He kept his eyes locked on yours as he reached for the hem of your dress, his fingers working quickly, impatiently, to free you from the loosely hanging fabric.

“Now,” his hands found your hips, guiding you closer, his thumbs stroking the sensitive flesh. “Ride me, love.”

You looked down at him, at the raw, unfiltered hunger in his eyes, the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath, and a surge of confidence, of pure, unadulterated lust, washed over you. You began to move, supporting your weight against him by running your hands through the light fur that dusted his chest.

His hands dug deeper into your skin as you increased the pace, moving faster, harder, riding his cock wildly, completely lost in the pleasure.

Every movement sent jolts of pleasure through you. He watched you, his gaze never leaving your face, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath as if he were hanging onto your every move.

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, his voice thick with approval. “Like that, love. Ride me hard.”

His words were a primal command, a challenge that sent a thrill through you, making you even bolder, even more daring. You leaned forward and kissed him, biting his lip, drawing a groan from him that resonated deep in your core.

He tasted of salt and desire, the scent of his arousal filling your senses, making you wild. His hands were guiding your movements, matching your intensity, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge of release.

With each thrust, you felt the coil of pleasure tighten inside you, building towards a crescendo that threatened to shatter you both. You moved faster, harder, your body driven by an instinct as old as time itself. His touch was a brand, marking you as his, and the possessive hunger in his eyes as you rode him, almost send you over the edge alone.

He was groaning now, his words a jumble of incoherent pleas and praises, his fingers digging into your flesh as he struggled to maintain control. You felt him tense, the muscles in his thighs and arms bunching beneath your touch, and you knew the storm was about to break.

“Don’t stop,” his voice was raw with need, his gaze burning into you as if he wanted to sear this moment into his soul. “Come for me, love. Let me feel you shatter."

And with one final, earth-shattering thrust, you did.

A shudder ripped through you, a wave of pleasure so intense it stole your breath away. Your walls clenched around him, a thousand tiny sparks of sensation exploding behind your eyelids. Your name tumbled from his lips, a breathless groan, as he held you tighter. You cried out, the sound swallowed by his eager mouth as he captured your lips in a desperate kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as wave after wave of pure bliss crashed over you, leaving you trembling, weak, utterly undone.

After you came down from your high, you watched him intently as he was also struggling on the edge of release. Driven by need and desire, you slowly let his cock slip out of you. He made a sound that sounded animalistic, a groan, low and deep in his chest, an expression of frustration. Your hand moved instantly, your fingers finding his length, circling him, stroking him with a deliberate, unhurried rhythm. Your fingertips traced a feather-light path up the underside of his shaft, lingering at the sensitive ridge just below the head before gliding back down to the base, your thumb brushing teasingly against the swollen vein that pulsed with his arousal.

His head fell back against the cushions, his eyes closed, a ragged breath escaping his lips as you continued to tease him, your touch the only cure for his aching need. You watched him, mesmerized by the play of muscle beneath your hand, the raw power he embodied even at that moment of vulnerability.

“I can't –” His fingers dug into the cushions, his body tensing as if fighting against the tide of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm him.

You smiled. The power thrumming between you was intoxicating, addictive. “Can’t what, John?” you whispered, leaning in, your lips trailing a teasing path along the hard planes of his stomach. “Can’t hold back anymore?”

His answer was a strangled groan. His body went rigid, and the wave of pleasure that followed was written all over his face. His hand shot out, not to stop you, but to grip your wrist. His fingers tightened around it, his control started slipping, shattering, as his release washed over him.

You whispered small praises, and watched, fascinated, as his release spurted over your hand in hot, pulsing bursts. His hips were stuttering, his cock, hard, thick in your grasp, throbbed, and the remnants of his release felt warm against your skin. He was completely at your mercy.

You’d never felt this bold, this empowered, this reckless. Before you could overthink it, you raised your hand to your mouth and licked his come off of your fingers.

