#EXTENDED TRAYS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

Note

dukedom!AU but they realize she’s quickly become a type of ‘peoples princess’ outside the duchy

The timeline for this one is before reader tells john her request! I got this ask before part two dropped and already had some of it written. Hope you enjoy, anon! <3

Dukedome au masterlist

I can imagine them realizing it not from seeing it, but from hearing it, maybe during a gala hosted by John and uou. The evening is alive with music and laughter, the grand ballroom brimming with nobles and dignitaries. Yet the chatter revolve around one figure: you.

“She’s truly remarkable, isn’t she?” one elderly countess says, her voice carrying across the marble floors and gleaming ceilings. “Always so graceful, so kind. I am quite glad she is Duchess Price, now.”

John stands near the refreshments table with Simon, and overhears the conversation. His hand tightens slightly around his glass, though his face betrays nothing. Nothing new to be talked about, it was natural. And yet-

“Graceful?” a younger lady chimes in, voice calm and polite. “She’s more than that. Did you hear she personally visited the orphanage last week? Brought food and clothing, spoke to every child. And not for show- she refused to let any journalists near. That’s a true duchess.”

Simon’s brows furrows slightly, his jaw tightening. He exchanges a glance with John, the unspoken thought between them clear: she hadn’t told either of them about that visit. It wasn’t because John didn’t trust you, or that you need his permission; he just wanted to be aware of where you go and which guards you’ll take. For your own safety.

“She’s so approachable too,” a lord adds, gesturing with his wine glass. John knows this lord, he always ends up drinking too much and being too handsy. Why would you need to speak to him? “I spoke to her briefly earlier- she didn’t just listen, she cared. You can see it in her eyes. It’s no wonder the people adore her.”

Adore is putting it way too lightly.

From the other side of the room, Kyle watches as a small group of maids gossip near the staircase. He wasn’t one for eavesdropping, but their excitement is hard to ignore.

“I heard she gave her own jewelry to the head maid’s daughter to help her pay for her dowry.” One of them whispers, clutching her tray.

“That’s not all,” another group are speaking, talking about her as well. “The market vendors say she always pays more than is needed, even when they insist she doesn’t do. Such a lovely woman.”

“Wish the other nobles were like her,” the first maid says with a wistful sigh. “She’s the only one who treats us like people.”

Kyle’s lips press into a thin line as he adjusts his gloves. He prides himself on protecting you, but hearing how far your kindness extends fills him with a quiet sense of urgency. What if someone takes advantage of you and your tender heart?

It’s not just in the main hall that these words are said; down in the kitchens, Johnny is busy ensuring there’s enough food with the rest of the chefs. But still, he can hear two others talking while they work, trying not to sound too snappy or angry while he listens in on them.

As the night continues, the men find themselves more and more aware of how often your name arises in conversation. They hear nobles discussing your fashion choices (Simon secretly preens), others whispering about your visits to the poorer parts of town and the funds that have been allocated into revitalizing the areas, and even rival duchesses grudgingly admitting that you’ve set quite the high standard.

“I heard she stopped Lord Clinton from evicting his tenants,” one man says near the dance floor, though not quite close enough to be drawn into the dancing bodies. He is within John and Simon’s earshots.

“Not only that,” someone else “whispers”. “She made sure they had food and shelter through the winter. commoners love her, and she truly embodies what it means to be a noble. A true people’s princess, I say.”

John’s gaze flickers toward you, standing across the room and laughing softly with a group of nobles. You’re glowing tonight, the light catching in your hair and your smile as warm as ever, adorned in a beautiful dress.

“They don’t deserve her,” Kyle mutters, sidling up to him while holding a plate of finger foods.

John doesn’t respond, but his grip on his glass tightens again. It’s a wonder the glass hasn’t broken et.

Simon’s voice is quiet when he speaks. “The people see her as theirs.” He pauses, his gaze hardening. “But she’s ours first.”

“I cannot blame them.” John sighs. “She is the perfect duchess. But she is also my duchess, and they seem to have forgotten that.”

John means his words, and he knows his men agree with him. The world may love you, but they know the truth: no one else can have you- not the people, not the nobles, no one but them.

The ballroom continues to buzz with conversation, and John focuses back on the two men near the edge of the dance floor.

“She’s wasted on a duchy,” one of them says, swirling his wine with a smirk, more than just a little drunk. “With her charm, she could outshine the Queen herself.”

“Not just charm,” the other adds in, just as drunk. “But Influence.”

Simon stiffens, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Influence” isn’t something he takes lightly when it comes to you. It’s a dangerous thing in the wrong hands- or with the wrong admirers.

“Careful,” John mutters to him. “They’re complimenting her, not threatening her.”

Simon’s glare softens ever so slightly. “Yet.”

Johnny slowly makes his way towards a hidden corner of the ballroom, gnawing on his lips as he listens to the whispers of you.

Did you see the way she stopped to speak with the gardeners?” one of them asks. “She even complimented the hedges I trimmed last week!”

Johnny’s grin fades, his fingers drumming against his thigh. He enjoys seeing people appreciate you, but this feels different. They speak of you with reverence, as if you’re some untouchable figure. But Johnny knows better. You’re no untouchable goddess- you’re his. Theirs. That’s what matters most.

It’s when you step onto the dance floor that the tension truly rises. A duke- one who’s been eyeing you all evening- approaches you with a bow, extending his hand for a dance. You hesitate, glancing toward John out of instinct. He doesn’t move, but his eyes darken, his jaw clenched as he watches you take the duke’s hand.

