#this will be the last one for a while i think | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ghouljams · 2 days ago

Text

Date Needed For Easter Reunion. Desperate.

Rating: E Words: 23.6k Tags: Soap x f!reader, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, unreliable narrator, unstable!reader, self-inflicted brainwashing, gaslighting, manipulation, strangers -> ???, non/dub con, cnc, wrestling, Erectile Dysfunction, Catholicism, biting, marking, non-consensual kissing, non-consensual marriage, religious delusion, oral sex (f and m receiving), piv sex, craigslist meet-cute, dirty talk, implied stalking, mild kidnapping, implied past abuse, on the run!reader, Johnny has a traumatic brain injury, breeding kink, unsafe bdsm dynamics, non-consensual sub training, fingering, cockwarming, hand jobs

Summary: You need an escape plan and respond to an ad online looking for a date. John Mactavish doesn't exactly offer you freedom in exchange.

<-Date needed for Easter reunion. Desperate.

[casual encounters]

“I'm a recently discharged, disabled veteran(medical: TBI) who never had time to date but has a very nosey (very catholic) family that asks a lot of questions. My mam just wants to know someone is taking care of me (can take care of myself) so I may have lied to her and told her I was dating someone. Which is where you come in.

You are:

-single

-willing to lie

-looking for a holiday in Scotland

-able to sit through mass

I will pay you in:

-my mam's cooking (it's good)

-free trip to the highlands

-whatever you want to steal from my sister's closet

Date is needed for my family reunion on Holy Saturday so I can reassure people I’m not going to accidentally die alone in my flat.

You stare at the man across the table from you and try to catalogue his features. If you don’t break him down piecemeal then the weight of his good looks might cause you to buckle. Two eyes, electric blue. Staring at them too long forces your gaze to wander away from them to other parts of his face. Two lips, pink and quirked into a crooked smile, showing off slightly discolored teeth. Coffee, you think, glancing down at his steaming cup. Your eyes drift up to his again, and again you find them drifting away. One bold pink scar at his temple, star shaped and cutting through his closely shaved hair in a single jagged slice. Your eyes linger on it until he reaches, almost sheepishly, to touch the thing.

“Aye, let’s get that out of the way first.” John agrees with your silent staring. You shake your head and focus on his eyes again, on the slight crease between his brow that speaks of unease.

“Oh, no it’s-” you hesitate on the words, “You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to, we can just ignore it.” He stares at you and you tack on, “I’m sorry for staring.”

“Nae the first person to stare, willnae be the last.” He hums. It feels like a reminder of sorts. For him you’re sure, but the familiarity of his tone makes you feel oddly… included.

“Does your-” You stop yourself from asking if his family stares, that feels a little too personal in a way that you can’t be with a stranger, “-Does your family already think you have a girlfriend?” You ask instead. John laughs and it’s so deep and throaty that it catches your breath in your chest.

“Aye, been tellin’ them I had you for a while now.” He nods, “Been dyin’ tae meet ya, but I kept putting it off.”

It’s your turn to nod. You understand that. It’s easier to keep a lie going than have a new one to tie together.

“Y’are a bonnie thing,” John mumbles, his lips catching against each other, his tongue weighted and his brows drawn low, he swallows before enunciating, “so sweet Ah cannae believe someone else hasnae sunk their teeth intae ya.”

You’ve held his gaze too long, the violent blue shivers and shakes, with the strain of staring back at you. You feel your left eye twitch and jerkingly look down at your folded hands on the table. The color of your knuckles looks thinner, strained by the clench of your fingers against the wood. Anything to keep the anxious shaking at bay. Impatient to get away from the public eye, but grateful for the chance to meet a stranger with so many witnesses.

Your brain tries to latch onto John’s… compliment, and you brush it off. The doctor had said traumatic brain injuries make people impulsive, make it harder for them to police what they’re saying and doing. You can’t hold it against him if his inside thoughts roll off his tongue into the outside.

Actually, you feel sort of bad for taking advantage of the guy. You need him more than he needs you. The quick escape he offers isn’t one you take lightly, and this ruse is more reliable than anything else. It’s just… he seems nice. The way he fusses with his jumper reminds you of a puppy trying to walk with shoes on for the first time. He’s big and uncoordinated in a way that you should find endearing. His hands shake, his fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as a way to divert the energy. He squeezes his fingers into a tight fist when he notices you staring.

“Another gift from the bullet that had me discharged.” He huffs, “Makes mah mam worry seein’ me shake, made mah captain worry too.” The words are bitter in his mouth and you meet his gaze against your better judgement. “S’why they tossed me, cannae have a trigger finger this itchy.”

“Your mum must love you a lot.” You offer, the words feel hollow in your mouth. What’s that like, you wonder, having a parent that cares enough about you to worry over something like the tremor in your hands?

John smiles, turns his gaze down to his fist and spreads his fingers out onto the table. It’s warm. The sort of expression that people with normal families have.

“Ah ken,” He shakes his head, “but she’s getting older, cannae have her running down to London for every doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh,” you frown, “that would be annoying.” Though you can’t say you aren’t envious. Had your family ever done the same for you? It was always a fight just to stay home from school, you know wouldn’t drop a thing for a doctor’s appointment much less driven across the country.

“Ahm a grown man, dinnae need mah mam fer mah PT.” John insists. “Mah sisters are bad enough with all their badgerin’ me.” He sighs. “They mean well, Ah s’ppose, shouldnae fault them tha’.”

“Well,” you falter. It’s more than just taking advantage of one guy, you’re conning an entire family just to get yourself out of a situation of your own making. He should find someone else, someone better suited for dealing with a family that so clearly cares about him. But he’s not going to, you need this. You plaster on a smile and tell him, “It’s good you’ve got me, we’ll convince them you’re doing better than ever.”

John’s eyes flick to yours and you get the distinct impression of someone looking through rather than at you. It sends a shiver down your spine and you scramble to explain yourself before John can call your bluff. “I’ll make sure to tell her how capable you are, I mean.” You supply. John nods, his smile cut by his teeth in a way that feigns sincerity better than your mother ever could.

“Gonna have to convince more than just mah mam and sisters,” he reminds you, “Plenty of kin for ya tae meet.” You must make a face because his smile grows to a size you’re sure must hurt his cheeks. “Got more than 50 people comin’ tae the reunion, more than that cannae take the time off for travel.”

You sit back in your chair with a rush of breath. Fifty? Fifty people. Fifty strangers you have to lie to for a whole day. Fifty names you’ll have to pretend to remember. Jesus.

“Jesus.” You mumble.

“Aye,” John hums, “it’s His doin’ that Mactavishes are a fertile brood.” The way he purrs it makes your stomach clench. You’re missing the context that haunts his voice, and you shake off the feeling in favor of changing the topic.

“So how long is the reunion?” It’s inelegant but it gets the job done. If John notices he doesn’t show it, immediately humming and bobbing his head like he’s trying to think. He crosses his arms over his chest and you’re struck by how big this guy is. Not uncoordinated then. John’s biceps strain against the bulk of his jumper, his broad chest squeezed between the trunks of his arms in a way that makes him look bulky. His shoulders roll back to a broad, square set that makes his neck seem thicker. You should get the impression that he’s putting on a show for you, but there’s no flex to his musculature, just the unquestionable presence of strength.

Strength that always seemed to haunt the silent wishes of every other man in your life, now personified and stripped of the authority to use it.

You swallow down the interest that slides to settle warm between your legs.

“I can drive up Friday night, then the reunion is Saturday, and Mass on Sunday.” He counts off eyes roaming around the shop. He-

Well, you don’t know how to describe it. John’s mood seems to change as quickly as the wind, his bright bubbling air turning teasing then wistful or purring and now this serious tone. Business-like where you would have sworn he was flirting with you. You glance at the scar on his temple, the pink seam of it seeming more obvious with each symptom that adds itself to the list. You wonder if he’s also forgetful, impulsive, if he’s prone to short tempers. You wonder how his vision is, and the thought of him driving suddenly makes you very nervous.

“I can drive.” You tell him quickly. He blinks at you and you find the air changed again, his expressions more open than you’ve seen even in children --perhaps that’s it, perhaps it’s not his mood changing so much as it is an openness that you’re not used to, you tell yourself he wears his heart on his sleeve, and find the thought somewhat relaxes you-- a gentle parting of his lips and soft raise of his brow that says you’ve caught him off guard.

“Ya wouldnae prefer flyin’?” He asks, and you cringe. You had mentioned in your emails that you were looking at flights, and he’d generously offered to compensate you. At the time you’d been eager to snatch up the opportunity, but now? Now the thought of leaving this man alone, with his shaking hands and poor vision, to drive for hours up to Glasgow felt wrong. You were already taking advantage of his need for a body to get yourself out of trouble, you couldn’t let him die in a road accident too.

“No, I-” You search for an inoffensive answer, something that doesn’t make you sound like the terrible person you are, “I think it would be better if we arrived together, right? Happy and in love?”

John studies you for a moment before pouting his lips briefly and nodding, he hadn’t considered that you suppose.

“Aye,” He says slowly before he tips his head ever so slightly, “an’ we are happy an’ in love people, aren’t we, hen?”

“Oh definitely,” You agree. There’s something nervous and fluttery in your chest at his tone. Something that squeezes tight and fawns before you can chase the feeling down. It makes him smile, and the wide toothy grin he fixes you with crooks your stomach as quickly as it crooks his lips.

“Then we’ll drive up together.” He agrees.

Despite the short notice you manage to get a hotel booked for Easter. It makes you feel a little slimy, squirms in your stomach oddly, but you plan on dipping out right after mass and leaving John with his family. If they’re as doting as he makes them out to be then he’ll have no trouble finding his way home. Besides, he already offered his car for the drive, so it’s not like he’s totally stranded. You made your peace with the sort of person you are long ago, you shouldn’t feel so bad leaving some disabled veteran in better hands.

It’ll be a nice little vacation in a beautiful place, you’ll do something touristy, and then start figuring out your new life. You don’t deserve the vacation, but you don’t deserve a lot of things. John does though, for all you’re sure he’s been through, so you make yourself happy to play house with him. At least he’s not bad to look at. You could do worse, and you have.

You’re almost surprised by how short the bus ride to his flat is. He’s so close-by but you’ve never run into him. You recognize one of the patisseries you pass and hesitate to continue the rest of your walk at the prospect of getting a slice of cake. You check your time and decide to stop in for a road trip snack. You can give John this kindness at least. You hope he likes sweets.

Of course your detour leaves knocking on John’s door feeling like a herculean task. You raise your fist and hold it there for what feels like ages, your mind running a million miles a minute trying to spin out all the worst case scenarios.

This is insane. Actually insane. You’re running off to Scotland with a man you don’t know to meet a family that might not even exist --though you did spend a good few hours googling the Mactavish clan and what do you know John’s face is front and center, along with his discharge notice (ouch)-- just to get away from- well, you know what you’re running from. No sense dwelling on it when you’re so close to your new life. You learned your lesson with the Austrian, you’ll get away from John as soon as you’re able to and disappear into the highlands. Maybe you’ll herd sheep.

You knock on the door with your confidence renewed and John pulls it open immediately, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled and his shirt on inside out. His breathing is haggard and you watch him quickly end a call with someone marked only by a skull emoji, the tinny voice on the other end sounds rough and unhappy before it’s cut off. John offers you an apologetic smile and scratches the back of his neck.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” He says by way of explanation.

“I, um-” you hold up the bag of biscuits, “I stopped for a snack, for the road.” You check your phone. “I’m only a few minutes late.”

“Right.” John shakes his head, blinking his eyes as his brows draw down, like he’s trying to clear it, “Sorry, that- of course you’re not late, why would you be late?” He trails off, muttering to himself as he turns and stalks back into his flat. He seems to remember you and turns back to the door. “Come in, Ahm just finishin’ packin’ up.”

“It’s just the weekend.” You tell him, shuffling into his flat. You keep close to the wall and try not to look like you’re looking around. It’s sparsely decorated. Honestly it reminds you of those “male living space” memes that float around occasionally. The guy has a folding chair set up at a card table and not much else. You try to tip your head to get a glance at the bedroom and catch the corner of a mattress set on the floor. You grimace at the thought.

You hear him muttering to himself and do your best not to eavesdrop too much. You’re sure he’s stressed about going to see his family, and you’re even more sure that living like this isn’t helping. Maybe his mum is right and he really does need the help. You feel that ever present pang of guilt start to gnaw at you at the thought. Fuck.

You’d read up a bit more on traumatic brain injuries --always eager to go the extra mile for someone else where you couldn’t for yourself-- and the idea that John had been living with virtually no support, his family a hundred miles away and his house barely fit for habitation, makes you really fucking sad. This guy probably lost everything he’d been working towards in the army, and now he’s living in this shitty flat with nobody around to care about him. And you’re taking advantage of his desperation to prove he isn’t the incapable man his mum is worried about in order to get a free trip and a new life. You’re really despicable.

Looking around though it’s pretty clear he isn’t taking care of himself. You don’t see any PT equipment or pictures, there’s not even a second chair or dishes in the sink. It’s like no one lives here. Even you had keepsakes tucked away in your “weekend” bag. John’s got a whole lot of nothing.

“Sorry,” John sighs, hefting a packed duffle bag over his shoulder, his entrance jolts you out of your thoughts and you nearly crush your biscuits in surprise, “movin’ y’ken?”

“Sorry?” you blink, “Moving?”

“Aye.” John nods, dropping his bag to rifle through it, he tugs a pillbox free and opens the Friday morning tab, shaking the couple tablets into his waiting palm. He takes the pills dry before zipping the bag. “Back up tae Glasgow, be closer to mah mam an’ all that.”

“Oh.” You feel heat burn your cheeks, that explains the empty apartment. Guilt pokes at you again, you’d put him in the same category as his mum, incapable of taking care of himself. God. Are you a bad person? You are. You know you are, but are you this sort of bad? The “tbi automatically means this guy is dysfunctional” kind of bad?

You didn’t think you were before all of this.

“That’s nice.” You cover. John hums as he stands.

“Isnae nice, means Ah’ll ‘ave ‘er breathin’ doon mah neck, taggin’ along tae the doctor like she’s ne’er seen mah heid on straight.” There’s no anger in his voice, just a gentle exasperation that reminds you of a pouting puppy. You cover your mouth to hide the smile it inspires. John flashes you a grin and you know you’ve been caught.

“Dunna be blate, laugh if ya want tae.” You let out a short giggle and cover it with a cough.

“Are you going to get less intelligible the closer we get to scotland?” You tease. Another smile, and a roll of John’s eyes.

“Aye ya ken mah mam’s gonna love ya, now yer actin’ out.” John grabs you and pulls you against his chest. The action is so familiar and affectionate that it makes you stiffen. Your stomach drops and you go rigid. Something shifts behind John’s eyes and you have to tighten more to keep tremors from running through you. Those bright blues feel electric, a flash of lightning before thunder, an unstoppable natural force that bears down on you with no warning but that quick burst of light. He doesn’t release you, and you can feel the pop of his shoulders as he rolls them, tipping his head to the side just enough to properly look down on you. He clicks his tongue and a shiver rushes down your spine.

“Relax hen,” it’s an unkind suggestion coated in false charm, “it’ll never fit if you’re wound this tight.”

“What- what?” You stutter, fingers shaking to find the right place to push to get him to let you go.

“Ah thought we were a happy loving couple,” John reminds you, “Cannae flinch like this.”

“Right.” You settle your hands against his chest and push. It’s like trying to move a brick wall. He barely budges, in fact you think his arms might tighten their hold on your waist.

“Got plenty of time tae get ya used tae me, yeah?” He hums, and leans closer. You duck your head to avoid meeting his gaze, or anything else, and feel his nose against your hair. He takes a long inhale and you squeeze your fingers into fists.

Impulsive, you remind yourself, he has a brain injury that makes him unable to control his impulses. That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.

“Do ah scare ya hen?” John’s voice rumbles so low in his chest that you feel it under your fingers. The question startles you enough to jolt you back to his gaze.

You’re free of his grasp as soon as you look up. John’s bent to grab his duffle off the floor and you have just enough room to catch your breath.

“Of course not.” You lie. You’ve dealt with far worse than an overly touchy man with a brain injury. Overly touchy men giving out brain injuries, for one.

“Good,” John nods, tugging his bag up over his shoulder, “We’ve got a long drive ahead, no sense gettin’ scared now.”

Right, the drive. You’d almost forgotten about it. At least you can rest easier knowing John’s probably not stupid enough to let his impulses take over if you’re driving.

John’s hand is on your thigh as soon as you get out of his garage. He barely moves it when you complain about not having room to shift gears. It’s big and warm and entirely too high on your leg to not be distracting. Your traitorous body reacts to it immediately, your pulse quickening as your cunt throbs. It’s been a while, but you still remember what it feels like to have a man touch you, and it feels an awful lot like the wide spread of John’s fingers across your thigh.

“So um,” You try to think of anything to talk about while John’s thumb rubs hot against your thigh, “we should probably get our story straight.”

“Told everyone the story already.” John says, and you struggle to find what that might mean. Is his hand moving higher on your thigh? You can’t keep your thoughts straight when he’s touching you like this. “Dating for six months, met in a coffee shop, you’ve been wanting to meet mah folks but time’s never been right.”

“Right.” You mumble, “John, um-”

“Johnny.” He cuts you off, “You call me Johnny.”

“Johnny,” You restart, “could you, uh, could you move your hand?” He gives your thigh a squeeze so tight it almost hurts, and slides his fingers up your thigh to rest just at the junction of your hip.

“Already know your lines,” he jokes, you think it’s a joke, God you hope it’s a joke, “Just gotta ask me if ya want somethin’, hen. Ahm a doting boyfriend after all.”

“Right.” You repeat, your knuckles creak with how tightly you grip the steering wheel.

His hand leaves you and your body reacts to the loss almost as violently as it had the initial touch. A chill crowds the space Johnny’s hand used to be, and threatens to wrack through your spine. You squeeze your thighs together quietly. It’s fine, you’re fine. He said he’d start getting you used to being touched, that’s all it is.

“So what are you into?” You change the topic.

Johnny is silent for a while, so long that you chance a glance over at him. It makes you nervous taking your eyes off the road, but you lose a moment tracing the strong line of his nose as you watch his profile. He glances at you and you lock your eyes on the road again.

“Art.” He says finally. You nod. Art is good, you like art.

“What sort of art?” You prompt. You can’t fault him a stilted conversation you suppose, you did change the subject rather abruptly.

“Sketching,” he tells you, before thinking better of it, “pencils and charcoals. Never got into painting, too hard to take into the field.”

That must be it, it’s a reminder of his time in the military. You’re bringing up bad memories with such a simple question. You must have a talent for sticking your foot in your mouth if it’s this easy for you to stumble upon touchy subjects.

“That makes sense.” You nod and attempt to end the conversation, “You’ll have to show me some of your sketches sometime.”

The shift in the air is immediate. Even in your periphery you can tell Johnny’s perked up at the idea.

“Really? You’d want tae see ‘em?”

“Of course,” You shrug, keeping your eyes forward, “I like art.”

“Maybe ya could pose fer me sometime,” Johnny grins. “Ah’d make sure ya looked as bonnie as ya dae now.”

You laugh at the compliment, a weak attempt at covering your discomfort. You don’t need any buttering up, the false affection of it rings so hollow in your ears that it’s almost painful. It’s an unwanted politeness, an engagement in the conversation that makes you sick at the thought of engaging with. You don’t need to see yourself in graphite, it’s bad enough seeing yourself in the mirror.

“Or maybe ah’d draw ya nude,” Johnny muses and you shut your mouth hard enough to hear your teeth click. “That’d be braw.” He hums, looking out the window, “Could have ya spread those bonnie legs and show me yer cunt. Ah’d make sure tae get real close and get a good look, talk tae ‘er real nice ‘til she’s drippin fer me, no fun drawing’ ‘er dry.”

Your eyes flick to him, your chest tight. He’s looking out the window, his chin cradled in his hand, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You could almost believe you imagined it, but there were too many words, too detailed, to delude yourself into thinking you’d misheard the rumble of the engine.

You press your thighs together, fix your eyes on the road, try to ignore the man in the seat beside you. What are you supposed to say? Do you say anything? Is he hoping you’ll pull over and open your legs, pull his head between them and let him make good on his desire to talk to your pussy?

The thought sends a shiver through you. You can’t say if it’s good or bad but it certainly catches Johnny’s attention to see you shudder. His teeth flash in the sun, and you know you’ve been caught.

“Aw hen, ya like when Ah talk like that?” His hand finds your thigh again, too high for you to mistake it as anything but what it is, a promise, “Ya want me tae tell ya how good ah am with mah tongue? Or are ya wet just thinkin’ about it?” He’s leaned closer, his hand squeezing your thigh so tightly it hurts, his shadow taking up too much of your periphery. “Fuck ah can smell it on ya-” His hand jumps to cup your cunt, and you freeze, “-warm, wet, little cunt. Stupid little girl. Should’ve worn a skirt so Ah could stick mah fingers in that pussy of yers and have a taste.”

Your heart is beating out of your chest, your face burning as hot as the rest of your skin. He’s right, fuck he’s right. You’re aching, barely holding back from shifting in your seat and rocking against his searching fingers, all from a little dirty talk. You can’t open your mouth, can’t turn, can’t even move from the rigid position you’ve found yourself in, too scared that the barest twitch will make Johnny pounce,

And make the car crash.

You can’t be responsible for another death.

Johnny’s mouth opens, his body leaned far over the center console of the car (too far to survive a crash) and you feel his teeth scrape your neck.

Your body moves on its own, your shoulder jerks and you loosen your hand from the steering wheel to push him away. He goes willingly, laughing as he falls back into his seat and his hands leave you.

“Are you trying to kill us?” You demand, you can barely catch your breath, barely hold onto the boiling heat in the pit of your stomach.

“Ach, just havin’ some fun with ya hen,” He placates, “won’t it be easier holdin’ mah hand now that we’ve got that over with?”