Your wish to taste him, it couldn’t get any more him than this. Salt, sweat, and something so uniquely his. It made your walls clench around nothing, sending a new wave of excitement through you.

John’s gaze snapped to yours, his eyes wide, a flicker of something dark and possessive flaring in their depths as he watched you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and reached out, his hand resting on your neck, his thumb slowly stroking along your pulse. “You’re something else, you know that, love?”

A nervous giggle escaped your lips. The sudden awareness of your actions, the intimacy of the moment, sent a wave of shyness washing over you. “I, uh,” you trailed off, averting your gaze, unable to meet the intensity burning in his eyes. Your cheeks burned, and you wanted to hide.

John’s hand shifted, his fingers tracing the curve of your jawline. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Don't shy away from me now, sweetheart,” he murmured and softly ran his thumbs over your lips. “Not after that.”

“That was –” You struggled to find the words, your thoughts were a mess. “I've never –”

“Never?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of him filling your senses, making you dizzy.

“Never been that bold,” you admitted, your gaze dropping to his lips, their fullness suddenly a source of endless fascination. “Or wanted someone so intensely.”

A dark smile spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with triumph and something that sent a delicious thrill through you. “Good,” he growled, the word a low rumble that vibrated through you. “Because you're mine now, love. And I'm not about to let you forget it.”

And then, before you could protest – not that you had any intention of doing so – his lips crashed down on yours. It wasn’t gentle. This kiss was a possession, a claiming, a wildfire consuming everything in its path. His hand shot out to grab your neck, holding you close to him.

This really wasn't pretend anymore.

#cod fanfic #ao3 fanfic #captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #call of duty #fanfiction #captain price x reader #john price #captain price #captain john price x oc #x female reader #cod smut #call of duty smut #captain john price smut #18+ mdni

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spiderhanzzz · 11 months ago

Text

"I'M FUCKING SPIDERMAN, BABY" — han jisung.

who would've guessed that the guy you've been texting on tinder is spiderman?

word count: 2.7k

pairings: spiderman!han x journalist intern!reader

genres: humor, fluff, slight angst, comfort, kind of fake dating???

warnings: swearing, drinking, han is referred to as peter, reader and han are both uni students, mentions of vomit and violence, mild injuries, lowkey blackmailing if u squint, no use of y/n & gender neutral reader, han calls reader "pretty" once, usage of "baby" and "sweetie" too

playlist: les childish gambino, dare gorillaz, novacane frank ocean, i bet you look good on the dancefloor arctic monkeys, making the bed olivia rodrigo

a/n: my first fic raaahh!!! >:3 so so excited for u 2 read all these crazy ideas swirling inside my head

“...whoever provides the information on Spider-Man’s real identity will receive a cash prize of $1,000 US dollars…”

Your gaze bores to the glow of your old crappy TV. You haven’t had the time nor funds to purchase a new one, given that your only employment at the moment is a journalistic internship. It’s a good agency, the same one reporting on screen right now, and you acknowledge how hard you had worked to get the position. Nevertheless, you wish you prioritized financial gain over prestige, because now you’re stuck in your run-down apartment in New York, investigating the biggest issues for no money at all.

So you guess it’s not that big of a deal that you have no leads on who the hell Spider-Man is. If any higher-ups scold you, you could just hit them with those snarky remarks you’ve kept in the back of your mind all this time. How do you expect incentive from me if you’re not even paying me? I’m writing all your scripts because everyone else is a damn deadbeat! Maybe then they’ll start appreciating you.

You released a heavy sigh. All this nonsense is giving you a permanent headache, and it doesn’t help that you spend most of your free time scrolling mindlessly on your phone, which lights up with a new text notification the moment you start thinking about it. Perhaps you’ve spent so much time on your phone it’s becoming a part of your brain?