The music swells and you move across the floor, laughter bubbles from your lips at something your dance partner says. The men see it for what it is: polite, nothing more. But it doesn’t stop the knot of irritation tightening even further.

“She’s a vision,” someone murmurs nearby, unaware they’re being overheard.

“Who wouldn’t fall for her?” another replies.

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

Kyle’s gaze sharpens. Johnny’s grin vanishes completely. Simon’s fists clench at his sides. And John, ever composed, finishes his wine in one long swallow, his eyes never leaving you.

He can’t allow this to go on for any longer.

The dance ends, and as you return to the edge of the ballroom, you’re immediately surrounded by more admirers- ladies complimenting your gown, lords vying for your attention. Or would have been, if John hadn’t started making his way towards you, presence larger than life.

“Your Grace,” he says smoothly, and extends his hand to you, his expression unreadable. “Dance with me.”

The request- or rather, the command- is met with stunned silence. The nobles exchange glances, but a single glance from John keeps them all silent.

You blink up at him, momentarily caught off guard, before placing your hand in his. “Of course.” you murmur softly.

John’s grip is firm but gentle as he leads you to the dance floor, his other hand resting lightly at your waist. The orchestra begins a soft waltz, and he pulls you into the first step, his movements confident and assured.

Around you, the crowd watches, whispers starting anew, though you barely notice. All you can focus on is the intensity in John’s eyes as he looks down at you.

“You’ve been busy tonight.” he says after a moment, his voice low enough that only you can hear. It sends a shiver up your spine- his voice always so nice to hear.

“It’s my role,” you reply, offering him a small smile. “Everyone has been so kind.”

He hums, his eyes flicking briefly to the onlookers before returning to you. “Too kind, perhaps.”

You raise an eyebrow at his tone but say nothing, letting him guide you across the floor. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, and he pulls you even more closer.

“You’ve done well tonight,” he says after a moment, his voice softer now. “Better than I expected, if I’m honest. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. You always seem to surprise me, my dear.”

Your cheeks warm at the unexpected praise, and you smile up at him. “Thank you, John. That means a great deal.”

He leans in just slightly, his breath ghosting over your ear. “The way they look at you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower. “They can’t take their eyes off you. And I don’t blame them.”

You glance up at him, startled, but his expression is unreadable once again. He continues to lead you effortlessly through the dance, his movements precise.

“But,” he continues, his gaze locking onto yours, “they’ll have to remember who you belong to.”

Your heart skips at his words, and for a moment, you forget where you are, the world narrowing to just the two of you. His eyes soften, his grip steady as he twirls you into the final steps of the dance.

As the music fades, he leans in again, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re exquisite tonight, wife. Don’t let them forget it.”

With that, he leads you off the dance floor, his hand never leaving yours. The crowd parts for the both of you, their gazes following you both as John guides you back to the edge of the room, where the others wait.

You’re still breathless, his words replaying in your mind as he steps aside, positioning himself at your shoulder. Whatever protests the nobles might’ve had about your absence dissolve under his watchful glare.

And though John doesn’t say another word for the rest of the evening, his presence alone is enough to ensure no one dares to crowd you again, and no one comes between you and them. Simon and Kyle keep you busy, chatting happily with them, and Johnny joins later when the guests begin to trickle out and no one would question why a chef is there.

People’s princess you maybe, you are still theirs. John simply had to show and remind everyone of that fact.

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natsaffection · 6 days ago

Text

Code red. pt 3 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, shooting, gun, blood, trauma, stress situation, death (?)

word count: 7,4k

A/n: 🎢🎢🎢🎢

Part 2

The hospital was humming with the usual afternoon buzz. Overhead lights flickered with a sterile glow, casting long, pale shadows across the linoleum floors. Nurses moved with purpose. Pagers beeped. Phones rang. But to you, it all faded into a low hum as you leaned against the front desk, scribbling notes into a patient’s chart.

“Are you seriously still working?” one of the other interns joked, slinging off their white coat as they passed.

“Some of us aren’t here just to flirt in the supply closet..” you muttered without looking up. The intern laughed, saluted you lazily, and disappeared around the corner. Silence settled in their wake, momentary and oddly comforting.

You flipped to the next page in the chart, pen tapping thoughtfully against your chin. Your brows furrowed in concentration. Then, heels. Sharp, unapologetic, and familiar.

Natasha appeared at your side with the casual grace of someone who knew the entire hallway was watching her. “Well, don’t you look focused.” Natasha purred, a smirk already tugging at her lips. “Is it the chart, or are you just avoiding me again?”

You didn’t even glance up. “I’m working, Dr. Romanoff.”

“Ohh, the title now.” Natasha chuckled, leaning casually on the desk beside you. “I like when you call me that. Do it again.”

You finally turned to her, unimpressed. “Don’t you have an OR to seduce?”

Natasha’s grin widened. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

Before you could throw back a reply, chaos struck. A sharp, high-pitched scream cut through the corridor, followed by the sickening crack of a gunshot. Everyone froze. The sound echoed, bouncing off the sterile walls, too loud, too real.

A nurse’s tray clattered to the floor. Then another shot. Your heart seized. Your eyes locked on the source of the noise, a man at the opposite end of the hallway, arm extended, a pistol still smoking in his hand. The nurse in front of him dropped like a marionette with her strings cut, blood pooling beneath her almost instantly.