You glare at the road and tamp down the heated humiliation that threatens to rise over you. No, you don’t think it will be. Especially not when you catch Johnny palming himself, and just know that’s the hand he’ll grab you with.

You can read the full fic here

#cod x reader #x reader #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #cod john mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #soap call of duty

786 notes · View notes

kurooh · 2 days ago

Text

keigo is unapologetically a whore when it comes to sending you voice notes. it’s a surprise every damn time—it could be the middle of the day, and you’ll press play, expecting a rant about something, only to for his pretty groans to reverberate through the earbuds.

your jaw drops, and a low heat begins to simmer in your stomach. after you’ve quickly scanned the area to make sure nobody’s around, you crank up the volume to the max and restart the note.

“god, fuuuck,” he moans, the word trembling on his lips, and it is just too easy to picture him right now. in your mind’s eye, you can see him leaning against a wall on the very top of a tall building, flushed cock in hand while he tries his hardest not to drop his phone. “i need you, baby. i need to bend you over right now and give you this dick.”

keigo shudders, and you can hear the ruffle of his agitated feathers in the background. his breaths come in both hot and heavy, crackling through the phone between each pinched gasp or moan.

“i - i know you’re gonna say i’m being dramatic, but god, you have no ideaaa,” each slick pump of his hand on his cock brings less relief than it is meant to, and you notice the frustration making its way through his dirty talk. “i can’t focus. all i’m able to think about is—nghhh, shit—is how goddamn pretty you look when you’re fucking me back.”

keigo takes a moment to drag in a shaky inhale, his nose whistling softly as he does so. your thighs squeeze together tightly, arousal pooling sticky and wet between them. just like he had intended, you’re hanging off every word, nearly sick with desire as you wait for more.

you think of him throwing his head back in that certain way that he does when he nearly sobs out your name, sounding broken and debauched all at once. god, he’s so damn shameless, sending you shit like this while he’s on patrol and you’re somewhere across the city. it’s hard to complain, though, with the way he spoils you—you almost begin to wonder what you did to deserve a four minute audio jam packed with noise.

“oh, oh fuck,” keigo whines, sounding like he’s nibbling at his chain, a nervous habit of his, “christ. you—you gotta tell me where you are, angel. i can’t handle this anymore, i really can’t.”

not far from the speaker, his feathers flick and shuffle, sounding more uncontrolled than before. “ughhh, i just wish you could see what you do to me. i’m crazy for you and sometimes it’s like you don’t even know it.”

he goes on to say something else, but it’s too crackly and muffled to understand. you shift in your seat, feeling hot all over—you’ve seen what you do to him, and is it a sight.

keigo’s cheeks always flush a rosy color, and when his body is tangled up with yours, it’s impossible for him to even attempt to mask his emotions. breaking down his daytime defenses and making a mess of him is satisfying in a way that is impossible to stop craving. on the other side of the phone, he probably looks even better than you could even imagine—golden and flushed in the afternoon sun, chain between his teeth, expression crumbling into one of absolute bliss.

you can hear the change in his breathing pattern, the way it becomes more stuttered and gasping, and you know your favorite part of the audio is coming soon. literally.

“—so close, i’m so fucking close,” a litany of moans spill out of his mouth, each one softer than the last. “all i want you to do is come here and take what’s yours, angel . . hah, i’m gonna cum—shit, ‘m gonna cum for you.”

you’ve got stars in your eyes as you mentally cheer him on, feeling your own arousal swell and rise in your chest like a tidal wave. thanks to keigo, you’re all hot and bothered in a café.

keigo falls apart just as a barista passes you with a coffee in hand, and you ride the high along with him. he sounds nothing short of beautiful as his groans dissolve into overstimulated gasps of your name and various pet names.

he chuckles, quaking with sensitivity. “there’s so much. if you were here, you might’ve choked,” he sighs dreamily, starry-eyed. “i’ve combed through this district and the next one over twice already. send me your location, angel.”

there’s some static and shuffling before you hear him shaking his wings out to get them ready for flying. “we’ve got plenty of time, if you’re fine with not being able to walk after. maybe i can drop you off at the house and we can take a quick shower there too.”

#kurooh #i need him #hawks smut #hawks x reader #hawks x you #mha smut #mha x reader #bnha smut #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha headcanons #smut #mha hawks

517 notes · View notes

leriexoxo · 3 days ago

Text

Wrong Place, Right Time

Bff! Hyunjin x Fem reader

Tags: friends to lovers, angst, smut, possessive best friend, sexual awakening, forbidden tension, oral (f, m receiving), praise kink, dom!hyunjin, corruption kink, emotional sex, jealousy, complicated love, voyeurism.

Word Count: 8.8k

Summary: You’ve known Hyunjin your whole life—tall, infuriating, and stupidly beautiful. He’s your best friend, your biggest headache, and the reason no guy ever stuck around. Because Hyunjin is everywhere. Too involved. Too protective. Too everything. And yet… never yours. He’s a player. A heartbreaker. The kind of guy who gets head at his own house parties while you crash on the couch downstairs. He doesn’t see you like that. Not you. You’ve always been the safe one. The exception.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Hyunjin had always said you didn’t belong at his parties.

He said it with a grin, every single time—one hand ruffling your hair, the other probably still smelling like some girl’s perfume. “You? No way. Too soft. You’d cry by midnight.”

You’d roll your eyes, toss a pillow at his stupidly perfect face, and mutter something like “Don’t flatter yourself” even though you both knew he always would.

You’d been best friends since before he got hot. Before the cheekbones sharpened and the jawline could cut glass. Before girls started whispering in class and giggling when he walked by. And definitely before Hyunjin turned into the kind of guy who could get away with murder as long as he looked good doing it.

Your friendship had survived everything—school, distance, jealousy, college. But it came with rules. Unspoken ones.

Rule one: Hyunjin could sleep with whoever he wanted, and you couldn’t say anything.

Rule two: You could date, theoretically—but not really. No guy ever stuck around long enough to matter.

Rule three: You didn’t ask about what happened at his parties, and he never let you come.

It worked. Sort of.

—

You were on his bed. Technically. You were half-sprawled on his floor, legs tangled in a blanket, your laptop propped against his dresser while Hyunjin sat cross-legged above you, lazily scrolling through TikToks with the volume off.

“Are you even watching this?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He looked down at you, hair a mess from where he’d flopped back earlier, shirt hanging off one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to exist properly.

“Nope,” he said.

“Then stop judging my taste.”

“I’m not judging,” he said. “I’m just silently suffering.”

You threw a rolled-up sock at his face. He caught it without looking. Showoff.

“Anyway,” you said, trying to focus, “I was thinking I could come stay over this weekend, so I’m thinking Friday night. Unless you’ve got some raging orgy planned.”

Hyunjin snorted. “You make it sound so scandalous.”

“Don’t you throw parties every Friday?”

“I throw gatherings.”

“With a body count.”

He didn’t even pretend to look ashamed. Just shrugged and leaned back on his elbows, stomach peeking through his shirt where it rode up.

You looked away. Not because you were embarrassed—just… used to it. That was the thing about Hyunjin. He was beautiful in a way you were supposed to stop noticing if you were around him long enough. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

“You’re not invited,” he said casually.

“Wow.”

“It’s not an insult,” he added quickly. “You just… wouldn’t like it. It gets intense.”

“I’m not a child, Hyunjin.”

He gave you a look that said he begged to differ.

“No offense, but the last time we went to a club, you ended up crying in the corner because some guy slapped your ass.”

“That was a valid response.”

“Sure.” He grinned. “Just proving my point.”

You glared at him, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. It was always like this with you two—him being overbearing, you pretending not to care. A push and pull that never went anywhere.

Except lately… it felt like it was going somewhere. Somewhere new. Somewhere you weren’t sure you wanted to go.

Like last week, when he came over after hooking up with someone new. He never told you names—just vague details and smirks—but that night he was weirdly quiet. He sat next to you on the couch, warm and flushed, smelling like sex and vanilla.

You’d tried not to notice. Tried not to care that his hair was still damp from the shower he’d taken before coming over.

You told yourself he was just Hyunjin. And you were just you. The best friend. The safe one.

That night, when you got back to your dorm, you couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth. Not because you wanted it—just… curiosity. It had looked swollen. Like someone had kissed him hard. Bitten him.

You’d closed your laptop, turned off the light, and lay there in the dark, wondering what it would feel like to be wanted like that. Even just once.

Not by him, of course. Just… in general.

—

That day on campus, you didn’t mean to get annoyed with him.

It was just a look. One single look across the quad, Hyunjin sprawled on the grass next to some girl whose laugh carried all the way across campus. She had her hand on his chest and her legs crossed just a little too tight, and he wasn’t even trying to be subtle. He was leaning into it, eyes half-lidded, lips tilted in that lazy, infuriating smirk that you’d seen way too many girls fall for.

He caught your eye just as you passed. And he winked.

Not a cute wink either. A you know exactly what I’m about to do to her wink. You hated that you understood it. Hated that it made your stomach twist the way it did. You weren’t jealous. You weren’t.

You just… wanted him to stop looking at you like you were still twelve years old and needed babysitting every time you wore lipstick.

So that night when he texted you as usual, you didn’t text him back.

You were brushing your teeth the next morning when he let himself into your dorm.

“I brought you coffee,” he announced like some kind of peace offering.

You rinsed, spat, and didn’t bother looking at him. “Why?”

He frowned. “Because you didn’t answer last night.”

You shrugged, too tired to fake cheer. “I was busy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “With what? You weren’t at the library. I checked.”

“You checked?”

“Yeah, I was in the area.”

You turned to face him, arms crossed. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?”

“Showing up. Keeping tabs. Acting like you own me.”

Hyunjin looked genuinely caught off guard. “I don’t—what are you talking about?”

“I’m not a kid, Hyunjin.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” you snapped. “Because sometimes it feels like you only see me as Minho’s little sister. Or that friend you have to protect. And maybe I’m just tired of that.”

He was quiet for a second, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup.

“You don’t want me to look out for you anymore?”

“No,” you said, voice quieter. “I just want to make my own choices. Even if they’re messy.”

He took a step closer, voice low now too. “Some messes aren’t worth it.”

You hated how your heart skipped at that. How close he was. How serious he looked.

“Maybe,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt. “But maybe it’s not your call to make.”

⸻

By Thursday, you’d made your decision.

You were going to his party.

He hadn’t invited you—of course he hadn’t—but you’d heard it through your mutuals. Same time, same house, same rules: first floor for fun, second floor off-limits unless you were invited.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what happened upstairs.

You weren’t going to go up there. You weren’t going to look for him. You were just going to be there. Exist in his world for once without asking permission.

So you got dressed in something a little riskier than usual—tight black jeans, a halter top that made you feel powerful, mascara that made your lashes look dangerous. You even curled your hair. When you looked in the mirror, you didn’t see his best friend.

You saw a girl he didn’t know how to look at yet.

The house was packed when you arrived.

Music throbbed through the floorboards, bass shaking your bones as you pushed through the crowd. Bodies swayed, drinks sloshed, someone bumped into you hard and muttered an apology. You smiled, told yourself this was what freedom felt like.

You kept your head high as you walked through the haze of perfume and weed and laughter. Eyes followed you. Some familiar, some not. You ignored them.

You didn’t see Hyunjin at first. Just his world. The girls in too-short dresses clinging to the staircase banister, the guys on the couch shouting at a drinking game. You wondered which of them he’d kissed already. Which ones he would kiss tonight.

You were halfway through your second drink when you finally saw him—on the far side of the room, lounging back in a chair like a king at his own damn court. His legs spread, arm draped over the back of the couch, surrounded by people but still so obviously bored.

Until he saw you.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. You couldn’t hear him over the music, but his mouth formed your name.

You gave him a smile. Sweet. Defiant. And then you turned away.

He found you fifteen minutes later near the kitchen.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice tight, one hand curling around your arm.

“Enjoying myself,” you replied coolly.

“I told you not to come.”

“No, you said I wasn’t invited. That’s different.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Maybe I don’t care.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or something deeper. You couldn’t tell. You didn’t care.

“Go home,” he said quietly. Too quiet.

“No.”

“Why are you being like this?”

You leaned in, lips almost brushing his ear. “Why are you always trying to stop me from living?”

You pulled back, held his gaze for one long moment, then disappeared back into the crowd before he could stop you.

You didn’t see him again after that.

Not downstairs.

Not until much later. But then, you hadn’t meant to go upstairs.

The second floor was off-limits during parties, just like he always said—laced with invisible caution tape, a no-man’s land reserved for secrets and shadows and things you weren’t supposed to know about. But maybe it was the alcohol making you bold. Maybe it was pride. Or maybe it was something darker. Something bitter blooming in your chest since the moment Hyunjin pulled you aside and told you to leave.

You hadn’t left.

And now you were here—bare feet whispering over the hardwood, hand trailing lightly along the banister as the sounds of the party dulled below. The upstairs hallway smelled different. Not like beer and cologne, but something warmer. Skin. Sweat. A hint of vanilla, musk, and something faintly feminine—lip gloss and moans pressed into pillows.

The light from the bathroom spilled into the hallway.

You turned toward it—and then the world shifted.

Hyunjin stood there.

Leaning back against the bathroom wall, one hand planted flat beside him, the other tangled in the hair of the girl on her knees.

You froze mid-step.

Your breath caught and stayed there, suspended in your throat like it refused to move past what your eyes were seeing.

His head was tilted down, gaze heavy-lidded, mouth parted just enough to make you think he’d been groaning a second ago. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he’d been at this for a while—and was far from done.

The girl knelt between his legs, shoulders squared, hands resting against his thighs for balance as she bobbed steadily, deliberately.

Your eyes dropped—without permission, without thought—and the breath you’d been holding turned to ash in your lungs.

Oh my god.

Hyunjin’s dick—long, thick, flushed dark and wet near the head—was disappearing into her throat like she’d done it before. Like she knew exactly how to take it, how to breathe through her nose and relax her jaw, how to slide down slow and deep until her chin met his pelvis.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, your ears, your fingertips—like your whole body was blushing. Embarrassment, shock, something else entirely. You couldn’t look away. Your brain told you to. Your legs twitched like they were trying to backpedal. But your eyes stayed locked.

He looked up. Caught you. And didn’t stop.

No—he smirked.

It was slow. Sinful. Eyes half-lidded, arrogant and lazy, like he’d expected you to show up. Like this was a show and you were the audience of one.

His grip tightened in her hair, and she let out a choked whimper around him that made his cock twitch—you saw it. Felt it in your spine like it had happened to you. Then he pushed her down harder, deeper, until her lips met his base again and her throat made a sound that was part gag, part desperate moan.

He was so hard.

The lighting from the hallway caught on the flushed veins of his shaft as it reappeared with every pull back, wet and gleaming, before vanishing again inside her. It was hypnotic—the slow, slick drag of him sliding in and out of her mouth, her spit stringing between his skin and her lips every time he pulled out too far.

Your thighs pressed together. Automatically. Shamefully. There was no conscious thought behind it—just a tight, startled squeeze like your body had short-circuited under the weight of something sharp and unspoken.

He knew what he was doing. Knew you were there.

And that’s what ruined you.

It wasn’t just the act. It wasn’t the dick. It wasn’t even the girl, who was so gone on him she hadn’t noticed you yet. It was the look in his eyes. Like he was using you—your shock, your presence—to push himself deeper into pleasure. Like your gaze turned him on.

His smirk curled darker.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t stop.

And for one dizzy, breathless second, you thought he might even come like this—with you watching.

You stumbled back, breath hitching as your shoulder hit the hallway wall. The jolt snapped something inside you. Like surfacing from a dream.

You turned around fast and fled, nearly tripping over yourself as the sound of her mouth followed you—slick and obscene and real.

You didn’t stop until you were back downstairs, heart pounding, hands trembling, the crowd a blur of noise and color you couldn’t hear over the blood in your ears.

You needed air.

You needed answers.

But more than anything—You needed to understand what the fuck just happened to you.

He came after you.

You didn’t see him. But he did.

Just as you shoved through the front door of the house, your heart in your throat and the image of his dick still seared behind your eyes, Hyunjin’s hand released from her hair. He blinked—once, twice—like waking from a trance, like suddenly the oxygen had returned to the room and he remembered who was watching. What he’d just done.

He pushed the girl off him with a muttered curse, barely registering her dazed protest, and stumbled into the hallway, half-zipped, eyes scanning wildly for you.

He was too late.

You were already peeling out of the driveway.

He barely caught the flash of your taillights vanishing into the dark, headlights bouncing over gravel as your car sped down the road. No chance to call out. No way to stop you.

You were gone.

⸻

Your hands clenched the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. The streets blurred past your windows in long, lonely streaks of light. You weren’t thinking about how fast you were going. Or whether it was safe. Or even why your throat was tight with something you couldn’t name.

You were thinking about him.

That fucking look in his eyes.

The way he stared straight through you while that girl sucked him off like she was born for it. The way his hips shifted forward ever so slightly, deeper, like he liked knowing you were watching. Like you being there was part of it.

The worst part?

It worked.

Your thighs hadn’t stopped clenching since.

You went straight to your dorm, threw the keys onto your desk with a clatter, and shut the door behind you like you were sealing something in. You weren’t even sure you’d locked it.

You leaned back against it, breathing hard.

Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

And wet between the legs in a way that felt wrong.

You sank to the floor without meaning to, knees folding under you like they couldn’t hold up your shame.

What was wrong with you?

You’d seen Hyunjin with girls before. Had heard the stories. Had walked in on his hookups before—once in his car, once in the hallway at some shitty house party where a girl’s lipstick smeared across his neck like war paint. You always rolled your eyes. Always scoffed.

You never felt this.

Never felt that cold flash of shock, followed by the heat creeping up your neck, then down, coiling in your stomach like hunger.

Because tonight… you saw everything.

His dick.

His face.

The way he controlled her—used her—and the way she let him. Willingly. Eagerly.

The sounds. The slick, wet rhythm. The twitch of his abs. The sharp jut of his hips. Her throat flexing to take him.

And his fucking smirk.

Like it wasn’t a blowjob. Like it was a performance. Like he was testing you.

You pressed your palms to your burning cheeks.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to rewind the night and punch him in the face.

You wanted to— Your hips shifted without you realizing. A slow, involuntary grind against the heel of your foot.

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no, no.

But your body didn’t listen.

Your thighs squeezed, chasing the ghost of friction. Your stomach fluttered with shame and heat and the kind of arousal that came from places you’d never touched before—not like this. Not about him.

Not about your best friend.

Not about Hyunjin.

You pushed up from the floor with a groan, trying to shake it off. Walk it out. Breathe.

You stumbled to the mirror above your desk and froze.

Your reflection looked wrecked.

Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Hair wild from the wind and your trembling hands. You looked like someone who’d been touched—even though no one had laid a hand on you all night.

No one except your own thoughts.

And his eyes.

You hated him.

You hated that you didn’t.

You hated how your body was still humming from the sight of him.

You hated how wet you felt under your jeans.

And most of all, you hated how you knew—deep in the pit of your stomach—that something inside you had changed.

This wasn’t something you could forget.

You’d seen Hyunjin before.

But tonight… He’d let you see him.

And now there was no going back.

—

You ignored his texts.

Left the first two unread. Opened the third and fourth without responding. Then stopped opening them altogether.

He called you that night—twice.

You stared at his name lighting up your screen like it might burn through your retinas. You didn’t pick up. Couldn’t. Just lay in your bed, curled on your side with your phone face-down and your mind running in exhausting, endless circles.

You told yourself it was fine.

It was one mistake.

You’d both move on.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

And neither did he.

The next morning, you got up early on purpose.

You knew your routine would be off. It didn’t matter. Anything to avoid seeing him on campus, or worse—having him catch you off guard and look at you again the way he had the night before.

Not during. After.

Not like Hyunjin.

Like someone else. Someone who saw you differently now. Who made you see him differently too.

You dodged the usual lunch spot, skipped your shared class by faking a stomach ache, ignored the texts that were now showing frustration between the lines.

Hyunjin [9:43 AM]

You okay?

Hyunjin [11:02 AM]

Seriously, are you mad? Just fucking talk to me.

Hyunjin [1:14 PM]

Don’t do this. Please.

You hated him for making you feel like this.

But more than that—you hated yourself for how much you kept replaying it. Over and over, like some sick loop.

You avoided him all week.

By Friday, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d give up.

Until the knock came.

It was hard and sharp—three impatient raps at your dorm door like he was ready to break it down if you didn’t answer.

You froze mid-bite of your cereal, spoon dangling in the air.

Knock knock knock.

Your chest tightened.

You didn’t even have to look through the peephole. You knew that knock. The same rhythm he used every time he showed up uninvited, unannounced, acting like he owned your space—because for years, he kind of did.

Knock. Knock.

Then, “Open the door.”

Your pulse stuttered.

“Y/N.”

You gripped the counter. “Go away, Hyunjin.”

“No.” The word came through low, controlled, but something about it carried weight. You heard the restraint in it. The kind of self-control that didn’t last long on him. “We’re not doing this. Open the fucking door.”

You didn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You pressed your forehead against the cold fridge. Closed your eyes. Prayed he’d leave.

He didn’t.

“Seriously?” he said, tone hardening. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all week. And you’ve been pretending like I don’t exist. You won’t text me back. You dodge me on campus. Are you kidding?”

You stepped forward quietly, still not unlocking it. “I just need space.”

“You don’t get space. Not like this.”

Your chest flared with anger. “Yes, I do. You don’t get to decide—”

“I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

Silence.

He hadn’t raised his voice. But those words hit you in the gut, sucked the breath right out of your lungs.

You stared at the door like it might crack and show you his face.

“You shouldn’t have been up there,” he said, more gently now. “But I shouldn’t have—fuck—I didn’t think.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I know what you saw. I know how it looked. And I know it was fucked up. I’m not making excuses, but I need you to look at me and let me explain. Not just hide like I’m a fucking stranger.”

You hesitated.

Because he wasn’t a stranger.