Peter Han: hahah tbh im pretty busy this week, but i’ll let u know for sure :)

A light shade of embarrassment tints your face when you catch yourself smiling at the text message. Usually Peter— the cute guy you’ve been texting on Tinder— never uses any emoticons. In fact, he’s been acting pretty uninterested and dry with you, which wouldn’t bother you as much if it weren’t for the fact that you desperately need a date to your friend’s birthday party next week.

Despite your humiliatingly destitute lifestyle, you pride yourself for your unmatched abilities to blend into any crowd. So like any other New Yorker, you decided to surround yourself with upper class Manhattan socialites. They like you; they don’t need to know about your financial status.

But with great power comes great responsibility, and with great social life comes great expectations. Last week it was a certain Kate Spade wallet with the intentions to match with the whole group of girls, and the week before it was table manners at a European restaurant (how in the hell were you supposed to know which fork to use for a crème brûlée?) This week, though, they gave you the most impossible task of all: get a date.

And you would. Truly, you would. It’s not like you’re particularly unattractive or unlikeable or anything like that. It’s just that you haven’t dipped your toes into the dating pool since university started, and you’re too far gone now. Your peers are fluent in these unspoken rules of dating and you don’t even really know what a situationship is.

Thus why you’re acting a little bit too desperate with Peter.

As you draft a response to him— is it better to use two or three y’s in hey?— your train of thoughts are interrupted by a loud thud on your balcony, followed by a shadow of vibrant colours. Your couch is situated safely so you can see right out the window, but angled in a way that someone outside wouldn’t be able to see you inside. You found this hack on social media on a particularly paranoid rush of nerves and thanked whoever that person was every single night.

Hesitating for a minute, you consider your options: a) attempt to fight off whoever is in your building, b) run out and alert security, or b) pretend like you didn’t hear anything and pray you don’t see your own face on TV tomorrow instead of Spider-Man’s.

If you were acting rational you would have chosen the last option. After all, it’s New York— if there’s anything prevalent here, it’s crime. But you are just so fucking bored.

So you grab a baseball bat and swing open the window.

“Get the hell off my balcony, dude!”

To your surprise, you stand face to face with a pair of dangling Converse All-Stars (really dirty ones, too). In your spur of confusion you come to the conclusion that whoever is sitting above your flat has the ugliest red socks you’ve ever seen in your life.

“What the fuck, man?” The person exclaims. “You bruised my knee!”

“That sounds about right for messing with my place, no?” You say, stepping out onto the balcony to get a good look at the stranger.

Just when you think you couldn’t get more disoriented, you realize the man you’re looking up to is not a stranger at all. It’s none other than Peter Han, in a full on Spider-Man suit.

“Peter…?”

The stranger, AKA Peter, breathes out a nervous laugh, raking his hand through his messy hair. Cute, you think.

“I think you mistook me for someone else. I’m not Peter.”

“Okay…” You say dubiously. “Why are you wearing a Spider-Man suit then?”

“I’m a… uh… cosplayer?”

When his eyes meet yours, the truth sings: he’s been caught. Peter Han is Spider-Man.

He’s terrified, you can tell. You don’t blame him— you would be too in his position. But it’s not just the fact that you know now; it’s also the mischievous glint twinkling in your eyes. Just what the hell are you thinking about that could be so amusing right now?

“W-what’s that look for?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. Maniacal laughter bursts out of you like you’ve been possessed by the spirit of a circus clown, and you have to hold on to the balcony railing to stop yourself from falling over. “Oh, Peter, you naive little fool.”

Peter’s brows furrow in confusion. You mentally curse yourself for admiring how handsome he looks when he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m on the case to find out Spider-Man’s identity. Well, your identity, I guess.”

“You did not tell me that.”

“Yes, I did.” You cross your arms over your chest, shooting him a judgemental look. “You’d know that if you paid any attention to what I have to say.”

“Look, listen…” Peter braces his lean arms on the side of the window to lower himself on your balcony. Standing face to face, you note that he’s not as tall as you thought. “I know I haven’t been the warmest person to you, but I would literally get on my knees and beg for you to please not tell anyone about this.”