“Run!” Natasha’s voice snapped in, sharp, low, protective. She grabbed you without waiting, her arm wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you close, shielding you as bodies started running, screaming, crashing into each other in blind panic. People shoved past you. Someone was crying. A wheelchair overturned. A monitor crashed from a cart.

Natasha’s hand cradled the back of your head, forcing your face into her chest as you moved quickly through the chaos.

“Don’t look. Keep moving.” Natasha murmured. You ducked into an exam room, the door clicking shut behind you. Natasha turned, bolted it with a trembling hand, then turned to you.

“Are you okay? Are you-” Then she saw it. You blinked up at her, confused, swaying slightly. “What…?”

Blood. Bright and dark, blooming fast across your scrub top. Spreading in thick, ugly circles right below your collarbone, above the ribs. A gunshot, clean, but close. You reached up with fingers that felt suddenly heavy and numb. Touched the blood. Pulled your hand back and saw red.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t need to ask.. No exit wound. Your brain supplied the rest, fast, clinical, single gunshot wound, anterior thorax, upper left quadrant. No exit. Bullet is inside. Close to the heart. Could be the lung. Could be the subclavian. Bleeding is internal and external. Fatal unless treated within minutes.

You looked up at Natasha again. “It’s…not superficial.”

“No.” Natasha said softly.

Your legs folded under you, and you sank to the floor against the wall, your breath turning shallow. Natasha dropped with you, already pulling up your shirt. Her hands didn’t shake. Not even slightly. But her jaw was clenched so tight her teeth ached.

“I need to see.” Natasha murmured, mostly to herself. You winced as your shirt was pushed aside and the cold air hit the wet warmth of the wound. The blood was darker now, thicker, pulsing slower, but still flowing. A hole, the size of a fingertip, right above the fourth rib.

Natasha pressed her hand over it without hesitation. You let out a choked cry, your back arching off the wall.

“I know..” Natasha said quietly, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I have to.”

Your eyes filled with tears you didn’t mean to let fall. “I feel it..”

“That’s good. That means you’re still with me.”

The blood surged under Natasha’s palm again, slippery, thick, warm enough to feel like fire. It soaked through her hand and ran in trails down her wrist. Each pulse beneath her fingers felt weaker than the last. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t. You were watching her. Reading her.

“Don’t do the voice..” you whispered. “Don’t do the calm voice. I know what that means.”

Natasha said nothing. Her hand stayed steady, pressure perfect. She reached with the other for gauze and shoved it under the pressure point, fingers slick and sure. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t tremble.

But inside, she was screaming. Too high for lung access, too low for clavicle, subclavian artery? Maybe? Internal bleeding. No exit. God- “You’re bleeding fast.” she murmured. Not a lie. Just…a fact.

You swallowed. “Am I gonna pass out?”

“No.” Natasha lied. “You’re going to breathe with me.”

“I know how this works, Natasha.” You whispered. “It’s going to fill my chest. I’ll drown in my own blood-”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m scared..” you said, and it came out small.

Natasha leaned closer. “Then let me be scared for both of us, okay?”

You nodded, teeth chattering now. You were turning pale. Your lips looked faintly blue at the edges. Natasha pressed harder. And that’s when she felt it. The flutter. Not a heartbeat, something else. A vibration in the wound. A tremor from the heart that didn’t feel strong. Didn’t feel right. Like a failing engine in the dark.

Panic surged. But her hands stayed steady. Then, footsteps. Right outside the door. You tensed, whimpering softly and Natasha shifted fast, one hand never leaving the wound, the other rising to gently cover your mouth. Her eyes didn’t leave the door.

The shooter’s shadow paused beneath the crack of light. You made a sound against her palm, weak, scared. Natasha lowered her forehead to yours, not looking away from the door. “Shhh. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Not even when she felt your blood tickle between her fingers. Not even when it started to cool. She felt your pulse, what little was left of it, under her palm. Please. Walk away. I can’t keep her alive if you don’t walk away.

The footsteps lingered. Natasha pressed harder. You squirmed under the pain but didn’t cry out. Your eyes rolled slightly. And then, finally…footsteps retreated. The moment they were gone, Natasha’s mask slipped. She let out a ragged breath she’d been holding far too long. Blood still ran down her forearms, soaking into her sleeves, dripping onto her pants.

She looked down at you. Your face was slack now. Your eyelids heavy. “No, no. Hey!” Natasha shifted. “You’re staying awake, do you hear me?”

“I’m tired..” you mumbled. Your voice was barely there.

“I know. But you don’t get to sleep yet. You sleep, and you don’t wake up. I know how this works too.”

Your eyes were half-lidded now, your head slumped against the wall. Natasha didn’t have the luxury of time, she felt it, the way the blood was slowing, thickening, but still leaking. The room smelled metallic and wet. Her forearms were streaked in red to the elbows. Think. Do something!

She glanced up at the shelf above the sink, hands never leaving the wound. There, a metal supply bin. Packed with gauze, tape, something, anything.

With one hand still pressed firmly against your chest, she reached up and yanked it down, nearly knocking it off the shelf. The contents spilled across the counter. She grabbed the biggest wad of gauze she could find and shoved it into the wound.

You screamed through your teeth, your back arching. Your body jolted like you’d been shocked. “Hold it.” Natasha snapped. Her voice wasn’t calm anymore. It was sharp. Commanding. Edged with barely hidden panic.

She grabbed your trembling hand and placed it firmly over the gauze, reinforcing the pressure. “I need you to keep this pressed down. No matter what. I’m going to check the hallway, make sure it’s clear so we can move. You let go, and you will bleed out. Do you understand me?”