He was Hyunjin.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it?

That you couldn’t look him in the eye now without remembering that smirk. That cock. That twitch of his hips while she swallowed around him.

And worst of all—how wet it made you.

You hated yourself for it.

Your hand moved before you decided anything, fingers fumbling at the lock.

It clicked open.

And then you stepped back.

Hyunjin stood there, hair pulled back in a loose bun, hoodie thrown over his shoulders like he hadn’t even dressed properly—just rushed over here, raw and unfiltered and wide-eyed.

He looked at you.

And for once, he didn’t smile.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Talk to me.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Try.”

You shook your head. “I’m embarrassed.”

He stepped closer. “Why?”

You glanced up at him. “You know why.”

A long silence stretched between you.

And then, slowly—he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

He didn’t come closer.

Not at first.

He just stood beside your door, eyes on you like you were something breakable, like if he moved too fast he’d make this worse.

You hated that. Hated how careful he was suddenly being with you.

Like you were the one who needed gentle handling after he—

You exhaled sharply and walked toward your desk, needing distance, needing to not smell his hoodie or feel the way your skin buzzed with awareness now that he was in your space.

Hyunjin’s voice came from behind you. Low. Almost cautious.

“You’ve never ignored me before.”

Your back stayed to him. “That was before I saw your dick halfway down someone’s throat, Hyune.”

He flinched at your voice. At the sharp edge of it.

But you weren’t sorry.

You were embarrassed. Humiliated. Turned on.

And you were angry that he didn’t get it.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen like that,” he said again, quieter this time. “It was just… one of those nights.”

“One of those nights,” you echoed flatly, turning to look at him now, arms crossed. “Where you get sucked off by some random girl in the hallway with the door open?”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t know the door was open.”

“But you knew I was there.”

A pause.

You didn’t miss the way he shifted.

The flicker in his expression.

“I didn’t mean to keep going,” he said. “I just—fuck—I looked up and you were standing there, and it was like—my brain short-circuited. I wasn’t even in my body.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “You smirked at me.”

He looked away. You wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. Or something.

Instead, you laughed bitterly. “I don’t even know what that was. You’ve never even looked at me like that. Like I was someone who could be affected by you. Like I was a girl at one of your parties instead of just… me.”

He stepped forward.

Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.

“I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that either,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“At the top of the stairs,” he said softly. “You looked like I’d ripped something out of you. Like you didn’t know whether to run or come closer.”

Your lips parted.

You forgot how to breathe.

“I’ve never seen that look on your face,” he continued, stepping closer again, voice low and burning. “And it fucked with my head. I’m not gonna lie to you.”

You couldn’t speak.

Your heart was thudding so loud it drowned everything else out.

“Say something,” he said.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered.

“Then say the truth.”

You swallowed. “The truth is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

His breath hitched.

“And I hate that,” you added quickly. “I hate how it made me feel. I hate how it changed everything. I don’t want this to change things.”

“But it already did,” he said. “Didn’t it?”

Silence.

Your face felt like it was on fire. Your palms were sweating. You couldn’t even look at him now, because if you did, you might fold.

“I don’t want to be just another girl in your rotation, Hyunjin,” you said finally. “I’m not built for that.”

He stepped right into your space now, so close you had to look up at him.

His voice was softer now, almost pained. “You think I’d let you be just another girl?”

You hesitated. “Wouldn’t you?”

He stared at you.

Then, quietly—honestly—“No.”

Your breath caught.

“Then why didn’t you stop when you saw me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his eyes flicked over your face like he was memorizing it.

And when he spoke again, his voice was rough and full of something you didn’t want to name yet.

“Because when I saw you standing there, I got hard in a different way.”

You felt the floor tilt.

“What?”

“I’ve had a number girls on their knees for me,” he said, unapologetic now. “But none of them ever made me feel like you standing there did.”

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t think.

You could only feel—heat crawling under your skin, confusion knotting in your throat, arousal twisting low in your stomach.

And guilt. So much fucking guilt.

“You’re my best friend,” you whispered.

“So then why,” he said, stepping even closer, “can’t I stop thinking about what it would feel like to see you on your knees instead?”

His words echoed in the air between you like something pulled from a fever dream.

You didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared at him—Hyunjin—your best friend—like you didn’t recognize him anymore. Like you did, but through new eyes. Through the haze of something thick and hot and wrong.

Your voice came out barely audible.

“Don’t say shit like that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Tell me you don’t think about it.”

You wanted to. You should’ve.

But you didn’t. Instead, your body betrayed you—tipping forward, breath hitching, skin burning under his stare.

“I don’t,” you lied.

His jaw flexed. “Bullshit.”

And then something cracked wide open between you.

You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was both of you.

But suddenly his hand was in your hair, and your mouth was crashing into his, and the taste of him hit you like a punch to the lungs—mint and something darker, something that shouldn’t have been familiar but was.

He kissed like he wanted to imprint on you.

No hesitation. No apology. No space for thinking.

Just tongue and teeth and years of silence breaking all at once.

You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it—tilting his head, chasing the sound, backing you into the wall like gravity had flipped and he needed your body to stay standing.

“Fuck,” he breathed, lips dragging down your jaw, rough and open-mouthed. “Fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing to me—”

“Hyunjin—” you tried, but it was breathless, weak.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes wild. “You think I haven’t imagined this? Every fucking day since that night—”

Your chest heaved.

His hand slid down, gripping your hip, pulling you against him—and fuck, he was hard.

So hard it made you dizzy. So hard you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore either.

“Hyunjin—”

But he kissed you again before you could say anything else, and this time it was desperate. Less control. Less distance. Just the hot, undeniable press of his body against yours and the slick, obscene sound of your mouths meeting again and again.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, and he groaned into you like he’d been waiting years for this.

Like maybe he had.

Your head was spinning.

You weren’t supposed to want this.

You weren’t supposed to love the taste of him, the feel of his hand gripping your ass like he owned it, the low, broken sound he made when your thighs shifted and brushed where he was hard for you.

This was Hyunjin.

Your best friend.

The one who used to braid your hair when you were sick. The one who punched a guy in eleventh grade for calling you “easy.” The one who never looked at you like a girl.

But now?

Now he was looking at you like a man who’d been starving for too long.

And you were letting him.

You were kissing him back.

“Tell me to stop,” he panted against your lips. “Right now. Just say the word.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

He groaned—pained, like he wanted to be the better person.

But neither of you moved.

Because you couldn’t.

Because your body wanted this even if your mind was screaming.

And he could feel it in the way your hips tilted against his.

The way your lips parted for him again, again, when his tongue brushed yours.

So when he kissed you the third time, it was slower.

Angrier.

Like he was mad you let him do this. Mad at himself for needing it.

And when he finally broke away—breathing hard, eyes searching yours like he might come undone—you said the first honest thing of the night.

“I can’t stop thinking about it either.”

—-

It had been days since the kiss. Days since you both crossed a line and refused to talk about it. Days since every room you walked into with him felt like it was seconds away from combusting.

And the worst part?

You liked it.

You liked how his eyes followed you now. How he sat a little too close. How his thigh brushed yours and didn’t move. How his fingers sometimes caught your wrist and held you there a second too long. Like he didn’t mean to. Like he meant every second of it.

But most of all, you liked what it did to your head.

You thought about it all the time.

The bathroom. The way he looked. The size of him in her mouth. The way he didn’t stop when he saw you. The way he looked at you while she was still there on her knees. Like it didn’t matter who was pleasuring him—only who was watching.

It was sick. And hot.

And it made you touch yourself three nights in a row with your bottom lip between your teeth and his name barely whispered against your pillow.

Tonight, it finally broke you.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, too quietly, while you sat on his bed, knees drawn up, trying not to look at him.

Hyunjin was at his desk across the room, spinning a pencil between his fingers. He didn’t turn.

“Yeah?”

Your voice wavered. “Do you think things would go back to normal if I just… got it out of my system?”

He froze.

The pencil stopped spinning.

“What?”

You swallowed. “Like—if I did it. If I just… sucked your dick. Just once.”

Now he turned.

Full-body. Chair scraping against the floor.

You didn’t look at him, but you felt it.

Felt the weight of his stare.

Felt the breath leave the room.

“I’m serious,” you added when he didn’t speak.

His voice, when it came, was low. Disbelieving.

“You want to suck my dick.”

“I just…” You finally looked at him. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About that night. About… you.”

He blinked like he didn’t trust what he was hearing.

You kept going, digging the hole deeper. “I just want to know what it feels like. What you feel like. And maybe then… maybe it’ll stop haunting me.”

He stood up. Not even slowly. It was too fast, too jarring, and your breath hitched before you even realized you were backing against the headboard.

His voice was darker now. Low and flat. “You think blowing me is gonna cure you?”

“I think trying might,” you said. “And I trust you.”

He laughed—harsh, like it hurt to do. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you’re on your knees for me, I won’t be able to pretend it’s just for closure.”

Your thighs pressed together.

“Then don’t pretend,” you said.

He stared at you.

And then, without another word, he stepped between your knees and looked down at you like he was on the verge of snapping.

“Last chance,” he murmured, breath uneven. “Tell me not to do this.”

You didn’t.

You slid down to the floor in front of him instead.

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants, and he hissed softly when your hands brushed the outline of him.

Big. Thick. Heavy.

You already knew. You’d seen it.

But this—this was real.

You pulled them down slowly, watching as he sprang free—half-hard and still intimidating.

Your mouth went dry.

He wasn’t just big. He was gorgeous.

Veins and flushed skin, already thickening in your palm, and when your thumb brushed the slit, he groaned—low and guttural like it had punched out of him.

“Fuck—don’t tease me.”

You didn’t.

You wrapped your lips around the head and felt his thighs tense instantly. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but he was getting there—fast—thickening in your mouth, pulsing against your tongue.

He tasted like sweat and skin and salt, and when your tongue flattened along the underside, he cursed again, head falling back.

“Jesus, you’re—fuck, you’re good at that.”

Your hand pumped what didn’t fit, stroking him in rhythm with your mouth, slow and wet and wanting. You sucked harder and felt him twitch in your throat, and when you looked up, his eyes were already on you—burning.

That smirk you remembered was gone.

There was no smugness here.

Just hunger.

Your best friend. Undone.

He carded a hand through your hair—gentle at first, then tighter.

“Don’t stop,” he rasped. “Don’t even think about stopping.”

You didn’t. You let him slip deeper. Let your lips stretch wide, eyes watering when the tip kissed the back of your throat.

And when he moaned—actually moaned—you thought you might come from the sound alone.

“Fuck, baby—” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You have no fucking clue what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You felt it in the way his hips started to move, shallow thrusts into your mouth as he got closer, the grip in your hair becoming possessive, desperate.

You weren’t just erasing the girl from the bathroom.

You were replacing her. Branding yourself into the part of his brain where he kept his dirtiest memories.

When he finally warned you he was close—breathless, twitching, shaking—you pulled back enough to look up at him, lips wet, chin messy.

“Let me swallow it,” you whispered.

He cursed. Loud.

And then he came. Hard and hot, spilling into your mouth with a broken groan as his hand stayed tangled in your hair, his other braced against the wall behind you.

You swallowed everything.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact.

And when he finally opened his eyes again, you saw it.

The shift.

He wasn’t going to recover from this. And quite frankly, neither were you.

He was still catching his breath.

Still gripping the wall.

Still twitching between your fingers, glistening from your mouth.

And when you looked up at him like that—wide-eyed, flushed—he let out a ragged, broken sound.

Then he hauled you up off the floor with both hands.

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours, kissing you like it wasn’t enough. Like he wasn’t enough. Like nothing in the world could ever satisfy the way he wanted you right now.

“Fuck,” he growled against your lips, voice low and frantic, “I can’t stop touching you—I can’t fucking stop.”

He kissed you deeper, tasting himself on your tongue, his fingers already gripping your waist too tightly, trailing up your spine like he needed to know every ridge, every breath. His palms cupped your jaw, then dropped to your ass, pulling you flush against him even though he was still half-soft and oversensitive.

You whimpered into his mouth.

“Hyunjin—”

“I know,” he rasped, lips trailing down your neck now, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. “I know, baby.”

His hand slipped under your shirt, then under your bra—like he couldn’t wait, like he’d been dying to do it and didn’t even realize it until now. His touch was rough, frantic, worshipping as he palmed your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until your knees buckled.

You tried to speak—tried to stop it before it got out of hand again—but you couldn’t.

Because he was already dragging your soaked thong down your thighs, snapping it off like it offended him, like he needed it gone yesterday.

“You wore this to my room?” he muttered, eyes dark as he tossed it across the floor. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t—” you breathed. “I didn’t know it’d happen like this—”

“Yeah?” he hissed, thumb brushing between your thighs now, rubbing your slit once, slow and purposeful. You jolted. “Then why are you this wet already?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t get the chance.

Because then he flipped you onto the bed, dropped to his knees in front of you and buried his face in your pussy like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

You cried out—hand flying to his shoulder, his hair—anything to ground yourself as his mouth locked onto your clit and sucked so hard it stole the air from your lungs.

“Hyunjin—oh my god—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

He groaned against you, lapping at your folds, tongue flicking and curling as he dragged you closer by the thighs, shoving one over his shoulder for better access. His fingers dug into your ass, tilting your hips just right so he could fuck his tongue into you deeper, wetter, filthier.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Could barely stay upright.

Your back hit the headboard behind you, head thudding softly as he devoured you like he’d been starving for it—like he’d been dying for a taste ever since that night and just didn’t know it.

You sobbed his name, thighs shaking around his head, and he moaned in return—loud, guttural, desperate—sending vibrations straight through your cunt.

Your orgasm was building too fast. It was crawling up your spine, wrapping itself around your lungs, choking the words in your throat as you trembled against the wall.

“Hyun—Hyunjin—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growled, voice muffled in your heat. “Come on my tongue, baby—I want it.”

You shattered.

Head back. Fingers fisting his hair. Legs giving out completely.

And he kept going.

Licked you through it.

Swallowed everything.

Kept your legs open with his hands, his shoulders, his whole body, until you were twitching from overstimulation and trying to wriggle away.

Only then did he pull back.

His lips were swollen, chin slick, eyes glazed over with something feral.

“You thought sucking my dick would get me out of your system?” he panted, climbing back up your body.

You blinked at him, dazed.

He grabbed your jaw. Kissed you deep again, tongue tasting you on your own lips.

He was still breathing like he’d run a marathon.

Still gripping your waist like if he let go, he’d lose you again.

And then, out of nowhere, his voice broke—actually broke—low and hoarse and pleading against your neck.

“I need you… please.”

It wasn’t cocky. Wasn’t teasing.

It wasn’t a game anymore.

You froze.

Because hearing Hyunjin—your Hyunjin—say that like he was begging for you, like he needed you more than anything, did something to you. You didn’t even have to think. Your body moved before your brain caught up.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his blown-out pupils, the way he swallowed like he was choking on his restraint, the barely-there twitch in his cock where it still hung thick between you, wet with need.

And just like that, you made your decision.

No fear. No hesitation. Just need.

You pushed his hands off you—softly. Watched his brows furrow in confusion for just a second before you reached for the hem of your shirt and lifted it slow.

Deliberate.

His breath caught.

Your bra followed—dropped to the floor in silence.

And his eyes trailed down like he didn’t know what to look at first: your nipples tightening under the cool air, your flushed skin, the steady rise and fall of your chest as you unbuttoned your jean skirt that was already bunched at your waist.

“Wait—” he rasped, almost winded. “What are you—”

You slipped them down your legs, shoving everything else with it—your last bit of modesty peeled away and kicked off until you were lying fully naked in front of him, bathed in the soft amber light from his lamp. You didn’t hide. Didn’t look away. Not even when your cheeks flushed.

Instead, you leaned back slowly, then spread your knees wide with zero shame, hands sliding down your own inner thighs as you held yourself open for him—soaked, needy, shameless.

Ready.

“I want you,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I don’t care what happens after. I just… need to give this to you.”

He blinked once—twice—like his brain short-circuited.

Then he broke.

He stumbled forward, his cock hardening again right before your eyes, fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to touch first.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re unreal—” he hissed, dragging his gaze across your body like it physically hurt him not to be inside you already. “I thought about this—so many times—and I didn’t even know I was thinking about it. You—you’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned back slightly, baring yourself even more. “Then die.”

That was all it took.

He was on you in seconds.

Kissing you deep, moaning against your lips like he was in pain, dragging his cock along your soaked folds with the kind of reverence that bordered on obsession.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” he whispered into your skin, hands gripping your hips like you’d disappear. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna ruin you—I have to.”

You arched up, hips bucking, cunt clenching around nothing.

“Just do it.”

He lined himself up, breath hitching—eyes locked with yours.

Then slowly—deliberately—he started to push in.

You felt him stretch you inch by inch—hot, thick, impossibly deep.

And the moment Hyunjin sank in all the way, both of you just… froze.

He was buried inside you to the hilt.

His jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

And your walls fluttered around him, helpless and raw, like your body couldn’t believe it was him.

“Jesus…” he whispered, voice breaking as he pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t think.

All you could do was whimper his name and clutch at his shoulders, the stretch of him lighting up nerves you didn’t even know existed. No one had ever filled you like this. No one had ever even come close.

And he knew it.

Hyunjin started to move—slow at first, like he didn’t want to rush it.

Each roll of his hips was molten, deep, pulling out just enough to press back in with maddening force, grinding against your sweet spot so perfectly it made your eyes roll.

“Fuck,” he moaned, voice low and reverent. “You take me so good, baby. So tight for me. Like this pussy was made for me.”

Your whole body jerked under him at that—at the pure filth of his praise, the way it slipped so easily from that mouth that had kissed your forehead a thousand times.

He saw it. Felt your cunt clench hard around him.

“Yeah?” he growled, gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You like that? Being fucked by your best friend?”

You nodded frantically, back arching. “Hyun—Hyunjin—please.”

“Please what?” he hissed, thrusts snapping faster now. “Tell me. I want to hear it.”

“Please fuck me harder—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

That did it.

He growled something broken—unintelligible—and slammed into you harder, hips pounding against yours with a rhythm that had the whole bed shaking, creaking, your breath knocked out of you with every thrust.

You were already close again.

The pressure was building so fast it scared you—but you couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to. You wanted to fall apart beneath him, wanted him to ruin you.

He leaned down suddenly—kissed you, deep and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours, swallowing every moan, every cry.

Then he pulled back to look at you. His expression softened—but it was worse, somehow. More intense. More raw.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he panted. “I swear to God—you’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

His thrusts slowed again—not stopping, but savoring now.

“You’re art,” he whispered, cupping your face, brushing his thumb across your cheek as he rocked into you so deep you gasped. “And I get to ruin you.”

You whimpered, tears brimming now—not from pain, not from fear—but from the weight of being seen like this. Loved like this. Even if he hadn’t said the word yet.

He felt your body tense beneath him—felt the way your cunt started to clamp down, so close to the edge you could taste it.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispered against your lips, voice breaking. “Come on, baby… Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart around my cock.”

You shattered.

Your back arched. Your mouth opened in a silent cry. Your whole body clenched so tight around him that he swore, stuttered, lost rhythm completely as you came around him.

“Fuckfuckfuck— you feel like heaven—” he groaned, then pulled out fast, stroking himself with messy, frantic hands. “Where? Where do you want it?”

You blinked up at him, still trembling. “My stomach. Please—just—show me.”

He let out a sound like he’d been holding his breath for years—then came hard with a desperate grunt, spilling hot and heavy all over your bare skin, streaks painting across your navel and hips as he moaned your name.

You lay there, both of you panting, your thighs still twitching as the aftershocks hit.

He collapsed beside you after a moment, still kissing your shoulder, your neck, your temple like he couldn’t stop.

Then he whispered, breath warm against your skin:

“I’m never letting anyone else touch you again.”

“What’s new?” You chuckled.

—-

The room was silent—Not the awkward kind. No.

Just heavy, saturated, sated silence. Like the whole room had exhaled with you.

You laid there on your back, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Your legs were limp. Your pulse was thrumming in your ears.

Hyunjin was beside you, chest heaving, one arm draped across your waist like his body had moved on instinct—like he still needed to keep you close even now. Especially now.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Your mind was too scrambled. You couldn’t even remember how to move, let alone what to say.

So you stared at the ceiling, the faint glow of the bedside lamp catching the sheen of sweat on your skin. You could still feel his hands on you—still feel the phantom stretch of his cock inside you. Your core ached in the most devastating, delicious way.

And then…

“…What the fuck did we just do?”

His voice was quiet. Like he was asking himself as much as he was asking you.

You blinked. Swallowed.

The words you were supposed to say—the things that would make it better, easier, less permanent—they just didn’t come. Your mouth opened, but your voice caught.

He shifted onto his side to face you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

His eyes were so soft.

Too soft.

And that was when the fear crept in.

Not fear of him, not of the sex, not even of how good it felt—but of the possibility that you’d broken something. That maybe your friendship couldn’t go back. That maybe you didn’t want it to.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me like that, you know? With her.” He started suddenly.

You winced.

“I know.”

“I tried to go after you when you ran off, you know?” he murmured. “Tried to talk to you after, but you just kept running from me.”

You bit your lip. You didn’t want to admit that it wasn’t because you were mad. It wasn’t because you were hurt. It was because you were so turned on it scared you. Because every time you looked at him, you couldn’t stop imagining that girl in the bathroom, couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to be on your knees instead.

And now… you knew.

He leaned over you, hovering, but not crowding. Watching you with that same intensity he always had—but now it felt different. Loaded. You could feel it in your blood, in the way your body still buzzed from him.

“I should be sorry we took it this far,” he said. “But I’m not.”

Your breath caught.

He reached down, fingers brushing through the mess he’d left on your stomach, slow and reverent, like he couldn’t believe he’d done that to you—with you.

“I’ve wanted you like this for longer than I was willing to admit.”

You blinked. “But you never… You never looked at me like that.”

“I didn’t let myself.”