You hum in amusement, taking a step closer to him and raising your chin with undoubted sanguine. Like this, you’re almost the same height as him. “As tempting as that sounds, I’d rather have you doing something else for me.”

Peter chuckles in disbelief, eyes wandering to the sky as if to ask God what have I done to deserve this absolute nonsense? His palms rest upon your shoulders when he looks you dead in the eye and says, “You are not blackmailing me, sweetie.”

“That’s a lot of confidence for someone who has very blackmail-able secrets.”

“That’s not even a word!”

“Whatever.” You peel away his hands from your shoulders, straightening your posture and pulling your shoulders back. Peter faces you with a puzzled gaze as you offer him your hand, clearing your throat and stating, “Peter Han, I would like to make a deal with you.”

He doesn’t move. “And that is…?”

“Date me.” Seeing his face contort into an even deeper state of befuddlement, you follow up with elaboration. “One date to a party next week, and just a few meet-ups and texts to prove that our relationship is going strong. In return, I’ll pretend this whole exchange never happened.”

You’re both silent for what feels like hours, eyes fighting a silent mental battle, until Peter’s rough palms finally envelop your own. You’re aware of how crazy and delusional you sound, but you swear he pulls you in just a little bit closer.

“Deal.”

It’s your third year in the city, and you’re still not fully familiarized with the parties. Contrary to your expectations of drunk sweaty bodies dancing up on each other, your friends’ definition of parties consists of low warm lighting embracing their glittered luxury brand dresses as they swirl their fancy little martinis and cosmopolitans. You appreciate it, really, since you don’t have to use up your voice every other night just to shout over the deafening electronic music. However it’s much harder to appreciate the pressure it puts on you to behave a certain way— dance like nobody’s watching, but be aware that they are.

As you slowly walk to approach your friends (rule #32: no running in public spaces, you’ll look like an idiot) you feel a large hand brush softly against your waist. You turn to face your date for the night, warmth creeping up your cheeks as you take in his appearance. The only suit he’s wearing now is an all-black tuxedo with no tie, the first three buttons of his shirt opened. His black hair is brushed down smoothly, pieces of it falling just right to frame his glowing face.

“You clean up well,” you remark, circling your arm in his as you guide him towards the bar where your friends are sitting.

“I could say the same to you, pretty.” With the sleek black shoes he’s wearing, he’s a few inches taller. Slightly looking down on you, he gives you a subtle wink.

God, he’s such a heartthrob.

Your friends round up to give you hugs and kisses to welcome your presence, ever so politely. One of them acknowledges Peter’s companionship. “You must be the date.”

“That I am.” Peter returns the approach, showing off his adorably heart-shaped smile. “Peter Han, pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of the night runs as it does in your dreams the night before. By the time you had arrived, your friends were already buzzed enough to pay no mind to the way the leather is peeling off your only pair of formal shoes nor to the typo on your fake branded bag. Just the way it’s supposed to be.

Peter doesn’t leave your side the entire night, only lifting his arm around your waist to grab more drinks for the both of you. Occasionally you catch him absentmindedly rubbing your back, and occasionally you catch yourself wondering how someone who spends so much of his life fighting can be this gentle.

During a small bathroom break, one of your friends pulls you aside and whispers, “He looks at you like you hung the stars, you know.”

If you weren’t so swept up in the feeling of finally belonging under the subtle incandescence of a high-end bar in Manhattan, you would have noticed the way Peter’s eyes darken when he read a notification off his phone, or the way his lips press into a tight line when he gazes at you, laughing your heart away amongst your friends.

So you’re nothing short of confounded when he wraps his arms around your waist and leans down to mumble, “Baby, I have to go, there’s a work emergency. I’ll catch you later, alright?”

Your friends bid him farewell and you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, immediately turning away when you feel his body tense. When he walks out the door, you keep your eyes focused on how his soft hair loses its shimmer as he walks out into the night.