You nodded weakly, your hand shaking, but you pressed down. Blood welled up around your fingers immediately. Natasha crouched, wiped her own hands on the inside of her coat, and crept to the door. She cracked it open just enough to scan the corridor.

The bodies had moved, or been moved. Blood smeared the floor. Someone’s pager beeped faintly in the distance. A monitor was flatlining somewhere, forgotten. She turned back. You were still upright. Barely. She slid her arms under your legs and shoulders, and lifted. She didn’t ask if you could walk, she already knew the answer.

The second you left the floor, more blood spilled from the soaked gauze, dripped down Natasha’s arm, splattered on the tile behind you. You groaned into her chest. “N-Nat…”

“I’ve got you.” Natasha whispered, tightening her grip. “Just hold on.”

She moved down the hallway like a woman possessed. Every footstep echoed. Her boots splashed through crimson puddles.

She turned the corner sharply and shouldered open a door labeled Trauma Room C. The overhead light was already on. Someone was inside.. Natasha tensed. Her grip on you tightened, ready to pivot out-

“N-Natasha?!”

The relief that hit Natasha nearly dropped her to her knees. Maria stood at the far counter, gloves on, sleeves rolled. Her dark eyes snapped up, and widened.

“Help me.” she said immediately. “GSW, upper chest. No exit wound. Subclavian or lung, I don’t know. Bleeding out. She’s-” her voice broke “-she’s not stable.”

Maria was already moving. Natasha laid you down on the trauma table, her hands now stained in a dozen shades of red. Your eyes fluttered. You were slipping. Maria ripped open drawers. “We don’t have blood bags.. I’ve got one IV, maybe a saline-”

“Then make it count!” Natasha snapped.

Natasha peeled back the ruined gauze- blood gushed fresh. Maria flinched. “Jesus, it’s arterial.”

“I know.” Natasha clamped down hard again, gauze slipping between her fingers.

You made a strangled sound. “I’m sorry..” Natasha murmured instantly, voice raw.

Maria slammed a drawer shut. “We don’t have what we need. Barely anything. No transfusion kit. No sedatives. Maybe half a bag of saline if we’re lucky.”

“There has to be something!” Natasha snapped, her hands clamped over your wound again. The pressure wasn’t working anymore.

Maria paused. Her jaw tightened. “…We can try a thoracic drain. If the lung’s collapsed, it’ll buy you time. Relieve the pressu-“

“No.”

Both women turned toward you. “No..” you repeated, a bit stronger this time. “No. Not without anesthetic.”

Natasha crouched beside the table instantly. Her bloodied fingers curled around your hand. “Y/n-”

“I know what that is..!” you rasped. “A chest tube? You’re gonna cut between my ribs and jam a plastic straw into my lung. No meds. No numbing. I’ll feel everything..”

“You will.” Maria confirmed grimly, pulling sterile gloves over blood-slicked fingers.

“Then no.” Your voice cracked. “I’m not giving you permission.”

“Then I’m not asking for it.” Natasha said softly.

Your eyes met hers. “I’m sorry, detka..” she whispered. “But I can’t let you die for dignity.”

Your body tensed. Maria was already prepping what little equipment she had, a scalpel, an old chest tube from a dusty tray, a single glove that would double as a makeshift valve. It was barbaric. But it was all they had.

Your chest started to heave with panic. “No..No! Don’t let her-”

“Y/n, we have to..” Natasha cried out, sliding one arm under your shoulder, holding you steady. Her other hand wrapped around your wrist, pressing you flat to the table. “I’ve got you..”

“I-I can’t-”

Maria approached, scalpel in hand. Your entire body arched. “M-Maria-”

“Look at me, Y/n.” Natasha whispered, pressing her forehead against yours. “Just look at me. Just me.”

You turned your head and bit down hard, on your own sleeve. You buried the scream before it could start. Then the blade went in. A sharp slice between ribs. A scream tore out from behind your teeth, muffled by fabric. Your body thrashed on the table, muscles spasming under the fire slicing through your side.

Natasha held you. Locked around you. Whispers spilling fast and panicked into your ear, “I’m sorry..I’m so sorry..I’m here, I’ve got you, just a second more..”

Maria’s hands moved fast, slipping the tube between the ribs with a sickening pressure-pop. Your scream turned guttural, strangled by the sleeve in your mouth. Tears spilled down your cheeks. Your body convulsed.

Natasha felt every twitch. Every gasp. Her hands stayed strong, but her eyes, her eyes burned. Pass out. Please just pass out.

But you didn’t. You stayed awake through all of it. “She’s still conscious..” Maria said, her voice tight. “God, she’s still awake.”

The tube took. Air hissed out. The pressure dropped slightly, your chest shuddered, your breathing hitching and slowing. It had worked. A little.

But you were shaking like a leaf. Sweat drenched your hairline. Your lips were bloodless. And still, no transfusion. No fluids. No blood. “Her pressure’s dropping.” Maria said, voice grim. “We bought time. That’s it. She needs more than we can give.”

Natasha stayed bent over you, fingers still brushing your skin. “I’m not losing you.” she whispered. “You hear me?”

Your eyes rolled. You barely nodded. And Natasha held you tighter, tears sliding silently into your hair. You were still trembling under Natasha’s hands, the chest tube taped clumsily to your side, blood pooling slow and steady beneath the table. Your breath wheezed in uneven patterns, but you were alive. Barely.

Natasha crouched beside you, arms gently bracketing your head, one hand still loosely gripping yours. Her face was pale. There was blood under her nails, in her sleeves, in her hair. Her coat was soaked through.