His voice dropped, rough and raw again.

“I didn’t want to fuck this up. You were the only thing that wasn’t a game to me. I didn’t want to ruin you the way I ruin everything else. But the second I saw you watching me… that night… the second I realized what I’d done—what I might’ve just lost—I couldn’t stop.”

You swallowed.

Something twisted in your chest—sharp and sweet all at once.

“I don’t know what this means,” you whispered.

“I do,” he said simply. “It means I’m all yours now.”

You laughed, breathless, half-shaky. “Since when?”

“Since always,” he said. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

You paused. Heart thundering.

Then slowly, you turned toward him—reached out and dragged your fingers down his chest, resting them just above his heart.

And this time, when he kissed you, it was slow. Intentional. Worshipful.

He pulled the blanket over your bodies, curled around you like you were something sacred.

Neither of you said another word.

But you knew.

Things weren’t going back to normal.

They were becoming something better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Guys i have so much unfinished fics 😭 i see all your requests i promise and i am writing them!! But yeah lets have some Hyunjin love today 😍😍🤭🤭 Tell me if you want to be added or removed from my taglist! But dont forget to like and reblog 🍒

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar

652 notes · View notes

suksatoru · 2 days ago

Text

"if you can hear me, chosen one, give me your strongest kick."

you lift your gaze from the book page pinched between your fingers and offer satoru an unimpressed glare. as scolding as you try to appear, there's a hint of a smile tugging your lips upward at his ridiculously adorable antics.

"i think our princess might be napping," he hums, pressing a flurry of kisses over the swell of your stomach as you squirm under his touch, wiggling your toes.

"you're going to be late, satoru! weren't you supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago?"

"hahh?"

he drops his face back onto your stomach gently, sighing happily as his hand glides over the soft bump. you decide to let him lie with you for a little while longer—the soft smile etched onto his face was far too precious to disturb.

"i'll text nanami and let him know you'll be a bit late to the mission, okay?" you say softly, carding a hand through his platinum locks as he hums softly, lashes fluttering close.

satoru talked to the baby in your belly quite often—even going as far as having full-on conversations with her. there had been countless nights where you stirred awake only to hear his silky sweet voice muffled against your stomach, all while he gazed starry eyed at the gentle curve of your stomach in front of him.

satoru's dearest dream had always been to have a family. it was a quiet truth he wouldn't ever dare to speak into existence because it didn't seem possible in any universe—but somehow, he stumbled upon a way. and now he gets to spend his evenings like this with you.

satoru's boundless affection during your pregnancy will forever be something you would be grateful for. the fondest thing you would look back on would have to be the endless amount of baby clothes he got—satoru had even purchased a matching set of onesies for all three of you to wear. typical satoru. he was adamant about making sure the three of you would have a bunch of pictures together as a family so he'd be able to send everyone he knew those corny holiday cards he always saw on tv—the only reason you remember that moment from so long ago right now is because of the phone call you received.

"hello?" you speak in a hushed tone, rocking the ivory haired baby in the crib next to you gently as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

"hello! is this mrs. gojo? i'm calling to confirm your family photoshoot scheduled for next week. it's the two hour session. it looks like you scheduled it a little over a year ago?" her voice comes to life through the phone, and your rocking slows to a stop.

"oh," is all you can manage at first.

you hear the sound of her typing come to a slow stop as she waits for your response. you resume rocking your daughter's crib before answering.

"i'm sorry, but it seems like my husband forgot to cancel the appointment."

she goes on a bit of a tangent, gently scolding you because the company was extremely busy with numerous photoshoots and you had canceled so last minute—but she promised to get it fixed and have the money refunded as soon as possible.

the line beeps quietly when you drop the call, and your hand feels perpetually numb as you drop your phone into your lap.

you rub at the sting that blinds your eyes a second later before rising on wobbly legs, not checking if your baby is asleep as you stumble towards your bedroom's balcony door and slide it open. you tuck your knees under you on the ground and rest your head against the railing, allowing the cool metal to be pressed against your cheek as you take a steadying breath.

you were nearing the one year anniversary of satoru's death and, quite stupidly at that, thought you'd be in a better condition by now. but his presence was irreplaceable—and it was moments like this where you were reminded how painful it was to lose your soulmate in the blink of an eye.

the night air kisses your cheek, whipping your hair around gently as it falls over your eyes—and the sensation is uncannily familiar to the way satoru's slender fingers would play with your hair and tickle your cheek whenever he was in a particularly playful mood.

the night traffic flowing beneath you fades to nothing as the wind whirls around you—but, it felt like if you closed your eyes hard enough, strained your ears as much as possible—then maybe you could make yourself believe that the whistling wind whizzing past your ear was satoru's voice lulling the ache in your chest away instead.

522 notes · View notes

humanjarvis · 1 day ago

Text

mr. magician

synopsis: at linkon’s summer carnival, sylus adds a new role to his resume.

tags: tooth-rotting fluff, carnival, sylus uses his evol to change the color of your prize, a little girl sees him and thinks he’s a magician, sylus doesn't know what to do but they become buddies

word count: 1.2k

a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble and then it was not. inspired by the part in “valleydream bloom” when he changes the colors on the flower crown

The smell of popcorn and sweets fills the air on a breezy Friday afternoon.

At Linkon’s annual summer carnival, couples and families gather to ride rides, play games, and win prizes.

You and Sylus are no exception.

For such a juvenile place, it’d taken less convincing than usual for him to come along. Once you’d practically dangled the challenge of the carnival’s punching game in his face, he’d nodded his agreement with poorly concealed determination.

But the second you’d stepped through the colorful fairground gates, your attention was stolen by the prizes in the first tent. Lining the walls was an array of human-sized teddy bears, wearing gentle smiles and shiny ribbon bow ties. You’d gravitated toward them like a moth to a flame, and Sylus, chuckling fondly, had followed closely behind.

You didn’t even check to see what game it was (balloon darts, it turned out)—you were going to win one. And win you did.

“Aw,” you pout, nearly swallowed by the fluff of your new yellow bear as you waddle toward a picnic table. “I wanted the blue one.”

Humming, Sylus effortlessly lifts your new friend from your slipping grasp and rests it on the wood below. “Then you'll have it.”

With a casual wave of his hand, familiar red and black wisps create a dramatic scene: the innocent plushie surrounded by darkness, its stubby cotton limbs shackled by the unforgiving tether of Sylus’s Evol.

The crisis lasts only for a moment. In the next second, your hostage is freed—and now bathed in a soft sky blue.

“Thank you!” you cheer, barreling into him for a side hug. “I love it.”

Chuckling at your enthusiasm, Sylus wraps an arm around you and bends down to nuzzle your hair. “You’re welcome, sweetie. Now we have an extra set of hands to cheer me on when I—”

“Woahhh,” a small voice gasps behind you.

Raising your head abruptly, you match Sylus’s confused expression with your own. Whirling around, you search for the voice’s owner and come up short.

Until you look down.

Before you, hopping excitedly from foot to foot, is a little girl around 6 years old. She looks cherubic under the midday sun, with brown skin, chubby cheeks, and green bows encasing two dark braids on her shoulders.

“How'd you do that?” she asks, big brown eyes staring at Sylus in amazement.

But Sylus, who’d seen the girl and assumed she was talking to you, has politely excused himself from the conversation to tinker with the crooked eyeball on your plushie. It's not until you gently elbow his ribs that he realizes the girl is speaking to him.

When he meets her gaze, an unprepared huff of air escapes him. “How did I….” In a rare fumble, he pauses, uncertain ruby eyes flitting over to you for help. But you stand back with an encouraging smile.

Hiding his scowl, Sylus sighs softly and turns back to the waiting child, beginning a bit too technical of an explanation. “That…was my Evol. I can sense the energy in objects and change it into—”

“Are you a magician?” she blurts out, clearly having held back for a while.

As his words are cut off, Sylus’s mouth parts in a small ‘o,’ his teeth showing slightly in something between a grimace and a scandalized laugh. “Am I a…no, I'm not. I'm sure you could find one at a place like this, though. Why don’t you and your parents go look?”

The girl squints at Sylus, eyes darting from his hands to the awkward grin on his face. She remains silent and skeptical for several moments, and then…

“No,” she says simply, turning her nose up and crossing her arms. Her small lips droop into a frown, and she pins Sylus in place with an accusing glare.

“No?” he repeats incredulously, as if asking if he heard her right.

She nods like his guilt is clear as day. “You’re a magician,” she asserts. “My dad says magicians keep their magic a secret. You just don't wanna tell me.”

Again, Sylus turns to you imploringly, eyes begging you for rescue. But all you give him is a supportive thumbs-up, shooing him forward with a wink.

Exhaling deeply, Sylus crouches down. “You’re…very perceptive,” he starts. The girl’s face scrunches in confusion. “Smart, I mean. I'm new to…magic school, so I can’t tell anyone about my powers yet. Or else, they might want me to leave before I can get really good.” As the girl’s face contorts in horror, a genuine grin blooms across Sylus’s. “It's good that you managed to notice me, though,” he reassures her. “That means I'm learning well.”

Smiling back at him, the girl looks down shyly, as if pondering something. “Um…Mr. Magician,” she mumbles, “can you help me like you did the teddy bear? I told my mom I wanted purple bows today, but she gave me green ones,” she pouts. “Can you make them purple? I promise I won’t tell.”

Chuckling softly, Sylus taps the corner of his eye twice. “Close your eyes,” he whispers, and the girl obliges almost immediately. A moment later, he snaps his fingers, and a brilliant purple starts to erode the olive green in her hair. It's like something out of a fairytale.

And clearly, the princess agrees. When Sylus gives her permission, she opens her eyes and takes her braids in eager hands, gasping in wonder at the bows’ new color. Soon after, the gasp morphs into an overjoyed screech, making him wince at the volume.

Giggling through her toothy grin, she bounces up and down. “Thank you Mr. Magician!” she beams. “Um…here! You can have this,” she offers, digging in the pocket of her sequin overalls. A second later, and she pulls out a fuzzy red panda keychain.

“I won it from the duck pond,” she says proudly. “You should take it since you like colors. It’s red like your eyes.”

Sylus hesitates. “Are you sure you’d like me to—”

“Yes,” she urges, tiny eyebrows furrowed in resolve. “My dad says when people make you happy, you should make them happy back. Take it.” Leaving no room for argument, she thrusts the toy into Sylus’s limp palm.

“Thank you. It’s…very nice,” he acquiesces.

“Cassidy? Cassie, where are you?”

At the sound of the concerned female voice, the girl’s eyes go wide in alarm. “Uh oh…I'm supposed to be getting cotton candy. I gotta go now—um, thank you, sir! Good luck with your magic!” Waggling her hand enthusiastically, she waves at you, too, before scurrying back to her mother.

Turning the keychain over in his palm, Sylus studies it briefly before returning to your side, a bemused expression on his face.

“Mob boss, fruit vendor, singer, and magician, huh? You've got quite the resume,” you snicker.

“No thanks to you,” he says flatly, pushing the keychain into your hands.

Cheekily, you open the latch and hang the panda from his belt loop. With an exasperated sigh, he allows it. “I've never seen you not know what to do before. It was cute,” you tease, leaning up to poke his cheek. “But since you’ve had such a tough day…why don't we try out your boxing game now, Mr. Magician?”

462 notes · View notes

aquasoftware · 2 days ago

Text

★ VANILLA WITH A CHERRY ON TOP 🜼

Desc | Kento Nanami meets you at the library, recommends you filthy books, wears his fancy business suits, and kisses your hand like a gentleman. He’s patient, polite, and sweet. But when you finally give him your body, you realize there’s absolutely nothing vanilla about the way he makes love to you.

Cw | MDNI 18+ Cherry popping, soft/service dóm! Kento, súb! Reader, body worsh!p, óraI f!xat!on (f rece!v!ng,) f**t play, chóklng, brèèd!ng/cr3amp!e, overst!m, pra!sè, tùmmý buIgè, nanami has a Prince AIbert piercing, f!nger!ng, cúm pIay, d!rty tàIk, & aftercàre + ML

“Vanilla”! Nanami is a man who you meet at a library, his gentle smile is so warm your heart completely melts everytime you glance at him and he flashes one, but you ignore the fact that he’s standing in the erotica section, glasses perched on his nose, quietly flipping through each page like it’s classic literature.

“Vanilla”! Nanami is observant to a pulp. He notices how you always ask for help reaching a book on the top shelf, even though he’s certain you’ve worn heels taller than that. He picks up on how you linger after conversations end, eyes dancing between his lips and his shirt that’s slightly unbuttoned allowing his pecs to happily greet you. How your gaze is anything but innocent, yet he never calls you out on it.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who never flirts explicitly—he just speaks in a tone so sultry and calm it makes your stomach twist.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who always has book recommendations for you, and every time they’re a little more suggestive than the last. “This one had beautiful prose,” he claims, handing you something with chapters full of longing, pinning, or toe-curling tension.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who underlines details in his books that remind him of you, then gets shy when you find them. He’ll mumble "It's just good writing,” but won’t meet your eyes when you see what he underlined is the filthiest smut possible.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who gives you his number after realizing you often come to the library just to constantly see him, he slides you his phone like he’s making a business deal with the contacts screen open uttering “let’s keep in touch.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami is the type that easily falls in love with you, your conversations over the phone nearly lure him in over the screen, your voice is so saccharine he’s desperate for a glass of wine to calm him down, he’s almost embarrassed at how weak in the knees he is for how intelligent you are, your shared hobbies and how your personality is just as attractive as your face.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who sends you photos of his open books along the cozy spots he reads in with captions like “Wish you were here.” (You wonder if he means the reading with him or his lap.)

“Vanilla”! Nanami officially takes you on a plethora of dates after a long while of talking and he’s this huge gentleman, he takes you on real dates. The kind with linen napkins, dim lighting, and soft jazz in the background. He pulls out your chair without thinking twice, gently wipes sauce from your cheek with his thumb, and feeds you bites of dessert with his fork, as his eyes never leave yours.

“Vanilla”! Nanami chuckles when he eventually meets your best friend and she mutters into your ear “I didn’t know you were into squares Y/n.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who goes quiet for a moment when you tell him you’re a virgin—not because he minds, but because he suddenly feels the weight of your trust.

“Vanilla”! Nanami becomes careful with his words when he finally speaks “I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” he says nervously, placing a loving kiss on the back of your hand. “You deserve someone who’s patient with you… who makes it feel right.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to become too emotional when you tell him that someone is him, his ears are tainted a rose pink. His eyes gloss over you as if you’re only someone he’d be able to find in his dreams.

“Vanilla”! Nanami tries to make things perfect for your first time, wanting things to be so memorable that he (unknowingly) ruins you for any other man. He lights coconut scented candles, decorates the entire room with rose petals and there’s a tray of two wine glasses waiting for the both of you afterwards.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who isn’t so vanilla after all, especially when you makeout with him, you’ll understand exactly why he was in the erotica section. Your cherry flavored lip gloss is only an excuse why his lips keep chasing yours for more, he holds your jaw with his fingertips like he’s unworthy of being able to touch you.

“Vanilla”! Nanami takes a deep breath when you tell him you’re finally ready, asking “Are you sure about this?” He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead once you eagerly nod.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who bites his lip trying not to laugh when you apologize for not wearing anything sexy underneath your clothes and he undresses you to reveal a matching SpongeBob set. He reassures you by saying “You’re sexy in whatever you feel comfortable wearing.” And he gently rubs your back.

“Vanilla”! Nanami unclasps your bra, carefully planting kisses on your bare chest as if it's a delicate flower waiting to be picked. At first he acted as if he had all the time in the world, twirling your bud between his fingers, but then he instantly gave in when you pleaded for more—latching onto your nipple, while suckling as if it could produce sweet nectar.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you for hours eating you out, and if you’re insecure about how you look down there? It’s just an excuse for him to eat you out like his life is on the line, sucking your clit until your thighs are shaking, until his head is practically being crushed to death by your thighs, or until you’re desperately humping his face like a needy slut.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you with another hour of fingering, going painfully slow, refusing to rush things at all. His fingers are thick, so when he curls up and hits that g-spot each stroke? You nearly drool, throwing your head back into the flood of pillows, swearing it’s better than the smut you read.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who shocks you when you learn he has a prince albert piercing and you quickly learn what those hours of prepping was for. When you tell him “I would’ve never guessed you’d have a piercing there!?” He responds, shaking his head “I got it in my youth, but couldn’t bring myself to remove it.” If he notices any concern on your face he tenderly kisses your jawline and lets you hold his hand.

“Vanilla”! Nanami eases in but he goes feral when you cry “Kento, fuck! N-need you faster baby, please.” He throws your legs over your shoulders and can’t help but to suck your pretty white manicured toes, causing you to gasp out of shock, yet pure pleasure.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who thrives off the erotic books he reads, knowing it ingrained the words in his head on what to say, he feels like he won a medal each time he evokes deafening moans when he praises you murmuring “You’re doing so well for me sweetheart,” or “take all of me, mmmh, just like that.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami purposefully presses a big hand on your tummy bulge as he slows down his pace just so you can feel his piercing nudge deliciously against your weak spots.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to cross any boundaries with you but when you guide his hand to your throat it’s practically testing him, he remembers from a guide that teaches you should start off with small pressure. When you squeeze his cock at the light pressure? He considers putting a baby in you on the spot.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who makes you orgasm for the ninth time that night, when he reaches down to rub your clit while you're spasming around him. As soon as you finish, he doesn’t last long asking “Where do you want me princess?” His eyes nearly roll back when you say “I want your cum inside me baby.” He cums so deep, you’ll feel it in your womb the next day.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who watches as his cum oozes out your swollen cunt, and eats you out one last time, “for good measure.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who has insane aftercare he cuddles with you, constantly asks if you’re okay, feeds you grapes like he worships the ground you walk on, and holds up your wine for you to drink.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who is anything but vanilla.

Divider/Boarders produced by uzmacchiato & dollywons

Song written by Koi’lani/@aquasoftware.

‹3 Masterlist!! | more nanami smut?

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, AND LIKES ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED!! THANK YOU < 3

653 notes · View notes

marvelouslymarly · 3 days ago

Text

After Midnight (Bob Reynolds x female superhero!reader)

[Gif credits to @a-reader-and-a-writer]

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Robert Reynolds/the Sentry/the Void x female superhero!reader

Summary: You're out with the team when some dude starts acting like an ass. Bob helps you get away and takes you home to show you how a lady should be treated...

Rated E for explicit - Minors do not interact!!

CW: physical violence (bar brawl); the void showing up for a second there; some hints at sexual harrassment/assault (no on page rape!); Bob dancing with reader; fluff; half of this is smut (first time reader and Bob sleep together; oral/female and male receiving; fingering, p in v sex (protected); multiple orgasms) [i think i need a pastor]; minor thunderbolts* spoiler warning bc this is set after the film

Word count: 10.6k words (and I thought the last one was a long one, LOL)

Masterlist

[A/N #1: Got the idea for this on the drive home from my parents' place while listening to After Midnight by Chappel Roan, so here you go]

[A/N #2: thank you to @scuttle-buttle for cheering me on and reading through this!!! Dedicating this to you, babes🫰🏻]

The music was blasting over the speakers, and you could feel the beat in every cell of your body. The team had decided to go out that night, needing a break from training and recon-missions and the same old day-in-and-day-out of the last few weeks. While the guys had stayed back at the bar, Ava and Yelena had pulled you into the center of the dance floor, telling you to put yourself out there and have some fun for once. You knew that they were right. It had been a while since you forgot about work and everything that came with first being one of Val's shadow ops and then becoming part of what Val intended to become the new Avengers.

Even after a few months, the title still didn't feel right. It was just too loaded with expectations, with ideas and opinions about who you should be, what you should or shouldn't do. You guys weren't shiny and new. You were rough around the edges, with problems and your own past full of mistakes and regrets. You all had things you'd like to forget or wished to have gone up in flames with every little detail Val put in that vault.

Being called the "new Avengers" felt like stepping into footsteps not only way too big to fill, but also just the wrong shape to begin with. It was like trying to match the tracks of bears with those of lions. You were a different species of heroes - and even calling yourself heroes felt wrong somehow. You were too familiar with being the bad guys, with having your stories twisted, being used for whatever wrong someone wanted done without getting their own hands dirty. But now, you were supposed to be the ones stopping the bad guys, to fight the guys you were made out to be before.