And you try to enjoy the warm liquid pouring down your throat for the fifth time tonight, savoring the way you can almost taste a bit of yourself pull away from reality each time, knowing at least one of the people around you will walk away tonight asking, “don’t you think that Peter is a bit cold?”

You sit on the edge of your balcony, something you never do unless you’re going through an existential crisis or drunk off your ass. Tonight it’s both. As usual, the distant sirens and exclamations of curses wrap a tight band around your head. You’re dizzy; either from the alcohol or situation or both.

The ocean of fluorescent lights from the streets of Queens drift your mind to recall just how you ended up here. Three years ago, you were a fresh high school graduate with a million opportunities in front of you. Now you’re broke and rely too much on the validation of your non-broke friends to fulfill the void inside you. The thought of eventually having nobody but yourself after you graduate makes you wanna vomit on a passerby’s head.

“Hey, baby.” A particularly resonant voice startles you out of your thoughts. Peter is swinging from your balcony railing, a pair of gray sweatpants and zip-up jacket slung over his Spider-Man suit. “Sorry for ditching early. I got pizza and flowers to make it up to you, though.”

He swings himself to sit down next to you, placing the box of pizza and bouquet in front of your crossed legs. When he pulls his mask over his head to remove it, your eyes glance over his cuts and bruises. They definitely weren’t there earlier.

“What happened?” You unconsciously bring a hand up to his face, brushing your knuckles tenderly over the sensitive areas. It’s only when he winces that you drop your hand back down to your lap.

“Some guy tried to rob a bank.” Peter shrugged, refusing to meet your gaze. “Turns out he brought a bunch of other guys to back him up.”

“Did you win, at least?”

Though his face is turned down, you can see Peter’s eyes crinkle into a smile underneath his tousled hair. “Yeah, ‘course I did. Who do you think I am, a loser? I’m fucking Spider-Man, baby.”

Ten minutes later you’re seated face to face, still on your balcony, with you dabbing a cotton pad onto his injuries. No words were exchanged; you just went in and out to grab your emergency medical kit and grabbed him by the chin. The pizza box is left unattended, but neither of you care much about the hunger puncturing your insides.

“Why do you look so down?” Peter inquires as you place a Hello Kitty bandaid on his cheekbone, giggling breathlessly as you do so.

“Do I?”

“Yeah.” He brings his own hand up to your face, brushing away the strands of your hair on your forehead. “I mean, you’re smiling now, but your eyes have this sadness to them. So, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

What the actual fuck? It literally takes you every nerve in your body to fight the urge to propose to this man right then and there.

“Hey, come on,” he urges, delicately pulling your face an inch closer to his. His thumbs run down your flushed cheeks, and it takes you a while to notice he’s brushing away your tears. “I said talk to me.”

“Well, you’ve probably already noticed that I’m different from my friends.” You wrap your fingers around his wrists. “I guess I thought I could pull off the whole socialite act, but I’m starting to feel so…”

When you can’t find the words, Peter finds them for you. “Lost?”

He presses his forehead to yours as you nod softly. “This might not be the best time, but I think you’re a star.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you shine the brightest amongst everyone else’s shadow. And your friends probably see you that way too. Also that I really, really want to take you out on a real date.”

“You were right, it’s terrible timing.” You fake pout, pretending as if your heart didn’t skip a beat at his words.

“Sorry, sorry!” Peter laughs, setting distance between the two of you once again. There is no inclination to pull him back, though; the space devoid of someone else finally feels comfortable.

“My answer is yes, by the way, you can take me out on a real date. Unfortunately no blackmail this time, though, I think I'm gonna quit that dumb internship.”

Both of you share a fit of affectionate laughter. The temperate scent of food merges with that of the flowers and caresses your senses as Peter opens the box of pizza. “If they ever make fun of you for not being rich, we can always stage one of them as Spider-Man. We'll even get $1,000 from it, then you'll actually be rich."

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Spidey.”

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