Then, footsteps again. Too familiar. Natasha’s head snapped toward the door. Just outside the thin metal door, a shadow moved. She recognized the boots. The posture. The gun.

The shooter.

Her stomach dropped through the floor. She didn’t think. She moved on instinct. She dropped flat, pulling your hand down with her. Her other arm shot out, grabbing Maria and dragging her low behind the supply cart.

Natasha’s breath hitched as she crouched behind the trauma table, hand clamped over your cold fingers. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You blinked slowly. Barely conscious. Your lips moved, but no sound came out. Maria’s hand rested on the handle of a scalpel, knuckles white. The shadow paused…then moved on. They waited. Ten long, silent, agonizing seconds.

The footsteps faded. Gone again. Natasha stayed frozen, crouched over you like a shield, heart pounding loud enough she swore it echoed off the walls. She counted to ten. Then twenty. Then slowly stood.

She looked down. Your eyes had rolled back slightly. Your breathing was too shallow. “Maria.” Natasha said, urgently now.

“I know.” Maria breathed, rushing to the table. “We don’t have time.”

She grabbed a radio, fingers slick from the blood that coated everything now. “This is Dr. Hill in Trauma C. We need O-negative. Emergency transfusion. GSW. Patient’s crashing.”

The radio crackled. No response. “Come on-” she hit the button again. Natasha moved beside her, brushing the hair from your forehead.

“I'll go get it.” Maria turned, “There's no point in waiting here.” She threw the radio down and immediately turned to the door. Scalpel still in hand.

“Maria, you can’t-“ But she was already gone. Natasha leaned in again, her bloody hand stroking over your jaw. “You’re okay..” she murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

“I’m so tired…”

“I know. But the blood’s coming. We just need to hold on a little longer.”

Natasha did nothing now, no more pressure. No more field surgery. Just stayed beside you. Just held. She didn’t need to play doctor anymore. She needed to be yours. The silence stretched. Heavy. Thick with blood and the too-quiet hum of failing vitals. The only sound in the trauma room was the soft wheeze of air moving through your throat.

You could feel Natasha staring. Watching you. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just breathing too slow. Too steady. Too controlled.

“Hey..” you rasped, voice rough like gravel.

Natasha snapped her eyes to you. “What? What is it?”

You licked your cracked lips and blinked slowly. “Stop staring at my tits.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, Natasha exhaled a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Oh my God.”

You grinned, faint and sleepy. “You’re not even subtle. We’re in a crisis, Romanoff.”

Natasha leaned in slightly, a dry chuckle catching in her throat. “We’ve been here before..” she murmured. “You half-naked. Me looking.”

You raised a brow, voice barely a whisper. “One time.”

Natasha smiled. Tight, but real. “One very memorable time.”

Despite the pain, you snorted. “Guess I make an impression..”

“You do.” Natasha said, softer now. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles. You blinked slowly, chest rising in shallow, painful movements.

Natasha caught herself, cleared her throat, forced a smirk onto her lips. “And, for the record…I wasn’t staring at your tits.”

You gave her a slow, skeptical look. “I’ve seen you without a bra, detka. Very thoroughly.”

Your smile faded, but the warmth lingered in your eyes. “Your hands are shaking..” you whispered.

Natasha didn’t deny it. “I’ve got you.” she said instead, voice rough. “Even if I’m falling apart.”

Outside, a new sound finally echoed down the hallway, rushed footsteps. Blood. Help was coming. The door banged open with a force that made Natasha’s head snap up, every muscle coiled to strike, until she saw Maria step inside, a blood bag swinging from her gloved hand and another clenched between her arm and ribs.

“Blood.” she announced, breathless. “Two units. And the shooter’s been spotted on the opposite wing. We’ve got maybe five minutes to move.”

Relief cracked across Natasha’s face like a fault line. Maria was already moving to hang the first bag, attaching the line to the IV she’d placed earlier. “I called it in on the way, three interns are prepping OR 2. They’ll have it sterile by the time we get there.”

Natasha exhaled. “Thank God..” She looked down at you. The blood was already starting to drip through the line, inching toward the cannula taped to your forearm. You looked…worse. Lips pale. Breathing shallower. Sweat beading at your hairline, but your skin was ice.

Then it happened. You groaned, sharp and sudden. Your body twitched violently on the table, hands clawing weakly at your side.

“Fuck, it moved.” Maria said, rushing over. “Something shifted.”

Natasha leaned in immediately. “Hey- hey- what is it?”

Your mouth opened in a silent cry. Your back arched. And then blood poured faster. Soaking through the gauze again. Red. Bright. Fresh.

“She’s bleeding internally, faster now. The bullet moved.” Maria said. “It’s tearing something worse. We need to go.”

Natasha didn’t wait. She grabbed the side rails of the trauma table and unlatched the brakes, turning it toward the door.

“Help me push!” she barked. Maria was already there. They shoved the gurney out into the hallway, blood dripping behind you, wheels squealing against the tile. Natasha never let go of your hand.

“We’re almost there, you hear me?” she said breathlessly. “Stay awake for me!”

Your lips parted. “I c-can’t…feel my legs..”

Maria met Natasha’s eyes over the gurney. They pushed faster. “Door’s open.” an intern shouted down the hall. “OR’s ready!”

They swerved the corner, nearly colliding with a nurse backing out of a storage room. The hallway ahead was clear, lit in emergency red, glowing like a tunnel to salvation.