So, this night out felt like the right call for multiple reasons. It was good for forgetting about work, but also for getting to know each other outside of work settings. You'd lived with them for months and knew everything about who preferred what guns, who would do what whenever you were out on missions but whenever you came home, you'd retreat into your own spaces, resting and trying to figure out where you all fit into whatever Val had in mind when she called the press on you and announced her new team of superheroes come to save the world.

~~~

Earlier that evening, while putting on that one dress in the back of your wardrobe, you could hear your mother's voice in the back of your head, telling you not to dress this provocatively. To be a good girl and cover yourself before the Lord's eyes. You felt the anger you'd repressed for so long bubble back up inside of you. Images of the time before you ran away from home came rushing back in.

The front lawns of the neighbourhood peppered with signs with psalms and verses written on them. Crosses in every room of the house you’d grown up in. The metal rods and mosquito nets outside the windows to “keep evil out” but, in all honesty, they were there to keep you from climbing out the windows in the middle of the night. Memories of everything your parents tried to make you believe about the virtues of life and how to be a pious girl and a good servant of the Lord.

You could feel the bile rise, thinking back to the person they had tried to turn you into.Their attempts to marry you off to some boy from the community. Michael Dawson. A good boy, named after the archangel. A god-fearing boy just barely old enough to drive a car. In the year before your parents had told you about their plans, you had barely exchanged two sentences with him. But still, it was blatantly obvious to everyone who looked at him and at the way he looked at Paul for even a second, that this probably wouldn’t have been the happy and sacred marriage your parents had envisioned for you.

When the blip first happened, it felt like you were set free from everything you hated so much. With your family gone, there was nothing holding you back from leaving the community while the rest turned to prayers and service. Just having turned 18 a couple of weeks ago, you’d grabbed the keys to your father’s truck and never looked back.

You caught a look of yourself in the mirror and thought about how far you'd come in the last 8 years. How much distance you'd put between your old life and this new one - regardless of how lost you still felt sometimes. You thought about how you moved to the big city and took up self-defense classes after a close call on your way home from work one night. How powerful you felt once you’d realised you loved to fight and get stronger both physically and mentally. That now, there was very little that you couldn’t get through because you didn’t have to rely on prayers anymore.

You pulled the dress down in the front, revealing more cleavage, and adjusted how your breasts sat in the built-in cups. The thought of your mother’s jaw falling to the floor at the sight of you in this get up, her hands doing quick work to bless herself, sent a smirk to your lips. You smoothed out the dress, letting your hands dance over the sides of your body while you admired yourself. The tightness of the dress, hugging you in just the right places, the skirt just long enough to cover the ass that you trained so hard for. Reapplying the dark red lipstick, you smacked your lips in a playful manner and ran your hand through your locks before leaving your room and joining the others in the common area of your shared apartment.

You could still hear the whistles Walker had sent your way, adding an approving 'looking good, [y/l/n]' after standing up straighter and looking you up and down. You rolled your eyes at him while you put your purse over your shoulder, and then adjusted the leather jacket thrown over your am.

"You clean up nice, too, I guess," you retorted and looked around the group.

Ava and Yelena had put themselves into their best party outfits as well, wearing a knowing smirk while putting up both thumbs, respectively. When your eyes landed on Bob, you could see a faint pink tint to his cheeks, and he quickly averted your gaze, nodding vigorously.

"Yeah, you look really nice... Really... nice, yeah!" He cleared his throat, the blush deepening a few shades. His jaw clenched and you smiled to yourself, having secretly hoped he'd like the way you'd dressed up.

When you'd first met him in the vault those few months ago, in the scrubs that seemed three sizes too big for him, he looked like a helpless puppy, his blue eyes so big and excited at what he'd stumbled into - literally. But then, when you saw what he was capable of, both as the Sentry and the Void and your interest in him grew. He was no longer just the sad, helpless puppy but something more intriguing. Someone with layers that you wanted to uncover one at a time.

After first moving to New York and into the Watchtower with the others, there weren't many chances for you two to interact, to get to know each other better. But when it became more and more obvious that he wasn't ready to be sent out into missions with the rest of the team just yet, you came up with the idea of rotating who would stay at home with him. The rest of the team welcomed the idea of it and so, whenever someone wasn't needed for the mission, they'd try and help Bob figure out how to channel his inner Sentry without also summoning the Void with it. Or they'd bake cakes or make dinner for when the others came back.

You'd stayed back with him two times at that point but every time you asked if he wanted to join you for a gym session or for a swim in the new pool, he'd come up with excuses. Saying he'd sprained his ankle the last time he was working out with Bucky or that he'd just done his daily laps in the morning and was looking forward to reading that one book he didn't have the chance to get to yet. The first time around, you figured he was just a little anti-social and needed some more time to get comfortable but then you heard about how Yelena had gotten him to punch the punching bag so forcefully that it came off the hinges and flew to the other side of the gym and how even Walker could convince him to try some new technique to compartmentalise.

When he declined your invitation to watch a movie the second time you stayed behind, you grew weary, scared that you'd done something wrong or that he just simply didn't like you at all. That the interest you had in him wasn’t reciprocated. But, seeing him blush at the sight of you all dolled up set the tiny bit of hope you still had ablaze once more. On the way to the bar, you caught yourself disengaging from the conversation, coming up with ideas or ways to get him on his own, hoping that he’d be more forthcoming once he had a drink or two in him.

~~~

The feeling of arms slipping around your waist brought you back to the bar and to the song you were mindlessly singing along to. Hands were moving down to your waist, holding onto you as you swayed your hips from side to side. Your eyes travelled down your figure, thinking that maybe it was one of the guys playing a trick on you but then you didn't recognise the tattoos winding up the left forearm and into the rolled up sleeves. Your head turned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of you had come up behind you but you couldn’t quite make out who it was, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach.

Looking around for the girls, you saw that Ava and Yelena had gone back over to the bar, probably to get you guys some drinks. Also sitting at the bar, you made out Walker, Bob and Bucky - the latter engaged in a conversation with some girl desperately trying to get his number from the way she pushed her phone into his direction, a bright smile on her lips, despite the restrained expression on his face and him shaking his head repeatedly, pushing her phone back every time it made contact with his chest.

Wildly gesticulating with every fiber of his being, Walker was talking to Bob, who was staring into the glass in front of him. You weren’t sure if he was just lost in thought or if he had one too many, his face inattentive and his shoulders slumped. His gaze wandered over to you, as if he’d felt your eyes on him, and then to the guy behind you, his jaw clenching tightly. Just as quickly as his eyes had met yours, they were back on the remnants of whatever drink he had been musing before, his knuckles turning white in the dim light.

The arms around your hip pulled you back, bringing your attention back to the dancefloor, and you felt a very clammy shirt press into your shoulders before the smell of cheap alcohol mixed with even cheaper breath mints filled your nostrils. Your whole body tensed, when the guy’s right hand travelled back up your side and stopped just under your breast for a second, before moving to the front and up to your neck.

"Hey, Mama, you alone here," the voice slurred questioning, hot breath hitting your ear and neck, and sending goosebumps down your body. His hand was slowly wrapping around your neck and made you turn your head again. Out the corner of your eye, you could clock the name tag on his shirt, making out ‘Sam’ written in cursive stitches.

Feeling your throat close up from the stinging aroma of the cheap liquor he must've bathed in, you tried to push Sam’s arms off of your body, scratching at his skin. But his grip didn’t budge one bit, only growing tighter, his nails digging in through the fabric of your dress and into your neck.

Your desperate pleas for him to let go of you seemed to be useless, lost to the loud music coming from the speakers in every corner of the dance floor. But you couldn't get anything out above a feeble whisper, tears brimming in your eyes while snippets of the last time you went to a bar raced through your brain.

"Why are you so tense? Let's have some fun, baby," Sam pushed and started to grind into you from behind, his dick getting harder with every move, pressing into your behind.

Again, you looked around for the rest of the team, hoping someone would notice your struggle and come over to help. But Ava and Yelena were nowhere to be seen, and Walker must’ve gone out to get some fresh air with Bucky because they weren’t where you had last seen them either. The only team member you could still make out was Bob, sitting at the bar with his back turned to you, waving down the bartender for another drink.

Realising you were on your own in this one, you tried to turn around, to get some leverage on him and were just able to turn your face away when he leant down and tried to press a kiss to your lips.

“I told you to leave me be,” you repeated forcefully, your flat hand landing on his cheek in a satisfying slap.

An urgent cry left your mouth, then, and the force behind your shove grew stronger, pushing Sam away from you and making him lose his balance. He stumbled back a step or two before he caught himself again, glaring at you.

He pushed up his sleeves again and started to come at you, an evil sneer on his face.

"What's your fucking problem, bitch,” he spat and looked you up and down, stepping closer slowly.

“You dress like that, and then you turn into a prude when -"

He was cut off short when a fist met his jaw and threw him into the people surrounding you, a tooth and a spray of blood flying from his mouth. You looked at who had landed that blow, still unable to fully comprehend what had just happened.

To your right, there stood Bob, his mouth hanging open a bit and his eyes glowing a dangerous golden colour. You hadn't noticed him getting up from the bar and coming over, but you were deeply grateful for him doing so, scared of what would've happened if he hadn't stepped in.

When he realised what he'd done, he shook his head slightly, the blue returning to his eyes once more, and he got ready to fight. With his fists raised in front of his face, he waited for the other guy to get back up again.

“What do you want, you limp noodle of a man, huh? You just got lucky with that one, fella.” The other guy pointed at Bob before spitting blood onto the light-up dance floor and cracking his neck, walking up to Bob. When he was still a few steps from him, Bob threw another punch, this time with even more force behind it and knocking Sam right out. There was a dark air around him, blackness enveloping his fist and travelling up his arm right before your eyes.

“She told you to leave her alone, asshat,” the Void growled, his voice several shades darker than that of Bob.

Looking at the limp figure before him for a split second, the Void went back in, throwing punch after punch, the black hand glistening from what must have been even more blood. Scared of what he’d do to Sam, you tried pulling Bob off of him, whispering into his ear that it was enough and for him to come back to you.

“Bob, please. He’s down already”, you begged and finally got enough strength to drag him away. Cupping his face, you tried to get Bob to focus on you and the black started to recede from his arms, his bloody hand cradling your face in return. It took a moment for the blue to return to his eyes again, for his jaw to unclench and the deep frown to relax a little.

"Are you ok, [y/n]?” Bob’s voice had gotten softer, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lasting harm.

"Yeah, I think I just need some fresh air," you murmured and held onto his shirt, your legs feeling like jell-o all of a sudden.

Bob wrapped a protective arm around your back when he felt you dip against his stature and pulled you closer, his eyes going to somewhere behind you. He gulped loudly and you looked over your shoulder at what he’d seen.

"You two!" The security guard pointed at you and Bob, and then motioned for you to get out of there.

"Congrats, you just earned yourself a no-return ticket out of this bar," the guard added, and Bob started sputtering, trying to argue about how Sam had started it, how he was just trying to protect you and that Sam should be the one getting kicked out of the bar instead. Picking up the bloody mess that the Void had turned Sam into, the security guard started for the door, looking over his shoulder as if waiting for us to follow him.

"Oh, don't worry, he's going with you!" The guard pushed Bob towards the back exit, Bob's shoulders slumping a little before making his way out of the group of onlookers, pulling you with him by the hand. You intertwined your fingers with his, trying not to lose him while pushing through the mass.

"Our friends are still inside," you tried when you got outside, but the security guard wouldn't have any of it, telling you 'life sucks' and 'better luck next time' while propping Sam up against the wall of the back alley. Without another word, he made for the back entrance before the door fell shut on him, and then disappeared into the turmoil inside the bar.

Looking around the dark alleyway, Bob scoffed before turning towards you, an angry look on his face.

"What a dick!"

You just shrugged your shoulders and felt tears well up in your eyes again, the shock of the situation wearing down and the fear taking over once more. When you tugged at his hand, Bob looked down, realising he was holding your hand, fingers intertwined, and let go before scratching the back of his head.

"Sorry, I didn't realise..."

He wiped his hands on his shirt, the blood staining the white shirt he was wearing under the flannel, and apologised again. When the first tears started to roll down your cheeks, a sob left your mouth and pulled his gaze back to you. His eyes widened in shock and his jaw went slack again, his brows knitting together in a regretful frown.

"Oh, no... I didn't mean to... [y/n], please don't cry..." He came up to you and cupped your cheeks, looking into your eyes deeply before wrapping his arms around you tightly. "I'm sorry... I just get really clammy hands whenever I feel... overwhelmed… And well, the blood and all…"

The embrace was warm, his arms feeling like a protective blanket wrapping around you, shielding you from any more harm. You sidled up to him, relishing in the comfort the hug offered against the cold air of night-time New York in early December. You stayed wrapped in his arms for a second, silent tears rolling down your cheeks while you tried to gather yourself, listening to the faint sound of his heart beating rapidly.

When you heard the groggy groans of the figure behind you, you tensed again and looked up at Bob, his face breaking further when he saw your tear-stained cheeks.

"Can you please get me out of here," you begged, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, and he nodded quickly before letting one arm fall down from its place around your frame and cupping your cheek.

"Yeah, sure. Just tell me where to," he affirmed, wiping away the latest tears with the pad of his thumb. When he realised that you were shivering, he shimmied out of his flannel, wrapping it around your shoulders and mumbling ‘here, this should keep you warm’ under his breath.

"Just take me home, please." You pulled the soft fabric around you tighter, the warm scent of cedarwood and vanilla mixed with his own warm smell enveloping your senses.

He nodded again and turned towards the exit of the alleyway, his right arm wrapping around your shoulder again while he led you towards the main street.

~~~

You guys spent the first few minutes of your walk in silence, not sure how to make conversation after what had happened.

That was until you were stood at a red light and Bob turned towards you, his arm having fallen from around you a few blocks ago.

"I'm sorry, I got us kicked out of the bar," he apologised and put his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, the uneasy look from earlier making its way back onto his face, knitting his eyebrows together and making him pull his bottom lip between his teeth.

"You really seemed to have a good time until that fucker turned up," Bob went on and you shrugged, the fun from earlier already a distant memory in the racing tornado of thoughts wreaking havoc in your mind.

"It was alright", your voice was low and you kicked at the burger wrapping left behind on the sidewalk, hoping you'd be able to boot the haunting images of past trauma away with it.

"Maybe it's stupid, but I kinda wanted to dance with you up there", Bob admitted, looking off towards the traffic light on the other side of the crossing.

His fingers were mindlessly fidgeting with the brand label at the hem of his shirt, a nervous habit you had observed so often when you were around him. When his gaze met yours, the small smile playing on his lips sent butterflies to your stomach, a warmth you hadn't felt in ages rushing up your arms and down your back.

"You looked really beautiful, you know. In the lights, lost to the music. Like you were somewhere else entirely and you didn't have a care in the world", he added, a chuckle at the end of his sentence, and his eyes sparkled, reflecting the cool light of the headlights lining the street.

"I would have liked that", you admitted, offering him a warm smile in return before turning your attention to the changing traffic light indicating you were allowed to cross the street.

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed that for long though,” he replied, chuckling to himself again, before looking over to where you were walking by his side. “I am a really terrible dancer. Like… I’ve totally got two left feet. Just the thought makes me feel sorry for your toes.”

He struck a pose and wiggled his butt to imaginary music when he reached the sidewalk, looking over his shoulder at you with his bottom lip between his teeth and trying his best to look seductive.

This had you laughing loudly then, holding onto his arm for support and putting your head against his shoulder, your eyes closing in appreciation.

“Thank you! I really needed that right now, Bob,” you got out between laughs and grinned up at him, the butterflies in your stomach making you feel like you were 14 all over again.

“Always at your service, m’lady.” He bowed and winked at you before continuing his way down the street, pulling you with him by the hand.

~~~

“Ok, so, I’m gonna hop in the shower real quick, but how about we put on some music after and have that dance party”, you suggested, walking through the elevator doors and looking over your shoulder at Bob, who had an easy smile on his face, his cheek a healthy shade of pink from all the laughing.

He put his arms out and grabbed a hold of the lapelles of the flannel you were still wearing, pulling you back closer to him before wrapping his arms around your frame in a tight hug. You snuggled up to him, ignoring the bloody streaks on his shirt and buried your head against his chest.

“What’s that for,” you asked, looking up at him from under your lashes and trying to keep yourself from blushing at the softness in his eyes.

“I just felt like hugging you, that’s all,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “You looked so cuddly in the dim light, wrapped up in my flannel.”

The words left his mouth quietly, barely above a whisper and when he realised he’d said it aloud, his eyes grew wide, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in a thick gulp. After trying to find the right words to reply to this and coming up empty, you pushed up on your tiptoes and put a quick kiss on his cheek. Scared you took it too far, you wriggled out of the embrace and turned to the general direction of your bedroom, leaving Bob standing near the elevator, his fingers repeatedly running over the spot that you had just kissed, his eyes glued to where you had just stood and his mouth opening and closing rapidly.