“We’ve got you.” Natasha said again, her voice breaking. “Just hold on. We’re almost there.”

The blood bag above you drained fast. Not fast enough. The doors of OR 2 swung open with a bang that made the interns inside jump. The table rolled in at full speed, Natasha at the head, Maria at the side, a nurse already rushing to hook up suction and monitors.

“Vitals are unstable.” Maria called. “BP dropping. Pulse thready. She’s losing blood faster than we can give it.”

Natasha barked orders as she moved- “Sterile tray. Chest opened. Crash cart nearby. Be ready to cut now.”

The nurse was already prepping anesthesia. You blinked up at the overhead light, dazed and barely conscious. Your lips moved, dry, cracked.

“..Don’t wanna die..” you whispered, voice soft and slurred. “’m scared…”

Natasha moved immediately to your side, gloves half-on, hairnet already twisted into place. She crouched at the head of the table, face close to yours, hand cupping your cheek.

“You’re not dying.” she said quietly, fiercely. “You hear me? You’re not. Not here. Not now. Not on my fucking table.”

You let out a slow, rattling breath. “H-Hurts…”

“I know..” Natasha whispered, eyes stinging. “But I’m here. Right here. I’m gonna fix it. You just have to sleep, detka. That’s all. Just let go for a little while.”

Your eyes searched hers. The fear was still there, carved deep behind the pain. Natasha leaned down, brushing your foreheads together.

“Look at me. Just me.”

You blinked. “You’re gonna wake up..” Natasha whispered, “and when you do, I’ll still be right here. I promise.”

Your lashes fluttered. The nurse turned. “We’re pushing anesthesia. She’ll be out in seconds.”

Natasha kept her hand on your cheek, voice steady even as her fingers trembled. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your lips moved again, but the sound was gone now. Your body relaxed, too fast, too loose. Then your eyes closed. The heart monitor beeped slow. The anesthetic took you under like a tide.

Natasha froze. Stared at you. Watched the rise and fall of your chest. Slower. Calmer. But still there. Then, she stood. Snapped on the rest of her gloves. The shift was immediate.

“Scalpel.” she said, voice sharp, eyes locked on the chest already stained in blood.

Maria slid it into her hand. And without hesitation, she cut. The first incision split open the soaked gauze and revealed a mess of blood, shredded tissue, and pooling darkness inside your chest cavity.

Natasha barely hesitated. “Retractors.”

Metal clicked into her gloved hand. She forced the ribs apart, opening the chest just enough to get a clear view. But there was nothing clear about it. Too much blood. Too much movement. It was like operating underwater, every shift caused a ripple of red that clouded everything. Her heart hammered behind her sternum.

“She’s still bleeding internally..” Maria said, voice steady but strained. Natasha scanned the cavity. Looking for metal. A glint. A tear. A hint of the bullet. Nothing. She reached deeper, feeling for it, fingers tracing along broken vessels and muscle, and still, nothing.

Maria suctioned, but the blood kept flooding in. Then..A flash. Metal. Near the pericardial sac. Wedged behind tissue. Nestled close to where no foreign object should be.

“I’ve got it.” Natasha breathed. “Clamp..clamp- hold suction steady.”

Natasha reached in deeper, angling around bone and flesh. That’s when it happened. The monitor let out a flat tone. A scream of static silence. Your body went still.

“No pulse!” Maria said instantly, grabbing paddles. “She’s gone into cardiac arrest!”

“No..” Natasha’s voice cracked. Not you. Not again. The smell of blood hit her harder than before. The lights overhead blurred. Her fingers froze, still inside your chest.

It was the same. The same rhythm. The same mess of anatomy soaked in blood. The same smell that had followed her home after that night weeks ago, when a patient with a nearly identical GSW bled out right here on this same table. Bullet hidden too deep. Lost too much time.

She hadn’t found it fast enough. And she watched the light fade. Her hands shook then, too. And now? You were on the table. Pale. Open. Heart stopped.

“Natasha.” Maria said, sharper. “We need to move.”

Natasha’s hands snapped into motion. “Starting internal massage.” she said hoarsely. She pressed two fingers around your heart, massaging rhythmically. One, two, three, four…Her gloves turned even darker.

“Charging defib, 150.” Maria said. “Clear.” The shock snapped through your chest. Your body jolted on the table.

Flatline.

“No, no, no, charge again! 200.”

Another jolt. Still flat. Natasha bent forward, forehead nearly touching yours as she pumped manually again.

“Come on..” she whispered. “I didn’t hold you through that just to lose you here!”

She felt the muscle under her hands, soft, slow. Still. Refusing. “Charging again, 300. Ready.”

Natasha pulled her hands away. “Clear.” The jolt arced through again. The light above flickered.

And then..Beep. A blip and another. “She’s back..” Maria said, voice softer, almost stunned. The monitor climbed, slow but steady. Your heart beat again.

And Natasha, covered in your blood, arms buried in trauma, let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding since the moment they rolled you into the OR.

She hadn’t lost you.. Not this time. The monitor let out a single shrill tone. A scream of silence. Flatline. Again. The steady rhythm they fought so hard to bring back..gone. The surgical team froze. Maria’s hands dropped from the paddles, her eyes locked on the screen.

“Natasha…” she said softly. There was no judgment in her voice. Just the sound of someone tired of watching people die.

Natasha didn’t move. “BP’s gone. Pulse gone. Pupils dilating.”

Still, Natasha didn’t speak. Maria took a step back. “There’s nothing else to do.”

It was protocol.