“Remember, dance party in the living room in ten minutes,” you yelled over your shoulder and vanished in your bedroom.

~~~

You connected your phone to the speakers in the living room, sneaking up to Bob sitting on the couch and wrapped your arms around his neck, a giant grin playing at your lips.

“Ready to dance, Bob,” you whispered in his ear cheekily, drawing out his name and letting your hands run down his chest while your towel dried hair fell around you.

He grabbed your wrists and pulled you over the back of the couch swiftly, making you land with your head in his lap, his hand quickly moving to your hip to keep you from rolling off the couch.

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he joked and pulled you up with him, his arm wrapped around you and letting his hand rest on the small of your back.

“Well, if you dance anything like what you showed me down on that street corner, I’m in for a hell of a time.” You pulled your phone from the pocket of the shorts you had gotten into after the shower and looked through your playlist for a good song to start with.

“Here, I think this will be a good one,” you mumbled, choosing ‘Me because of You’ by the Faim, and wiggled your eyebrows at him playfully, when the song started playing over the speakers.

“Ok, I think I can work with this,” he said, nodding his head and moving the coffee table off to the side to make more room for us to have fun. He stretched his arms and cracked his neck, starting with a simple step-touch and moving his shoulders to the beat of the song.

You studied him for a second, suddenly a little scared of what he might think of you if you just let loose and have fun. He motioned for you to come closer and you followed his request, stepping closer and trying to keep from laughing, when he faked licking his pointer and pinky and smoothing his eyebrows over.

“Come on, you can’t hold back now, [y/n],” he yelled over the music and pulled me closer right when the song said ‘dance with me, feel the beat, follow my lead’. He placed your hands on his shoulders and then put his hands on your waist again, starting to waltz with you for a whole two seconds before both of you burst out laughing.

“You wanted to dance with me. So, dance, love,” he added and moved his body to the beat again.

“I’m nervous,” you confessed, running your hands over the clean shirt he put on while you were in the shower, and looked at him, biting your lip restlessly.

“Close your eyes and just imagine I’m not here. You’re alone in your room where no one can see you. And then do what you do,” he tried, brushing a strand of towel dried hair out of your face.

“If it helps, I can close my eyes, too,” he offered and put his hands over his eyes, peeking through his fingers.

“Fine,” you grumbled and moved away from him a little, turning your back on him but then looking back over your shoulder to make sure he had his eyes covered.

When you saw that he really wasn’t peeking, you started to move and smiled to yourself, feeling the music take over your body and jumping up and down giddily. After a few seconds, you started to sing along and moved freely, turning around and shimmying your shoulders and nodding your head.

“Are you doing it? Are you dancing,” he asked, still covering his eyes but moving his hips to the beat.

You peeled his hands from his eyes and pulled him into the middle of the carpet, making him stumble over his own feet. He opened one eye, looking at your dancing figure, and you tried to hide the smirk playing at your lips. He joined in with dancing and pursed his lips, concentrating on his moves so as not to stumble over his own feet again.

When the chorus started to play for the last time, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer again, and started swaying with you, his head on top of yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours and then moved away from you, extending his arms before stepping in again. He threw your arms over his shoulders and stepped past you before turning around quickly, to repeat this spiel another time, though instead of simply stepping past you, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, swaying from side to side.

Bob sang along to the words, his voice in your ear as his head dipped down a little and then he spun you around and caught you in his arms again more masterfully than he had led on to believe before.

“Tonight, I’ve changed, yeah. I’m only me because of you.” He put his cheek against yours and hummed happily, picking you up and twirling you around.

When the song had ended, he held you in place, your forehead resting against his. His gaze was moving back and forth between your eyes and your lips, his breath having grown a little shallow. You could feel his hand travel up your side and then caress your cheek, his face coming closer until you could feel his shallow breath on your lips, the tips of your noses just millimeters away from each other.

Expecting him to close the last bit of distance, you closed your eyes and turned your head upwards a little, your heart beating rapidly inside your chest. The moments until he finally put his lips to yours felt like an eternity, millions of thoughts running through your brain, the anticipation of what it’d feel like to kiss him raising goosebumps across your body. When he finally closed the distance and kissed you, his lips were soft, moving against yours slowly at first and then you deepened the kiss, moving your hand to the back of his head. Your other hand ran up his chest, feeling his pecs flex under your touch.

When your teeth sank into his bottom lip, he let out a soft moan and you slipped your tongue into his mouth, exploring it carefully and moving your tongue in sync with his. His hand grabbed a fistful of your shirt and he moved you back over to the couch, letting you drop into his lap when the couch hit the back of his legs and he sat down.

You straddled him, your left arm wrapping around him to hold onto the backrest to keep you from falling into him, while your right hand ran through the hair at the back of his head, pulling on it softly, when one of his hands moved up the outside of your thigh to your hip.

He pulled away from you for a second, trying to catch his breath, his mouth hanging open a little while he searched your eyes for any sign of regret. When he couldn’t find any but instead realised that your mouth had split into a bright smile, he chuckled cheerfully and kissed you again hungrily.

With the kisses getting more and more heated, you started grinding into him, the aching need for feeling him closer growing in the pit of your stomach. When you rolled your hips a little extra hard, he groaned deeply and the grip of his hand on your hip grew stronger, a pleasant pain running up your spine and making you throw your head back.

His lips went to your neck, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses on the soft skin and then he started sucking on the pulse point underneath your ear, biting and licking and driving you into overdrive. The fingers buried in his hair pulled on his locks and his growing bulge started to rub up against you just the right way when he bucked his hips in response.

“We… should probably…”, he started in between kisses and you nodded mindlessly, trying to get as much friction from grinding down into him harder.

“Fuck, [y/n], ok, wait…” He stopped you from moving your hips by wrapping his arm around you and pulling you impossibly close, and then made you look him in the eyes before going on: “I can’t do it like this… If I have you, I want all of you.”

You gulped at this, realising he wasn’t joking and felt your jaw go slack.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but I will not let this be how I have you for the first time.” His thumb caressed your cheek and he kissed you softly, his forehead falling to yours, probably fighting the urge to just have you right then and there.

“Then take me to your room, Bob,” you mumbled breathlessly when he pulled away again, nuzzling your face with his in a love-drunken state. You placed soft kisses all over his face, earning a little chuckle from him, when you moved down to his neck, his head falling back to give you more room to work with.

“[y/n], god, you drive me crazy,” he moaned and let his hands slip underneath your shirt, sending shivers down your spine from the tiny sparks his touch left on your skin. Letting out a ‘mh-hm’ in response, you ran your thumb over his bottom lip and kissed him again, your tongue slipping into his mouth easily.

His hands went down your back and held onto your ass when he picked you up in one smooth motion, your legs wrapping around his hips to gain more stability. Your arms snaked around his neck and a chuckle escaped your mouth when he stumbled over the couch on his way out of the living room, holding you in space with one arm while he steadied himself.

“How about we stop kissing until we’re actually in your bedroom,” you joked and he nodded, telling you ‘that’s a good idea’ before making his way over to his bedroom, his steps quick and assertive.

“Wait, we still have to turn off the music,” you realised when you were halfway down the hallway and Bob stopped dead in his tracks, sighing heavily. He looked back over his shoulder and you could see the cogs work behind his eyes, trying to decide what to do.

“Ok, you go turn off the music and I’ll get everything ready?”

Setting you down on the floor, he pecked your lips and then slapped your ass, making you jump a little and hurry back to the living room. You made quick work of turning off the music and grabbing your phone, eager to get back to Bob and what you were doing, running back down the hallway to where his bedroom was. Sliding in through the door, you stopped when you saw that Bob was on the phone with someone, holding up a finger to you just as you wanted to ask what was wrong.

“Oh, no, y’all can stay out longer. No… No. [y/n] wasn’t feeling too hot, so I took her home.” He looked at the floor for a second, scratching his head while trying to understand Yelena over the thumping music on the other side of the line. “I think she’s sleeping already. No… I don’t think she’ll mind! Go have fun, you guys,” he added and then ended the call after telling Yelena goodbye.

“Is everything ok,” you enquired, walking up to him and putting your phone on his desk, the screen lighting up and showing you had a couple of missed calls from Yelena and Ava. He matched you and put his phone down next to yours, before turning back to you and searching your face for a second.

“Yeah, they were just worried where we went and because they couldn’t reach us earlier.”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer and brushing the hair from the slope of your neck, adding a ‘so, where were we’ before running his fingers over the soft skin under your chin.

“Are they coming back already?” You asked, your head falling back when Bob started to kiss your neck.

“No, there’s this party at another bar they wanna check out.” He bit your neck playfully and then nuzzled the side of your face, telling you that the two of you should be in the clear for the next few hours. He picked you up again and walked over to his bed, dropping you in the middle of the mattress before climbing onto the mattress and kneeling down between your legs.

“Next few hours? What do you have planned,” you asked cheekily, your hands working on taking off his shirt.

“I’m gonna take my time with you, love,” he replied, helping you to get him out of his shirt and kissing you passionately.

Your fingertips ran over his abs and up into his hair again and you pulled him down with you, moaning when his hips settled between yours like puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly.

“God, you sound so good when you moan,” he whined desperately, his hand caressing your cheek and then running through your hair. “You sound so much better than I could ever imagine.”

“You imagined how I’d sound?” Your voice was barely a whisper, too much anticipation and desire clouding your brain already. The building tension in your core was painful at this point and you could feel your arousal gathering between your legs.

“More often than I’d like to admit, yes.” His kisses were growing hungrier with every passing second, his hands running down your sides, pulling at the fabric of your shirt and digging into the bare skin of your legs. He wanted to feel your skin and memorise every inch of it, having wanted to touch you for months now.

“What did you picture,” you asked, flipping you over and straddling his hips again, pulling your shirt over your head and grinding your hips into his rhythmically. His eyes were wandering over your torso, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip before he sat up and wrapped his arms around you to work on undoing your bra. When he’d opened the clasp in the back, he slipped the straps down your shoulders, kissing the freckles that dusted your skin there.

“The way you’d sound… How you’d taste…” He pulled your face closer, his fingers on your chin, and placed his lips on yours again, this time slow and deep. His other hand came up to your right breast and cupped it, running his thumb over your nipple hardening from the relative cold in the room. “How you’d look taking me. The way your face breaks when I make you cum…”

He bucked his hips, his clothed erection pushing up into your clit and you gasped, running your fingernails over his abs, your head falling forwards to rest on his shoulder. You moved your hips with his, the layered fabric of your shorts and panties rubbing up against your core with every thrust of his hips. It had been a while since you last were intimate with someone, so you could already feel the knot in your lower stomach begin to tighten, your breath hitching when Bob’s tongue licked over your sensitive nipple before taking your breast into his mouth.

Your hand travelled further south and you lifted your hips, dipping your fingers into the waistband of his joggers, realising he wasn’t wearing any boxers underneath when you made contact with his hot skin. Trying to meet his eyes, you lifted your eyebrows in surprise and he shrugged, letting go of your breast with a popping sound.

“Hey, a guy can hope, right,” he tried to defend himself and smirked at you, when you pushed him down onto the mattress, while your other hand slipped into his joggers fully and wrapped around his hard length. He was bigger than you’d imagined, thicker too, and at the thought of having him inside of you, your pussy started to ache deliciously and eager.

You pumped your hand up his length slowly and his eyes rolled up into his head, his jaw hanging open slightly, a string of curses and whines leaving his mouth. Seeing him enjoy your touch this much, sent you into overdrive, and you moved off his legs, pulling down his joggers with you, before throwing them to the other corner of his room. His erection sprang free and you took in the sight before you, Bob leaning on his elbows, completely naked and looking sexier than you ever dreamt up.

Running your hands through your hair, you felt your cheeks heat up and hid your face in your hands, chuckling to yourself for a second.

“What? [y/n], what’s wrong? Did I do something wrong,” he asked, worry evident in his voice while he moved to sit up a little, his hands on your shoulders.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you started and took a deep breath, letting your hands fall from your face and meeting his eyes. “It’s just been a while and I… Well, I didn’t think I’d ever end up in this situation,” you added, your eyes darting over the smile lines appearing around his eyes and the dimple in his right cheek. “I think, it just hit me that this is happening, you know?”

He nodded, understanding you perfectly well, his thumb caressing your cheek before he kissed you. His arms wrapped around your shoulders and he laid you down gently, settling between your legs. You deepened the kiss, running your left hand through his dark locks while your right hand travelled down his back and settled on his hips. You wrapped one of your legs around his hip and smiled into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of his skin on your own.

“Like I said, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And we can take our time, there’s no rush. Not tonight,” he murmured against your lips, his forehead resting on yours between soft kisses.

“I want you, Bob,” you whispered, searching his eyes, the blue of them having darkened by lust. “I want all of you.”

His face split into a bright grin and he let his head fall to the crook of your neck, hiding his own nervousness by peppering your skin with kisses again. His left hand moved down your side and to the leg wrapped around his hip as he angled his hip a little, his erection brushing up against your core again. You moaned softly and tried to meet him better, your leg snaking around him more tightly.

“If we’re really gonna do this, then we’re gonna do this right,” Bob said, his voice darker than before and sending shivers down your spine.

He pulled away from you, his fingertips moving to the waistband of your shorts and he pulled them down your legs, your panties coming off with them. Bob tossed them over to where his joggers had landed and spread your legs slowly, taking you in and biting on his bottom lip, his eyes sparkling in the dim light from his bedside lamp. He let his fingers dance over the inside of your legs, drawing loose shapes on your skin from your ankles up to your hips and then grabbed one of his pillows from above your head. You lifted your hips and he put the pillow under your ass, settling between your legs and looking at you intently from under his lashes.

“You sure you wanna do this? You can say no or stop me at any time,” he assured you and you nodded, biting down on the knuckle of your index finger in anticipation, butterflies making somersaults in your tummy. He lowered his head and blew on you, earning himself a low whimper from you, the air feeling cold against your wet pussy. He ran a finger up between your folds and chuckled, sending vibrations through your core from how close his mouth was to your center.

“God, you’re already so wet and I haven’t even done anything.”

His finger slipped into your vagina with ease and the squelching sound that was heard by him pulling it out again, made the blush on your cheeks deepen. He pushed his finger back in and then curled it, making you moan his name loudly as he brushed your g-spot. He repeated this a couple of times while his tongue ran along the outside of your folds, slowly making its way inwards. When he finally ran the tip of his tongue up your folds and flicked your clit, your hips bucked, another moan falling from your lips, having him hum in response.

“You taste so good, babe.” He lapped at you and then slowed down again, the tip of his tongue circling your clit and then flicking it with a masterful tab, sending sparks up your spine and making your toes curl. Your fingers buried into his locks again and you pulled on them, pulling him closer in an attempt to get even more friction.

“Mhm, do you like that,” he asked, meeting your gaze and smirking cheekily.

“Yeah, feels good, Bob,” you moaned, your head falling back down and your eyes rolling back when he removed his finger from your hole and circled your pussy with the tip of his tongue. Then, he added another finger up, running them through your folds and back down towards your vagina before thrusting them in, this time a little more forcefully.

You yelped in surprise and pulled on his hair, your legs going a little numb. He waited to move his fingers for a second, looking down at how his fingers had disappeared in you completely and then pulled them back out a bit, curling the same way he did before, brushing over your g-spot again. When he’d found a good rhythm that had you breathing heavily, the knot tightening in your stomach, he put his mouth on you again and pushed you over the edge, your toes curling while your legs tensed around his head. One of your hands left his head to move to the bedsheets, gripping it hard as pleasure rushed over your body like a tidal wave.

“Fuck, Bob, you feel so good.”

You were writhing under him, Bob relentlessly licking up your juices while you clawed at his shoulders and rode the highs of the orgasm coursing through your body. The wet noises of his fingers pumping in and out of you filled your ears and you felt another wave of the orgasm rain down on you when his teeth scraped over your sensitive nub before flicking it again with his tongue. You could feel your walls clamp down around his fingers and then heard him chuckle deeply, before his arm pushed down on your hips, keeping you in place.

He kept at it, fingering you and eating you out, only coming up from between your legs when you started to come down from the high, your breath still rushed and shallow. You ran your hand through your hair, and looked at him, moving up your body, his lips glistening from your arousal and his spit mixed together. He put his fingers into his mouth and sucked your juices off of them, closing his eyes in ecstasy and the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile, after he pulled his fingers out again.

“God, that was so hot,” he breathed, putting his lips to yours and kissing you hungrily. You nodded, deepening the kiss by slipping your tongue into his mouth and tasting yourself on his tongue. Your hand ran down his torso and wrapped around his length again, your thumb wiping over his tip and feeling the sticky precum leaking out of him. With your brain still hazy from your recent orgasm, you pushed him down onto the mattress and started peppering kisses on his neck, moving down to his clavicle and his chest, the nails of your free hands scratching over his chest, while the other one pumped his length slowly.

When you were on the same level with his dick, you looked up at him and opened your mouth, taking him in as far as you could, your hand still wrapped around the part of him that didn’t fit into your mouth anymore. You started bobbing your head up and down his length and his fingers ran through your hair, his hand cupping the back of your head and aiding you in keeping an enjoyable rhythm, while whines and moans fell from his lips.

“Oh, fuck. You’re better than I ever imagined,” he whined, his hips bucking and his dick hit the back of your throat.

Your eyes travelled back up his figure and you opened your mouth a little further, trying to take more of him. Tears were brimming at the corners of your eyes and your own arousal started running down the inside of your leg, so you moved your free hand to your clit, rubbing yourself while sucking him off.

After a couple more bobs of your head, Bob groaned loudly, his hips tensing and his grip on your hair getting harder. His cum spilled onto your tongue and you swallowed it, humming in enjoyment, while continuing the motion of your hand pumping up and down his length. Feeling another orgasm approaching from your own fingers between your legs, you moaned, some residual cum of his running out the corner of your mouth and dripping on his length.

Biting down on your lips, you looked up at him, his mouth hanging open at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He motioned for you to come closer, pushing your hand away from between your legs to take over while pulling you into his lap again. You rested your head against his shoulder, while his fingers were drawing circles around your clit, pushing you ever closer to the edge. You could feel that you were getting overstimulated already and whined, wanting to get the release you so desperately needed. Pulling his lips to yours and kissing him hungrily, you moved your hips a little to meet his touch, his fingers slipping into you once more while the pad of thumb brushed up against your clitoris.

“Bob, don’t stop. Please, I’m so close,” you whined, your face falling at the pressure building in your core.

“Come on, baby. Come for me,” he whispered into your ear and nibbled on your earlobe, thrusting his fingers into you deeper and curling them on their way out.

Feeling his tongue lick over your pulse point was enough to make you fall over the edge again, his fingers brushing your g-spot again and again, sparks flying between your bodies. Your nails dug into his back and you rode his fingers, moaning his name at the top of your lungs.

“God, I love it when you moan my name like that.”

He put you back down on the mattress, knowing you’d need the support of the bed beneath you, your legs having turned to jelly and shaking from all of the stimulation. Your chest was rising and falling quickly while you tried to catch your breath, absolutely exhausted from two big orgasms so close together.

“Do you need a little break,” he asked, laying down next to you and running his fingers up and down your sides. You turned your head toward his and the look on his face was so soft, caring and full of love, making your heart ache at being the object of his adoration. You nodded, still unable to form words, the last after waves of your orgasm having your ears ringing and your fingertips feeling numb.

Bob pulled you a little closer, wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead, and placed soft kisses all over your face, telling you how beautiful you were. How lucky he was to be here with you at that moment. How he never thought this would actually happen.

“You know, I thought you didn’t like me,” you told him, your voice still barely a whisper, your fingers starting to draw circles on his chest while his fingertips did the same on your shoulder blade. “That you didn’t want to spend time with me when the others were gone because you secretly hated me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like you,” he said softly, his hand cupping your face and making you look at him, before going on: “I’m sorry that I made you feel like I hated you, but it is clearly the very opposite.”

He kissed you then, softly and with all the love he felt for you. Your lips melted against his and a warmth spread in your chest, creeping up the back of your neck and rolling over your legs and into your tiptoes. This kiss was different, it wasn’t hungry or desperate but still intense in its own way. Even after everything the two of you just did, you felt closer to Bob now, his arms wrapping around you tighter and flipping you on your back again, your legs intertwined lazily and his broad chest like a shield keeping you safe.

You stayed like that for a little while then, making out and exploring each other’s body slowly, your touch soft and meaningful, as if you wanted to memorise every inch of the other’s figure. You couldn’t say how long you were just lying there, enjoying each other’s presence and forgetting everything around you. It could’ve been five minutes or it could’ve been an hour but it didn’t matter to you because you were right where you wanted to be. Wrapped in his arms, having his lips on yours and feeling his delicate touch on your body.

His lips ran over your shoulders, dusting the freckles with love, while your lips grazed his collarbone, your fingers gripping his ass cheeks and earning you a high pitched giggle from him.

“Are you ticklish,” you enquired, a cheeky smirk on your lips and he shook his head vigorously, trying to push your hands off of him.

“No, of course I’m not ticklish. What makes you think that?” He rolled his eyes and tried to put a little distance between you two, his hands swatting at you trying to poke his sides.

“I don’t know. That very manly giggle that just slipped past your lips, maybe,” you teased and his jaw dropped, so threw yourself at him playfully, making him lose his balance and taking you down with him.

“I don’t know what you're talking about. What giggle?” He grinned up at you and cupped your cheek, pulling you down to him and kissing you again passionately.

With your leg thrown over his hip, you could feel him getting hard again and you moved your hips, straddling him once more. You purred softly at his length pressing up against your folds and instinctively grinded down on him, coating the underside of his dick in your arousal. Bob’s hand gripped your hip and he stopped you from moving for a second.

“Wait, I’ve got condoms in the drawer over there,” he murmured, motioning to his bedside table, and his voice broke when you rolled your hips into his again.

“I’m on the pill, so,” you started, kissing him quickly and then added: “I’m good either way.”

He looked at you and for a second, his brows knitted together in a frown. He let his thumb run over your bottom lip and you stopped moving, lifting your hips a little before leaning over to his bedside table.

“I just wanna make sure nothing unexpected happens, you know,” he started to explain and you looked over your shoulder, opening the drawer slowly.

“Bob, hey. It’s ok, really!” Your hand looked for the packet of condoms and took one out when you found it, before turning back to him. “I’m glad you wanna be safe, love.” You cupped his cheek and smiled at him, placing a quick kiss on his lips.

You opened the shiny packaging and took out the condom, turning it over in your fingers to have it the right way around. Pinching the tip of it, you looked at Bob and asked him if he was ready. When he nodded, inching closer to you, you grabbed his length and put the condom on, pushing the rubbery material down his length easily. His hand came up to caress your cheek and he kissed you softly, his fingers burying in the hair at the back of your head while you climbed onto him, straddling his hips again.

With your hand still wrapped around his length, you guided his dick along your folds and then lowered onto it, moaning at the burning sensation of his thickness stretching you slowly. Bob’s jaw dropped and he groaned at slipping into you, his teeth digging into your bottom lip. You stayed there for a second, trying to adjust to the feeling of him filling you up so well and held onto his shoulders before you lifted your hips again slowly. The delicious pain of his size slipping in and out of you made your brain go foggy and you sank down onto him with more ease this time. Picking up the pace, you threw your head back and rode Bob’s dick, his right hand on your breast, kneading the tissue while his tongue worked on the nipple of your other breast. His left hand was on your hip, guiding you as you took him.

“Mhm, you fill me up so well, Bob,” you mused and bounced on him, the pain having turned to pleasure a few thrusts ago. His mouth let go of your breast and he pulled your face down, kissing you hungrily and he bucked his hips into yours and slipping in deeper with the next thrust, bottoming out. You moaned into his mouth loudly and let a giggle fall over your lips as you noticed the familiar feeling of your orgasm nearing.

He stopped moving for a second and turned you around, so you were beneath him and then he grabbed your right leg and moved it from around his hips to have it over his shoulder instead, changing the angle at which he thrusted into you.