She was saying it like they always said it. The quiet, dignified way. And for a second, Natasha wasn’t in this OR anymore. She was weeks ago. Same sterile walls. Same too-bright light. A man on the table. The same wound. The same blood-soaked gloves. And a nurse in a pale blue mask saying, “Time of death: 03:47.”

She remembered how the silence felt after. Heavy. Hollow. Like the room had swallowed its breath and never let it go. And now…You were on this table.

You.

Not just a patient. Not just another name.

You.

The girl who cracked jokes through fear. The one who held on through a chest tube with no anesthetic. The one who smiled with blood on her teeth and said “stop staring at my tits.”

Maria reached out again. “Natasha…let her go..”

Natasha’s jaw clenched and shook her head. “No.”

“Nat-”

“I said no.”

Her voice was steel now. Cold. Final. “She’s not gone.”

“Her heart-“

“She’s not gone!”

And then she moved. She slammed her hand back onto your chest, blood squelching beneath her palm. “Suction. Now.”

“Natasha-”

“I said suction!”

The interns and Maria hesitated for half a second, then obeyed. The suction cleared the cavity, blood drawn away in hot, thick rivulets. Natasha reached inside again, direct heart massage. Her hands coated in gore.

“She’s not cold yet..” Natasha whispered, mostly to herself. “She’s not cold. She’s not blue. She’s still here.”

The monitor stayed flat. Still, Natasha pumped. One, two, three, four.

“Come on..” she hissed. “Come back.”

“You don’t get to go, Y/n! You don’t get to fucking leave me!”

The silence stretched. Another second. Beep. The tiniest sound. Soft. Fragile. Then another. A slow return of rhythm. Maria’s head snapped to the monitor. “She’s back. Sinus rhythm.”

Natasha’s body slumped. Just a little. Her hands trembled now. Truly trembled. But she kept them steady over your heart. She didn’t have time to cry. Didn’t have the right to fall apart. Her hands were still inside your chest, gently compressing, guiding the blood as your body tried to remember how to live.

And then, the OR door creaked open. Slow. Too slow. Everyone froze. It wasn’t a crash this time. No screaming. No barking orders. Just the quiet, deliberate sound of danger arriving.

Natasha’s head snapped up. The shooter stood in the doorway. No urgency now. No chaos. Just calm. He stepped inside like he was walking into a church. Quiet. Reverent. Almost…grieving.

His eyes fell on you first. Chest open. Heart exposed. Breath shallow. Something shifted in his face.

“She looks like her..He muttered. “My wife. In the ICU. Just like this. Tubes. Open. Pale.” He stepped closer. Maria held her breath.

“She was warm..” he whispered, staring at you. “I remember her hand. She was warm. And they told me she was gone. But you know what that means? They didn’t even try.”

Natasha’s body tensed as he leaned in. As his hand rose. Fingers reached for your face, blood-streaked glove hovering just inches from your cheek.

“Don’t you dare touch her.” she growled, voice feral. The room froze. Maria turned sharply. “Natasha, stop.”

“No.” Her jaw was clenched. Her chest heaved. “You don’t get to come in here and touch her like you didn’t just slaughter someone in the goddamn hallway.”

The man stared at her, stunned, but only for a moment. Then his gaze turned elsewhere. Drifted. It flicked past her. To the far corner of the OR. To a nurse. Young. Nervous. Pale as a ghost. Backed up against a medicine cabinet. Recognition hit the man like a freight train.

“I know you..” he whispered. The nurse froze.

“You were there..” the man said, louder now. “You were in that room. You lied. You said my wife coded on her own. But you let her choke! You all let her die!”

The nurse shook his head, tears already falling. “I-I didn’t- I-I wasn’t-”

The gunshot cracked like thunder. The nurse dropped instantly. Screams filled the OR. Someone dropped to their knees. A tray clattered to the floor. Blood pooled across the tile like spilled paint.

Natasha flinched violently. Even she wasn’t immune to the sudden, unrelenting violence. You were dying on her table. And now, everyone else might die too. The shooter wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t raging.

He was talking to himself. Muttering about names. About files. About how none of this was fair. About how he just wanted someone to hurt the way he hurt. Maria’s eyes flicked to the monitor. Your heartbeat was slowing again.

Too much blood lost. Too much trauma. And now this. Her mind raced. She turned to Natasha- hands still trembling, and stepped back from the table.

“Let her go.”

Natasha blinked. “What-?”

“Back off. Now.”

Confusion hit first. Then rage. Then fear. “What are you doing?” Natasha snapped. “She’s alive- she’s right here-“

“Natasha, trust me!” Maria hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a low, desperate warning. “Do it. Please..!”

No!” Natasha’s voice cracked open like a damn fault line. “Don’t do this- don’t do this! Maria, she’s right here. I can feel her, I’m still-”

“He will kill everyone in this room!” Maria hissed. “She’s already bleeding out again! If you keep fighting- he will shoot all of us, including you!”

“Good!” Natasha screamed. “Let him shoot me! I’m not letting her go!”

The shooter stepped closer again, gun raising, twitching now. Maria’s voice rose sharply. “Hands up, Nat. Now.”

“I can’t..” Natasha said, trembling, breaking. “I can’t let her die. Don’t make me-”

Natasha’s hands were still red. Her forearms were covered in blood. Your chest was still open, exposed, glistening. The last thing she’d done was press two fingers around your heart to keep it beating. She couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t.

“D-Don’t make me do this..”

“You have to.” Maria said, louder now. “He’ll kill all of us.”