Bob groaned against your mouth as he bottomed out again, his balls slapping against your ass with the next thrust and you let out a moan of his name, your nails digging into his back.

“Ugh, you’re so tight, babe. Feel so good,” he slurred and went to town on you, thrusting in and pulling back out, his bed groaning under his movements.

“You gotta tell me if I’m too rough,” he whispered into your ear, enveloping you with his form and leaning on his elbow while his other hand held onto your leg.

“No, it’s good. So good, Bob,” you assured, relishing in the feeling of him filling you up to the brim and stretching you with every thrust. You knew that you were close again, the knot twisting and tightening and you reached between your bodies, your fingers working on your clit while his dick slipped in and out of you at an exquisite pace.

He looked down at where your bodies met and whined, his forehead falling to yours. The sound of skin hitting skin filled the room and you were glad that the rest of the team was still out, fearing just how much they would’ve been able to hear of what you two were doing.

“[y/n], fuck, you feel so good. I don’t know how much longer I can…” The movement of his hips got a little sloppy and you kissed him again, steadying him with a hand on his ass while you tried to meet his thrusts with your hip.

“It’s ok, babe. Come, Bob. I’m right behind you,” you purred into his ear and his hips stuttered, a low groan falling from his lips. You moved your hips, helping him ride out his orgasm and kissed his closed lids, when he suddenly thrusted into you harder again, pushing you closer and over the edge.

You fell with him, your third orgasm of the night sending lighting through your whole body. You clung to his body, biting into his shoulder and scratching your nails over his back, earning a wince from him at the pain that seemed to send him into a flurry. Your walls clenched around him as your orgasm progressed and he put his lips on your neck, riding out your shared orgasm, his breathing quick and shallow.

When he came down from his high, he sighed, an exhausted but gratified look on his face, and laid down next to you. You curled up to him, throwing your arm over his chest and putting your head on his chest, listening to the rapid beating of his heart and his quick breath.

“Did I hurt you?” The question came suddenly and you looked at him, confused at where the concern was coming from.

“Why are you asking?”

“This was my first time since the medical trial,” he started and turned onto his side, wrapping his arm around your hip.

“No, you didn’t hurt me, Bob. Quite the opposite, actually.” You caressed his cheek and kissed him softly, before adding: “I enjoyed it very much, if you couldn’t tell.”

A proud smile pushed up the corners of his mouth and he shook his head, chuckling lightheaded.

“God, you’re an incredible woman, [y/n].”

516 notes · View notes

holeforzenin · 9 hours ago

Text

You’ve been with Satoru for almost a year now—laughing at his dumb anime references, dodging his wandering hands because fuck he’s just so overwhelmingly clingy, and letting yourself fall into the stupid, soft little rhythms of loving someone who should’ve been your enemy.

And that’s the problem.

Because the whole reason you were ever supposed to get close to him was to kill him.

It’s not like you hadn’t tried before. Sneaking poison in his tea—he spat it out and made you drink it instead, pretending it was some flirty trust game. A cursed blade under the bed, slipped under his ribs during sex—he moaned louder and flipped you over, praising how “kinky” you were getting like it was a joke. He just…never. Dies.

And now you’re sitting on his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, guilt scraping your stomach raw because tonight is supposed to be it.

He’s so warm and soft under you, stupidly shirtless like always, skin golden and freckled from the early summer sun. That dumb blindfold is pushed up into his hair, white lashes low over his eyes so blue that you still can’t believe they’re actually real.

You can feel the edge of the cursed dagger against your thigh under your dress. All you have to do is reach.

“You okay, sweets?” he murmurs, fingers rubbing gentle circles into your lower back. “You’re all tense”.

You look at him—at the little beauty mark under his eye, at the way he’s already fondly smiling at you, like he knows.

“…Yeah. Just thinking”.

“About murdering me again?”

You freeze.

He hums, nuzzling his face into your cheek, his warm breathe giving you goosebumps. “Don’t pout. You get all cute and tragic before every attempt”.

“So you knew?”

“Course I knew”. He laughs boyishly like he’s tired of it but loving it anyway. “Why do you think I’ve been letting you get close? I wanted to see how long it’d take you to catch feelings”.

Your face burns. “I haven’t—!”

“Oh no?” His hand drops low, palm spreading over the curve of your ass, squeezing just hard enough to make you twitch. “Then what was that little speech last night? About how I’m the only one who makes you feel safe?”

“I was drunk”.

“No no, you said it while sober”.

You scowl. “Oh my gosh, you’re so insufferable”.

“And you’re a very bad assassin, angel”.

“Stop calling me that”.

“No,” he says, sweet and final. Then he leans up, brushing his mouth over yours like you’re not seconds from killing him—like you couldn’t, even if you tried. “Do it, then. C’mon”.

You blink. “What?”

He nudges his nose along your jaw. “Go on. Try again. Right now”.

Your fingers tremble where they curl around the handle under your dress. And he knows—he wants you to do it. But not because he’s challenging you.

Because he wants to see what you’ll choose.

And you hate it—hate that your heart clenches instead of your grip. Hate that your thighs press tighter around his hips instead of shoving off him. Hate that it’s already decided, and it’s not him dying tonight.

“…You’re a bastard,” you whisper as the dagger slips from your grip and lands on the floor with a loud, dramatic clatter.

He grins as his lips brushes your ear.

“Mmhm. But I’m your bastard now, huh?”

909 notes · View notes

ghstyles · 2 days ago

Text

11:59 PM | H.S

Boyfriendrry | Smut | One shot | Prince hair Harry | Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

[I'm thinking about taking you into one of those private rooms upstairs.

Pushing that dress up around your waist.

Seeing if those new black panties taste as good as they look. ]

a/n: this one was fun to write. It’s just hot. Enjoy!!

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

“Harry? How long do you think you can go without sex?”

Harry's attention is fixed on the TV screen, where some gritty crime drama is playing, one of those shows he claims to watch for the "compelling storytelling," but Y/N suspects he mostly enjoys for the moody cinematography and expensive production design. He's sprawled comfortably on their couch, one arm draped along the back cushions behind her, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sits forgotten between them.

At her unexpected question, his hand pauses midway to his mouth, a piece of popcorn held between his fingers. He turns toward her slowly, one eyebrow arched in amused curiosity, a hint of wariness in his green eyes.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asks, as if he might have misheard her over the sound of the detective on screen delivering his monologue about the darkness inherent in human nature.

Y/N shifts slightly to face him better, tucking one leg underneath her and propping her elbow on the back of the couch. She's wearing one of his old tour t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, her hair piled back in a bun that's gradually coming undone. There's something deliberately casual in her posture that doesn't quite match the gleam in her eyes.

"I asked how long you think you could go without sex," she repeats, her tone conversational but with an undercurrent of mischief.

Harry studies her face for a moment, clearly trying to determine if this is a trap of some kind or if there's a specific reason for her inquiry. He reaches for the remote and pauses the show, giving her his full attention now.

"Is this a hypothetical question," he asks carefully, "or are you telling me something I should be worried about?"

A small smile plays at the corners of Y/N's mouth.

"Hypothetical," she assures him. "Just curious."

Harry leans back against the cushions, considering the question with more seriousness than she perhaps expected. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead in that unconscious gesture she's always found endlessly attractive.

"Physically? Probably a while," he finally answers, his voice thoughtful. "Mentally?" A slow, suggestive smile spreads across his face as his eyes travel deliberately down her body and back up again. "About three days before I'd start losing my mind."

He shifts closer to her on the couch, the popcorn bowl now an unwelcome barrier between them.

"Why the sudden interest in my sexual endurance?" he asks, reaching out to twirl a loose strand of her hair around his finger. "Planning to test me or something?"

Y/N shrugs, maintaining her innocent expression despite the way her pulse quickens at his proximity.

"Just thinking about that interview you did last week," she explains. "The one where they asked about your 'self-discipline' and you said you were 'surprisingly good at denying yourself things you want.'"

Harry's eyes narrow slightly as he recalls the interview, a fairly standard press junket for his latest album where the journalist had been fishing for quotes about his fitness regimen and diet.

"Ah," he says, understanding dawning. "And you found that claim...questionable?"

"Not questionable," Y/N corrects him, her fingers absently playing with the hem of her borrowed shirt. "Just...untested. In certain areas."

A dangerous glint appears in Harry's eyes as he moves the popcorn bowl to the coffee table, eliminating the barrier between them. He slides closer until their thighs are touching, his hand coming to rest casually, possessively, on her knee.

"Let me get this straight," he says, his voice dropping to that low, slightly raspy register that never fails to send a shiver down her spine. "You're wondering if I could practice sexual self-restraint for an extended period? If I could deny myself...certain pleasures?"

His fingers trace small, maddening circles on her bare skin just above her knee.

"Something like that," Y/N confirms, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the heat beginning to pool low in her belly at his touch.

Harry's smile turns predatory, dimples appearing in sharp relief against the slight stubble on his cheeks.

"And what brought on this line of questioning?" he asks, his hand sliding up to rest on her thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to the hem of her shorts. "Academic curiosity? Or did you have something more...practical in mind?"

Y/N tilts her head, enjoying the way his eyes follow the movement, tracking the exposed line of her neck with unmistakable hunger.

"Maybe I was thinking we could make a little wager," she suggests, her tone deliberately light. "Test that famous self-discipline of yours."

Harry's eyebrows shoot up, genuine intrigue replacing some of the playful seduction in his expression.

"A wager?" he repeats, clearly interested. "What kind of stakes are we talking about, love?"

Y/N pretends to consider this, tapping her finger against her chin thoughtfully.

"Well, if you win, if you can go, say, two weeks without sex, then I'll..." she leans forward and whispers something in his ear, something that causes his pupils to dilate noticeably and his hand to tighten on her thigh.

"Jesus," he mutters when she pulls back, swallowing hard. "And if I lose?"

"If you lose," Y/N continues, emboldened by his reaction, "you have to admit publicly, in your next interview, that you have absolutely no self-discipline whatsoever when it comes to certain...appetites."

Harry barks out a laugh, genuinely amused by her suggested terms.

"You want me to tell Rolling Stone or whoever that I can't keep it in my pants?" he asks, shaking his head in disbelief. "My publicist would have a coronary."

"You wouldn't have to be that explicit," Y/N clarifies, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Just say something about how your girlfriend proved your claims of self-restraint were greatly exaggerated."

Harry studies her face, his expression a mixture of amusement, desire, and competitive interest.

"Two weeks, huh?" he muses, his thumb resuming its maddening circles on her thigh. "No sex of any kind?"

"None," Y/N confirms firmly. "No intercourse, no oral, no hands, nothing. Complete abstinence."

Harry's eyes narrow thoughtfully.

"And this starts...?"

"Right now," Y/N declares with a decisive nod.

A slow smile spreads across Harry's face as he considers the challenge. He leans in closer, his breath warm against her ear.

"You realize," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that she feels more than hears, "that you're also denying yourself for two weeks. You sure you can handle that, baby?"

There's a note of challenge in his voice that makes Y/N's competitive spirit flare to match his own.

"Oh, I'll be fine," she assures him with perhaps more confidence than she actually feels. "I'm not the one who claimed to have exceptional self-discipline in a national publication."

Harry laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet of their living room.

"Alright then," he agrees, extending his hand for a formal shake. "Two weeks, starting now. No sex of any kind."

Y/N takes his hand, but instead of shaking it, Harry uses the grip to pull her forward suddenly, catching her off guard. In one fluid movement, he has her beneath him on the couch, his body pressing hers into the cushions as he captures her mouth in a kiss that is anything but chaste.

His tongue traces the seam of her lips, demanding entry that she grants without hesitation, heat flaring instantly between them. One of his hands tangles in her hair, the other gripping her hip as he deepens the kiss with a thoroughness that leaves her breathless. When he finally pulls back, they're both breathing heavily, and Y/N can feel the hard evidence of his arousal pressed against her thigh.

"Just wanted one last taste," he explains with a wicked grin, his voice rough with desire. "To remember what I'm missing."

Before she can respond, he pushes himself up and off her completely, returning to his side of the couch with deliberate casualness, though the flush on his cheeks and the darkness of his eyes betray his affected nonchalance.

He picks up the remote, unpausing the show as if nothing had happened, though his smirk gives him away.

"Two weeks starts now," he announces, reaching for the popcorn bowl again. "Hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, love."

Y/N sits up, adjusting her shirt where it's ridden up to expose a strip of her midriff, trying to regulate her breathing and ignore the persistent throb of arousal his kiss has left her with.

"I think the question is whether you know what you've gotten yourself into," she counters, settling back against the cushions with forced composure.

Harry just smiles, his eyes still on the TV screen, though she can tell he's not really watching.

"Game on, baby," he says quietly, and the simple phrase manages to sound like both a promise and a threat.

Y/N turns her attention back to the show, acutely aware of the two weeks stretching ahead of them and the man beside her who has never been good at denying himself, or her, anything they both want. As challenges go, she's beginning to think this one might be harder than she anticipated...for both of them.

But as Harry's hand finds hers on the couch between them, giving it a gentle squeeze that somehow manages to be both affectionate and suggestive, Y/N can't help but think that win or lose, the next two weeks are going to be very interesting indeed.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Day 13 finds Y/N in the master bathroom, carefully applying mascara while silently cursing herself for what has become thirteen days of exquisite torture. The bet that had seemed so amusing, so winnable, thirteen days ago has evolved into a test of willpower that's fraying her last nerve.

She caps the mascara tube with more force than necessary, setting it down on the marble countertop with a sharp click. Her reflection stares back at her: hair styled in loose waves, makeup subtle but enhancing, wearing nothing but a matching set of black lace underwear that Harry hasn't seen yet. She's getting ready for a gala they're attending tonight, a high-profile event that will have photographers, industry executives, and other celebrities, the perfect venue for Harry to be on his best behavior.

Which is precisely why she's chosen tonight to wear her most dangerously low-cut dress.

The past thirteen days have been an escalating game of chicken, with both of them finding increasingly creative ways to test the other's resolve without technically breaking the rules of their agreement. No sex of any kind, but as it turns out, there's a vast territory of torment that falls just short of that definition.

Harry started subtly: walking around shirtless more often than usual, "accidentally" brushing against her in the kitchen, letting his gaze linger a beat too long when she emerged from the shower. But by day five, subtlety had been abandoned. He began describing in explicit detail what he planned to do to her when the two weeks were up, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that never fails to make her thighs clench. He'd taken to sitting unnecessarily close during movies, his fingers tracing innocent-seeming patterns on her arm or leg that somehow felt more erotic than a direct touch ever could.

Y/N had retaliated in kind. She wore his favorite shirts to bed, and nothing else. She made inappropriate noises while eating ice cream. She "stretched" in ways that highlighted her flexibility, reminding him of positions they'd enjoyed in the past. Once, she'd even read passages from an erotic novel aloud, claiming she was "just sharing literature" when he'd nearly broken the arm of the sofa gripping it so hard.

But despite her best efforts, Harry has maintained a maddening level of control. Oh, she's gotten to him, the evidence of his arousal has been impossible to miss on multiple occasions, but he hasn't cracked. Hasn't begged. Hasn't suggested they call the whole thing off. Instead, he's matched her provocation for provocation, escalation for escalation, all while maintaining that infuriating smirk that says he knows exactly what game they're playing and he intends to win.

The most frustrating part is that Y/N is starting to think he might.

She's been climbing the walls for days now, hyperaware of his every movement, his scent, the sound of his voice. Last night, she'd actually woken from an explicit dream about him so worked up that she'd seriously considered waking him to concede defeat. Only pride had stopped her, pride and the knowledge that Harry would be impossibly smug about it for months.

The bathroom door opens, startling her from her thoughts, and Harry appears in the doorway. He's already dressed for the gala, looking devastatingly handsome in a bespoke black suit that fits him so perfectly it might as well be painted on. His hair is styled back from his face, several rings adorn his fingers, and he's wearing a subtle cologne that makes Y/N want to bury her face in his neck.

"Almost ready?" he asks, his eyes traveling over her state of undress with deliberate slowness. "Car will be here in twenty."

Y/N turns to face him fully, leaning back against the counter in a pose that emphasizes her lace-clad curves.

"Almost," she confirms, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Just need to put on my dress."

Harry's eyes darken as they linger on the black lace covering her breasts, the matching underwear that sits low on her hips.

"New?" he asks, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago.

Y/N nods, running her fingers along the lace edge of her bra in a gesture that's obviously adjusting but is actually pure provocation.

"Thought I'd treat myself," she says with affected casualness. "Do you like it?"

Harry's jaw tightens visibly, his knuckles whitening where he grips the doorframe.

"It's nice," he manages, the understatement of the century given the heat in his gaze. "Very...appropriate for a charity event."

Y/N laughs softly, pushing off from the counter and moving toward him, toward the bedroom where her dress is laid out on the bed.

"The dress is appropriate," she corrects him, stopping when she's close enough that he can smell her perfume but not quite touching. "This is just for later."

The implication hangs in the air between them: later, when the bet is over, when the two weeks have passed and all restrictions are lifted. Tomorrow marks the end of their agreement, and they both know it.

Harry's eyes never leave hers as he steps aside to let her pass, but not quite far enough that she can avoid brushing against him. The brief contact sends a jolt through Y/N that's almost embarrassing in its intensity.

In the bedroom, her dress waits on the bed: a floor-length black gown with a slit that reaches mid-thigh and a neckline that plunges daringly low. It's elegant enough for the event but designed specifically to drive Harry to distraction.

She's aware of him watching as she steps into it, pulling it up over her hips and adjusting it over her chest. The fabric clings in all the right places, the cut revealing just enough skin to be tantalizing without crossing into inappropriate territory.

"Zip me?" she asks innocently, turning her back to him and gathering her hair to one side.

There's a pause, just long enough for her to wonder if he'll refuse, before she feels him move behind her. His fingers brush the bare skin of her back as he takes hold of the zipper, and Y/N has to bite her lip to suppress a shiver.

Harry pulls the zipper up with deliberate slowness, his knuckles grazing her spine inch by torturous inch. When he reaches the top, his hands settle briefly on her shoulders, warm and solid.

"You look stunning," he murmurs, his breath tickling the sensitive skin just below her ear.

Y/N turns to face him, finding him closer than she expected, close enough that she can see the various shades of green in his irises, the slight dilation of his pupils.

"Thank you," she says, her voice softer than she intended. "So do you."

For a moment, they just stand there, the air between them charged with thirteen days of built-up tension and wanting. Y/N finds herself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by the magnetic pull that's always existed between them but seems exponentially stronger now.

Harry's gaze drops to her lips, and she thinks, hopes, that he might kiss her. It wouldn't break their agreement; kissing wasn't explicitly banned. But before either of them can move, the doorbell chimes downstairs, their driver, right on time.

Harry steps back, clearing his throat and adjusting his jacket.

"We should go," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "Don't want to be late."

Y/N nods, reaching for her clutch on the dresser and taking a moment to compose herself. When she turns back to him, she's wearing a smile that she hopes conceals just how close she was to throwing the entire bet out the window.

"One more day," she reminds him as they head downstairs, her tone deliberately light. "Think you can make it?"

Harry glances at her, a slow smile spreading across his face that's equal parts challenge and promise.

"I'm not the one who needs to worry about making it," he counters, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back as they reach the front door, a touch that's perfectly appropriate but somehow feels like a brand through the thin fabric of her dress. "You've been watching the clock since day ten."

Y/N scoffs, even as she acknowledges the truth of his statement.

"I've been perfectly fine," she lies, stepping outside into the cool evening air. "You're the one who took three cold showers yesterday."

Harry laughs, the sound low and knowing as he guides her toward the waiting car.

"Four, actually," he admits without a trace of embarrassment. "But who's counting?"

As they slide into the backseat of the sleek black car, Y/N is acutely aware of the minimal space between them, of Harry's cologne filling the enclosed space, of the fact that they have an entire evening of public appearances ahead before they can return home.

One more day. Twenty-four more hours. She can do this.

But as Harry's hand finds hers in the darkness of the car, his thumb tracing small circles on her palm in a gesture that's somehow both comforting and maddeningly erotic, Y/N isn't entirely sure which of them is winning anymore, or if either of them is.

What she does know is that tomorrow can't come soon enough.

---

The charity gala is being held at one of London's most prestigious hotels, the grand ballroom transformed into a glittering wonderland of lights, flowers, and champagne. The moment they arrive, they're swept into the social current: photographers calling Harry's name, industry acquaintances stopping to chat, waiters offering flutes of champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres.

Harry is, as always, the consummate professional, charming, attentive, generous with his time and attention. His hand rarely leaves the small of Y/N's back, a possessive touch that both grounds her in the chaos of the event and serves as a constant reminder of the tension simmering between them.

Two hours in, Y/N excuses herself to visit the ladies' room, needing a moment away from the constant press of bodies and the even more distracting presence of Harry at her side. She's just finished touching up her lipstick when her phone buzzes with a text.

It's from Harry: You've been gone for 7 minutes. Starting to think you're avoiding me.

Y/N smiles despite herself, typing back: Just fixing my makeup. Why, missing me already?

His response comes immediately: Always. But especially when you're wearing that dress.

She's about to reply when another text appears: The things I'm thinking about doing to you right now would definitely get me uninvited from future charity events.

Heat blooms in Y/N's cheeks as she reads his words. She knows she should ignore the bait, continuing this line of conversation will only make the evening more torturous for both of them, but she can't resist.

Care to elaborate? she types back, her heart rate accelerating slightly.

There's a pause before his response appears, long enough that she thinks perhaps he's been pulled into another conversation. Then her phone buzzes three times in quick succession:

I'm thinking about taking you into one of those private rooms upstairs.

Pushing that dress up around your waist.

Seeing if those new black panties taste as good as they look.

Y/N inhales sharply, her fingers tightening around her phone. The crude directness of his words, so at odds with the polished, charming persona he's presenting to the gala attendees, sends a jolt of arousal straight through her.

She takes a moment to compose herself before responding: 13 days and 22 hours. Still think you're going to win this bet?

His reply is immediate: I know I am. You're the one who's going to break, baby. I can see it in your eyes every time I touch you.

The confidence in his text both irritates and excites her. Y/N checks her reflection once more, ensuring her composure is intact, before heading back to the ballroom.

She spots Harry immediately, he's always easy to find in a crowd, his height and presence drawing the eye naturally. He's engaged in conversation with an older couple, but his attention shifts the moment she enters his field of vision. Their eyes lock across the room, and the heat in his gaze makes her breath catch.

Y/N makes her way toward him, accepting a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter. As she approaches, Harry excuses himself from his conversation and meets her halfway.

"Everything alright?" he asks, his public voice polite and concerned, though his eyes tell a different story.

"Perfect," Y/N assures him, taking a deliberate sip of her champagne. "Just needed a moment."

Harry nods, his hand finding its customary place at the small of her back.

"They're about to start the speeches," he informs her, guiding her toward their assigned table near the front of the room. "Should only be about forty minutes of people thanking other people for giving them money."

Y/N laughs softly at his irreverent summary, allowing him to pull out her chair before he takes his seat beside her. As they settle in for the speeches, his hand drops casually to her knee beneath the table, a touch that could be interpreted as purely affectionate to anyone watching.

But then his fingers begin to trace small, maddening patterns on her skin just above the knee, occasionally venturing to the sensitive area where her thigh meets the edge of the table. It's not high enough to be inappropriate, but it's distracting enough that Y/N finds it difficult to focus on the speaker who has taken the stage.

Two can play at this game, she decides, placing her hand on Harry's thigh in what appears to be a similar gesture of affection. She feels him tense slightly beside her, but he doesn't remove his hand from her knee.

Slowly, deliberately, Y/N allows her fingers to drift higher on his leg, her touch light but insistent. She keeps her expression neutral, her eyes fixed on the stage as if completely absorbed in the speech about fundraising goals and community impact.

Harry shifts in his chair, his own hand tightening slightly on her knee. When she chances a glance at him, his profile is composed, but there's a muscle working in his jaw that betrays his affected calm.

The speeches drag on, becoming a backdrop to their silent battle of wills beneath the pristine white tablecloth. By the time the final speaker concludes to polite applause, Y/N's skin feels too tight, too sensitive, and she's hyperaware of every point of contact between her body and Harry's.

As the formal portion of the evening transitions to dancing and more socializing, Harry leans close to her ear, his voice low enough that only she can hear.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, and the double meaning is unmistakable.

"Immensely," Y/N lies, turning her head so that their faces are inches apart. "The speeches were very...inspiring."

Harry's lips quirk in a knowing half-smile.

"Dance with me," he says, and it's not quite a request.

Before she can respond, he's standing and offering his hand, leaving her little choice but to accept or cause a scene. Y/N places her hand in his, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor where other couples are already swaying to the live band's rendition of a classic ballad.

Harry pulls her close, closer than is strictly necessary for a formal event, but not so close that anyone would raise an eyebrow. One hand settles at her waist while the other clasps hers, his thumb stroking rhythmically across her knuckles as they begin to move to the music.

"You've been driving me crazy all night," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of her ear in a way that sends shivers down her spine. "That dress should be illegal."

"That was rather the point," Y/N admits, her free hand resting on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him through the expensive fabric of his suit. "Is it working?"

Harry's hand tightens fractionally at her waist, drawing her a centimeter closer.

"What do you think?" he counters, and there's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before. "I've been hard since you walked out of the bathroom at home."

The crude admission, delivered in his smooth, cultured voice while they dance among London's elite, sends a fresh wave of heat through Y/N. She misses a step, and Harry uses the momentary stumble as an excuse to steady her, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her more firmly against him.

The evidence of his arousal is unmistakable, and Y/N has to bite her lip to suppress a gasp.

"Thirteen days and counting," Harry reminds her, his voice a low rumble that she feels more than hears over the music. "Think you can last one more?"

It's a challenge, one that pride demands she meet, even as every nerve ending in her body screams for relief.

"I'm not the one making confessions on the dance floor," she points out, striving for a lightness she doesn't feel. "Sounds like you might be the one struggling."

Harry's laugh is soft and knowing against her hair.

"Oh, I'm definitely struggling," he admits freely. "But I'm also definitely going to win."

The song ends before Y/N can formulate a suitably cutting response, and they're forced to separate as the band transitions to a more upbeat number. Harry keeps her hand in his as they move off the dance floor, his thumb still tracing those maddening circles against her skin.

"Drink?" he offers, nodding toward the bar.

Y/N nods, using the moment to try to regain some equilibrium. As they wait for their drinks, she becomes aware of someone calling Harry's name, a record executive, she thinks, though she's met so many industry people over the years that they sometimes blur together.

Harry greets the man warmly, introducing Y/N with his customary courtesy. The conversation quickly turns to music, to Harry's latest album, to potential collaborations and tour dates. It's the kind of networking that's essential at events like these, and Harry handles it with practiced ease, keeping Y/N included in the conversation even as he discusses business.

But even as he talks about production schedules and studio time, his hand never leaves her, resting on her back, brushing her arm, finding her hand. Each touch feels deliberate, designed to keep her in a constant state of awareness, of wanting.

By the time they finally extricate themselves from the conversation, it's approaching midnight, and Y/N is at the end of her patience.

"I think I'm ready to go," she says quietly as they move through the now-thinning crowd. "It's been a long night."

Harry studies her face for a moment, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that makes her wonder if he can read the real reason behind her suggestion.

"Of course," he agrees, already reaching for his phone to text their driver. "We've made our appearance. Done our bit for charity."

The wait for their car feels interminable, filled with polite goodbyes to acquaintances and last-minute conversations that Harry can't gracefully avoid. By the time they finally slide into the backseat of their waiting car, Y/N's nerves are stretched to the breaking point.

The privacy partition is up, separating them from the driver, a small mercy for which Y/N is profoundly grateful as Harry's hand immediately finds her thigh, his fingers tracing the edge of the slit in her dress.

"Thirteen days," he says quietly, his voice rough with want. "Thirteen fucking days of watching you, wanting you, not being able to touch you the way I need to."

His hand slides higher, pushing the fabric of her dress aside to expose more of her leg, his fingers warm against her skin.

"Tomorrow," Y/N reminds him, her voice not as steady as she'd like it to be. "Just one more hour."

Harry's eyes are dark in the dimly lit car, his expression intense as he watches her reaction to his touch.

"One more hour," he repeats, his fingers tracing the edge of her underwear where it sits against her thigh. "Think you can make it that long, baby? Because right now, you look like you're about five seconds from begging me fuck you in the backseat of this car."

The crude words, delivered in his smooth voice, make Y/N's breath catch. She's wet, has been for hours, if she's honest, and the ache between her thighs is almost painful in its intensity.

"I'm not the one who's going to break," she insists, even as she shifts slightly, unconsciously seeking more pressure from his teasing fingers. "I've got excellent self-control."

Harry laughs softly, the sound dark and knowing.

"Is that right?" he challenges, his fingers dipping beneath the lace edge of her underwear, not quite touching where she's aching for him but close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're about to come apart just from this."

Y/N swallows hard, fighting against the urge to press herself into his hand, to beg him to touch her properly, bet be damned.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she manages, her voice breathier than she'd prefer. "For me to break first."

"I'd like to make you come," Harry corrects her, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he leans closer. "I'd like to slide these expensive panties to the side and feel how wet you are for me. I'd like to watch your face when you fall apart around my fingers."

His words paint such a vivid picture that Y/N has to close her eyes briefly, gathering what remains of her willpower.

"Tomorrow," she says again, more firmly this time, placing her hand over his to still his maddening touch. "You've waited this long. What's a few more hours?"

For a moment, she thinks he might ignore her, might continue his delicious torment until she either gives in or pushes him away. But then Harry withdraws his hand, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Tomorrow it is," he agrees, though his eyes still burn with unmistakable desire. "But just so we're clear, the moment it hits midnight, all bets are off."

The promise in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through Y/N, and she finds herself checking the time on her phone: 11:33 PM. Less than thirty minutes until day fourteen officially begins.

The rest of the drive passes in charged silence, both of them acutely aware of the countdown happening in their heads. When they finally arrive home, it's 11:52 PM, eight minutes to go.

Harry helps her from the car, his hand lingering on hers as they make their way to the front door. Inside, the house is quiet, the only sound the soft click of the door closing behind them and the faint ticking of the antique clock in the hallway.

"Drink?" Harry offers, his voice carefully casual as he shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair.

Y/N shakes her head, kicking off her uncomfortable heels with a sigh of relief.

"I think I'll just head up," she says, equally casual. "It's been a long night."

Harry nods, his eyes never leaving hers as she moves toward the stairs. There's a tension in the air between them, thick enough that she could cut it with a knife, the knowledge that in less than seven minutes, their self-imposed restriction will lift, and all the desire they've been suppressing for two weeks will be free to explode.

"I'll be up in a bit," he says, loosening his tie with deliberate slowness, his eyes dark with promise. "Just going to pour myself a nightcap first."

Harry watches Y/N ascend the stairs with predatory intensity, his fingers pausing mid-motion on his tie as she disappears from view. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes once, marking the time, 11:55 PM. Five minutes until midnight. Five minutes until their agreement officially expires.

He moves to the bar cart in the living room, pouring a finger of whiskey into a crystal tumbler with deliberate slowness. The amber liquid catches the light as he swirls it, mirroring the heat that's been building inside him for thirteen excruciating days.

Taking a small sip, he savors the burn, letting it match the fire in his veins. From upstairs comes the faint sound of movement, and Harry's imagination fills in the blanks: Y/N removing that torturous dress, her skin finally free from the confines of fabric that has been both concealing and accentuating her body all evening.

He checks his watch again, 11:56 PM.

Loosening his tie further, Harry takes another sip of whiskey before setting the glass down on the marble countertop. He's about to head upstairs when he notices something on the first step, a flash of black against the pale carpet.

It's Y/N's dress, discarded carelessly at the foot of the stairs.

A slow smile spreads across Harry's face as he approaches, picking up the expensive garment and draping it over his arm. Looking up, he discovers more items leading up the staircase like breadcrumbs: one of her earrings on the third step, its partner on the fifth, her clutch purse on the landing.

Harry begins to climb, collecting each item as he goes. The trail continues down the hallway, her bracelet here, her necklace there. By the time he reaches their bedroom door, his arms are full of her belongings, and his blood is running hot with anticipation.

Then he sees it, the final piece of her ensemble, hanging provocatively from the doorknob like a flag of surrender: those black lace panties that have been driving him to distraction since he first glimpsed them in the bathroom hours ago.

Harry checks his watch again, 11:57 PM. Three minutes.

He takes the underwear from the doorknob, the delicate fabric warm from her body and still carrying her scent. For a moment, he simply holds them, his control fraying at the edges as he imagines how she looked wearing them, how she looked taking them off.

With a deep breath, he pushes the bedroom door open.

The sight that greets him nearly stops his heart.

Y/N is stretched across their bed, completely naked except for the black lace bra that matches the panties now clutched in his hand. Her hair spills across the pillows, her eyes dark with desire as they meet his. She's positioned herself deliberately, one leg straight, the other bent slightly at the knee, creating a silhouette that emphasizes the curves of her body in the warm glow of the bedside lamps.

For a long moment, Harry simply stands in the doorway, drinking in the vision before him. Thirteen days of restraint, of torturous near-misses and deliberate teasing, have honed his desire to a razor's edge. She's never looked more beautiful to him than she does right now, waiting for him, wanting him, challenging him with the directness of her gaze.

"You've made quite a mess," he finally says, his voice rough as he gestures to the collection of discarded clothing and jewelry in his arms. He sets everything down on the dresser, careful with her dress but less so with the rest, his attention already returning to her. "Leaving your things all over the house."

Y/N shifts slightly on the bed, the movement causing the light to play across her skin in a way that makes Harry's mouth go dry.

"I was in a hurry," she replies, her voice carrying a hint of breathiness that betrays her affected casualness. "Besides, you found them all, didn't you?"

Harry's lips curve into a smile that's equal parts amusement and hunger as he begins to unbutton his shirt, his movements unhurried despite the urgency thrumming through his veins.

"I did," he confirms, shrugging the shirt from his shoulders to reveal the toned expanse of his tattooed chest and abdomen. "Including these."

He holds up her panties, dangling them from one finger before tossing them aside to join the growing pile of discarded clothing.

"It seemed like the most efficient way to get your attention," Y/N admits, her eyes following the movement of his hands as he unfastens his belt, pulling it through the loops of his trousers with a soft hiss of leather against fabric.

"You've had my attention from the moment I met you," Harry counters, his voice dropping lower as he steps closer to the bed, still in his trousers but bare-chested now, the dim light accentuating the definition of his muscles and the dark lines of his tattoos. "You've had my undivided attention for thirteen days and twenty-three hours."

He checks his watch again, 11:58 PM. Two minutes.

Y/N follows his glance, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

"Still counting down?" she asks, sitting up slightly, the movement causing her breasts to shift enticingly beneath the black lace of her bra.

"To the second," Harry confirms, his eyes darkening as they trace over her body. "Two minutes until I can touch you the way I've been dying to for two weeks."

He moves to the edge of the bed, close enough that Y/N can feel the heat radiating from his skin, but he doesn't touch her, not yet. Instead, he stands there, looking down at her with an intensity that makes her breath catch.

"Unless," he continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "you want to admit defeat now."

It's a challenge, one last attempt to win their ridiculous bet, but they both know it doesn't really matter anymore. The anticipation has become its own form of foreplay, the countdown adding an edge to their desire that makes the eventual release all the more explosive.

Y/N laughs softly, the sound slightly breathless as she shakes her head.

"One minute and thirty seconds," she counters, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. "I think I can wait."

Harry's smile is slow and deliberate, a promise of what's to come.

"Can you?" he asks, reaching out to trace one finger along the edge of her bra, not quite touching her skin but close enough that she can feel the heat of him. "Because from here, it looks like you're already desperate for it."

Y/N's breath hitches at the near-touch, her body responding to his proximity with a wave of heat that she couldn't suppress if she tried.

"You're one to talk," she retorts, her eyes dropping pointedly to the visible evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers. "You haven't exactly been the picture of restraint yourself."

Harry chuckles, the sound low and dangerous as he moves onto the bed, positioning himself above her without letting their bodies touch, a feat of control that costs him visibly in the tension of his muscles, the tightness of his jaw.

"One minute," he murmurs, his face inches from hers, close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. "One minute until I make you forget your own name."

The crude promise sends a fresh wave of arousal through Y/N, and she has to fight the urge to close the distance between them, to pull him down on top of her and end this torturous game once and for all.

"Big talk," she manages, her voice not quite steady as his eyes bore into hers. "Let's see if you can deliver."

Harry's laugh is soft and knowing.

"Oh, baby," he breathes, his lips brushing against her ear in a touch so light it might be imagined, "I've been planning exactly how I'm going to fuck you for thirteen days straight. Trust me, I'll deliver."

The clock on the nightstand shows 11:59 PM. One minute.

They both watch the seconds tick by, the air between them charged with anticipation so thick it's almost difficult to breathe. Harry remains poised above her, their bodies separated by mere inches of electrically charged space, neither willing to be the first to break.

The digital display changes: 12:00 AM.

For a heartbeat, neither moves, and then Harry's control snaps with an almost audible crack.

His mouth crashes down on hers with bruising intensity, thirteen days of pent-up desire unleashed in a kiss that's more claiming than caress. Y/N responds instantly, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, her body arching up to press against his with desperate need.

"Fucking finally," Harry growls against her lips, his hands everywhere at once, tangling in her hair, cupping her breast through the lace of her bra, sliding down to grip her hip with possessive force. "Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me? Two weeks of watching you, wanting you, not being able to touch you..."

His words dissolve into another kiss, this one deeper, wetter, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that mimics what they both desperately want. Y/N moans into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders as she pulls him fully on top of her, reveling in the weight of him, the heat of his skin against hers.

"Show me," she gasps when they break apart for air, her eyes dark with challenge and desire. "Show me exactly what I've been doing to you."

Harry's eyes flash dangerously, his hands moving to the clasp of her bra with practiced efficiency.

"Oh, I plan to," he promises, stripping the lace from her body and tossing it aside, his gaze hungry as it rakes over her newly exposed flesh. "I'm going to show you exactly what happens when you tease me for two fucking weeks straight."

His mouth descends to her breast, taking one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make Y/N cry out, her back arching off the bed. His hand finds her other breast, kneading and pinching with just the right amount of pressure to walk the line between pleasure and pain.

"Harry," she gasps, her hands sliding into his hair, holding him to her as he lavishes attention on her sensitive flesh. "Please, "

"Please what?" he murmurs against her skin, his teeth grazing her nipple in a way that sends sparks shooting down her spine. "Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me what you've been thinking about for the past two weeks."

Y/N is beyond pride now, beyond the teasing game they've been playing. Thirteen days of buildup have left her desperate, aching, wet enough that she can feel it on her thighs.

"Your mouth," she admits, her voice breaking as his hand slides down her stomach, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin that edge closer and closer to where she needs him most. "I want your mouth on me."

Harry's smile is wicked as he raises his head to meet her gaze, his eyes dark with desire and triumph.

"Where exactly do you want my mouth, Y/N?" he asks, deliberately obtuse as his fingers dance along the crease where her thigh meets her hip. "Here? Or here?"

He presses a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, to the valley between her breasts.

"Lower," Y/N breathes, beyond embarrassment, beyond anything but the desperate need for release after thirteen days of exquisite torture.

Harry continues his downward path, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her sternum, her ribs, the sensitive skin just below her navel. Each touch of his lips sends fresh waves of heat through her body, building the tension to nearly unbearable levels.

"Here?" he asks, his breath hot against her hip bone as he settles between her thighs, his shoulders pushing her legs wider apart.

"Harry," Y/N groans, frustration and need making her voice sharper than intended. "Stop teasing."

His laugh is dark and satisfied against her skin.

"But teasing is what you do best, isn't it?" he counters, his hands gripping her thighs firmly, holding her open for him. "Isn't that what the past two weeks have been about? Seeing how far you could push me before I snapped?"

Before she can formulate a response, he finally, finally, puts his mouth where she's been aching for it, his tongue flat against her center in a long, deliberate stroke that has her crying out, her hips bucking against his hold.

"Fuck," Harry groans against her, the vibration adding another layer to the sensation. "You're so fucking wet. Have you been like this all night? Sitting next to me at that fancy dinner, your pretty pussy dripping while you pretended everything was fine?"

The crude words, delivered in his cultured voice, send another jolt of arousal through Y/N. She's always been affected by his filthy mouth, the contrast between his public persona and the raw, unfiltered way he speaks to her in bed is intoxicating.

"Yes," she admits, beyond shame, beyond anything but honesty as his tongue circles her clit with deliberate pressure. "All night. All week."

Harry hums his approval, the sound reverberating against her most sensitive flesh as he settles into a rhythm designed to drive her mad, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on her clit, occasionally dipping lower to tease at her entrance without ever giving her what she truly needs.

Y/N's hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as she tries to guide him where she wants him most, but Harry resists, maintaining control even as he pleasures her.

"Harry, please," she gasps, her thighs trembling with the effort of staying open for him as the pressure builds to almost unbearable levels. "I need, I need, "

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs against her, his eyes dark with desire as he looks up the length of her body, taking in the flush spreading across her chest, the desperation in her expression. "Tell me."

"Your fingers," Y/N manages, her voice breaking as his tongue flicks against her clit with just enough pressure to make her see stars. "Inside. Please."

Harry's smile is wolfish as he slides one long finger into her, groaning at the way she clenches around him immediately.

"So tight," he murmurs, adding a second finger alongside the first, curling them in a way that makes Y/N's back arch off the bed. "Is this what you wanted? My fingers inside this pretty pussy while I suck on your clit?"

To emphasize his point, he wraps his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking gently as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm inside her.

The dual sensation is overwhelming after so long without release, and Y/N feels herself hurtling toward the edge with embarrassing speed. Her thighs begin to shake, her breathing becoming erratic as the pressure builds to an almost painful intensity.

"That's it," Harry encourages, his voice rough with his own arousal as he watches her come apart beneath him. "Let go, baby. Show me how much you've missed this."

His fingers curl more firmly against that spot inside her that he knows drives her wild, his tongue flicking rapidly against her clit, and Y/N shatters with a cry that might be his name or might be just a wordless sound of release. Her body convulses around his fingers, waves of pleasure washing over her with an intensity that leaves her gasping, her vision momentarily whiting out at the edges.

Harry works her through it, gentling his touch but not stopping completely until her tremors subside and she collapses boneless against the mattress, her chest heaving with exertion.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to her oversensitive flesh before moving up her body, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and barely restrained hunger. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

Y/N reaches for him with still-trembling hands, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes of herself and desire. She can feel him hard against her thigh, still confined within his trousers but unmistakably ready.

"Your turn," she breathes against his lips, her hands moving between them to unfasten his remaining clothing. "I want to feel you inside me."

Harry groans, helping her push his trousers and underwear down his legs before kicking them off entirely, leaving him finally, gloriously naked against her. The first press of skin against skin is electric, drawing matching gasps from both of them as thirteen days of anticipation culminate in this moment.

"How do you want me?" Y/N asks, her voice husky with lingering pleasure and renewed desire as she wraps her hand around his length, stroking him with deliberate slowness.

Harry's eyes darken at her touch, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.

"Every fucking way imaginable," he growls, capturing her wrist to still her movements before he loses what remains of his control. "But right now, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you come around my cock."

He positions himself between her thighs, the blunt head of his erection pressing against her entrance, teasing but not yet pushing inside. His eyes lock with hers, intense and questioning despite the crude directness of his words, always checking, always making sure she's with him.

"Yes," Y/N breathes, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him closer, urging him on. "Please, Harry, I need you."

It's all the permission he needs. With one smooth thrust, he buries himself inside her, both of them groaning at the sensation of finally, finally being joined after what feels like an eternity of waiting.

"Fuck," Harry gasps, his forehead dropping to rest against hers, his breathing ragged as he fights for control. "You feel so good. So fucking perfect around me."

For a moment, neither moves, both savoring the feeling of completeness, of rightness that comes from being connected this way. Then Y/N shifts her hips slightly, a silent plea for more, and Harry responds with a deep, rolling thrust that makes her gasp.

"Thirteen days," he murmurs against her neck, setting a rhythm that's neither gentle nor rough but somewhere in between, deep, deliberate strokes that hit exactly where she needs them. "Thirteen days of watching you walk around in those little shorts, those tight dresses, knowing I couldn't touch you the way I wanted to."

His pace increases slightly, his hands sliding beneath her to grip her ass, changing the angle in a way that has Y/N seeing stars with every thrust.

"Thirteen days of cold showers and jerking off in the bathroom like a fucking teenager," he continues, his voice rough with exertion and desire. "Thirteen days of imagining this, being inside you, feeling you come apart around me."

Y/N's nails dig into his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his skin as she meets him thrust for thrust, her body already building toward another peak despite having just come minutes before.

"Show me," she challenges, her voice breaking as he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her. "Show me what thirteen days of waiting has done to you."

Something in Harry's expression shifts at her words, a final thread of control snapping as he gives in completely to the desire that's been building for two weeks. His thrusts become harder, deeper, more demanding as he pushes her thighs wider apart, angling her hips to take him even deeper.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he growls, his voice barely recognizable with need. "To push me until I couldn't take it anymore. Until I had to have you, had to be inside you, had to make you feel every second of those thirteen fucking days."

Each word is punctuated with a thrust that drives the breath from Y/N's lungs, pleasure building so intensely that she can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. All she can do is hold on, meeting his intensity with her own as they chase release together.

"Tell me you missed this," Harry demands, one hand sliding between them to circle her clit with his thumb, adding another layer to the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. "Tell me you thought about it every day, every night, just like I did."

"I missed it," Y/N gasps, honesty torn from her by pleasure and need. "Missed you, missed this, thought about it constantly, "

Her words dissolve into moans as the combination of his cock inside her and his thumb on her clit pushes her rapidly toward another orgasm, this one building even more intensely than the first.

"That's it," Harry encourages, his rhythm faltering slightly as his own control frays at the edges. "Come for me again, baby. Let me feel you."

His thumb presses more firmly against her clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and Y/N shatters with a cry that might be his name or might be just a primal sound of release. Her inner muscles clench around him in rhythmic pulses, drawing a guttural groan from Harry as he follows her over the edge, his hips jerking erratically as he empties himself inside her.

For long moments afterward, they remain joined, both breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction. Harry's weight is a comforting pressure on top of her, grounding her as the aftershocks of pleasure gradually subside.

Eventually, he rolls to the side, bringing her with him so that she's sprawled across his chest, their legs still tangled together. One of his hands comes up to stroke her hair, the gesture tender in contrast to the intensity of their lovemaking moments before.

"Worth the wait?" he asks after a while, his voice rough but tinged with amusement.

Y/N laughs softly against his skin, pressing a kiss to the tattoo over his heart.

"Definitely," she admits, raising her head to meet his gaze. "Though I'm not sure I'd want to do it again anytime soon."

Harry's smile is slow and satisfied as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle now that the urgency has passed.

"No?" he teases. "And here I was thinking we could make it a monthly tradition."

Y/N swats at his chest playfully, earning a laugh that rumbles beneath her cheek.

"Absolutely not," she declares firmly. "Two weeks was more than enough abstinence to last me a lifetime."

Harry's expression softens as he looks at her, something warm and tender replacing the heat that had consumed them both minutes earlier.

"Agreed," he murmurs, pulling her closer for a kiss that's gentle but no less passionate for its softness. "Besides, I can think of much more enjoyable ways to spend our time."

His hand slides down her back in a caress that's appreciative rather than demanding, both of them too spent for anything more at the moment but content in the knowledge that they have all the time in the world to explore each other again.

"No more bets," Y/N mumbles against his chest, already feeling the pull of sleep after the emotional and physical intensity of the evening.

Harry chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he pulls the duvet over them both.

"No more bets," he agrees, his voice warm with affection and satisfaction. "At least, not ones that involve keeping my hands off you for any length of time."

Y/N smiles against his skin, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull her toward sleep, secure in the knowledge that the torturous two weeks are finally, blessedly over, and that neither of them is likely to suggest anything similar anytime soon.

As for who won the bet? In the end, it hardly seems to matter anymore.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavefanficsever @spinnic

#ghstyles #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic

460 notes · View notes