Natasha stared at you. You looked so small. So pale. Still. “Goddammit!” And she raised her hands.

Tears streamed down her face as she stepped back, your blood dripping from her fingertips. Maria turned to the shooter. “If she doesn’t get blood in the next two minutes..” Maria said, “her organs will shut down. Her heart will start fibrillating. Then it’ll stop.”

She glanced back at your body, pale, carved open, barely alive. “After that,” she continued, “the brain goes. She won’t feel anything. Won’t know it’s happening.”

Her voice was quieter now. Gentle. Measured. “She’ll just…stop.”

One soft pulse. Then another. Slower. Then, Flatline. A long, unbroken shriek of sound sliced through the room.

Maria stood frozen, eyes on the monitor. When the sound didn’t stop, when the line didn’t blip, she closed her eyes. Just for a moment. To shut out the heartbreak. To hide the way her own hands were shaking.

The shooter stared at your body. Silent. He didn’t cry. But something in him broke. You could feel it in the way the gun slowly lowered. The way his breathing changed. How his shoulders sagged.

And Natasha broke. Her hands fell to her thighs, blood soaking her scrubs. Her whole body shook, shoulders hitching with grief so violent she couldn’t speak. It was like she felt it inside her own chest, the second it happened, like her own heart stuttered in sympathy. A void opened behind her ribs and swallowed her whole.

She pressed her fists to her forehead and sobbed silently. Teeth clenched. Face wet. “No..” she whispered. “No, no, no, please, no..”

The shooter lingered in the doorway. “I didn’t want this.” Then he turned and walked out. The door closed behind him. Silence. No one moved.

Maria stood frozen, then, carefully, turned back to the table. She waited. Five seconds. Ten. Then..She reconnected the ECU cable.

Beep. A single, tiny sound. Natasha didn’t hear it at first. Not until Maria turned and said, gently, “She’s not gone. Nat. Comon.”

Natasha’s head jerked up. Her eyes flew to the monitor. A heartbeat. “We’ve got a window. Do something.”

And Natasha, she surged off the floor like fire. “S-Scalpel..” she gasped, voice shredded. Her gloves slid on with a sickening squelch as she gripped your heart again, every muscle tight, every motion purposeful. Desperate. Her face soaked with tears.

She looked at Maria. Her eyes were on fire. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

Maria nodded. “I know.”

Then they got to work, elbow deep in blood, horror, and hope. Then, another gunshot outside. Everyone in the OR jumped. Had he killed someone else? Had he turned the gun on himself?

Then, Footsteps. Quick. Purposeful. Heavy. Not panicked. Disciplined. The sound grew louder, approaching fast, accompanied by the clipped mutter of radios and low commands shouted through headsets. The door burst open. Natasha turned, body rigid, ready to throw herself over your corpse again if she had to.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the shooter. It was SWAT. A line of police officers stormed into the OR in tight formation, weapons raised, but held at a cautious distance. Muzzles lowered slightly, not aiming at anyone. Not yet. Helmets. Body armor. Shields.

One officer barked, “Clear the back wall. Move away from the patient!”

A nurse cried out. Another stumbled backward. But no one moved fast. It was still an operating room. And you were still open on the table.

Maria raised her hands quickly, voice sharp. “We’re in surgery! We have a patient open, guns down!”

A second officer stepped forward, voice steadier, calmer. “Shooter is down. He’s in custody. We’ve secured the south wing. Repeat, the shooter is down.”

Maria’s knees nearly buckled. But Natasha? She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She didn’t even hear the officer say her name. Didn’t notice the way one medic gestured toward the blood pooling at her knees.

The lead officer took one step forward, his voice firm but no longer urgent. “What’s the status?”

Natasha’s hands were moving, slow, uncertain, but moving. As if by sheer force of will, she could make your heart remember how to beat. As if she could physically stop you from slipping through her fingers.

Maria stepped forward, shielding both of you from the officers like a mother lion despite the tremor in her spine.

“The patient is female.” Maria said, her voice clipped and controlled. “Mid-twenties. Gunshot, entry just beneath the clavicle. No exit. Severe thoracic trauma. We performed an emergency thoracotomy. No transfusion available during surgery.”

He glanced at Natasha again. “Doctor, do you need assistance?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Her bloodied fingers had returned to your chest, moving carefully, gently, searching. Hoping. Begging. Her hands were shaking. Her breaths were too shallow. Her lips were pressed together like if she opened them, she’d start screaming.

Maria stepped between them. “She’s not done. Don’t ask her questions. She won’t stop until she’s sure.”

The officer lowered his radio slightly, watching Natasha. “She’s in shock.”

“She’s in..something else.” Maria said softly. Then, more firmly: “Give her a second.”

And the OR fell into a delicate silence, broken only by that single, steady, heartless tone. The line that hadn’t budged. The one Natasha was fighting like hell to outrun.

Two days later.

The news anchor’s voice echoed faintly from the TV in the breakroom, but no one was really watching anymore.

“…ongoing investigation into the hospital shooting… 12 confirmed dead, multiple injured. The suspect, currently in custody, is said to have entered the OR during an active trauma surgery…“

The screen showed aerial shots of the hospital. The emergency entrance. The ambulances. A photo of the hallway with blood still staining the tile.

A nurse watching from the corner of the room sobbed quietly into her sleeve. Another sat beside her, holding her hand. A doctor passed through without speaking, his face pale, jaw tight. Somebody turned the volume down. But the silence was worse.

In the women’s changing room, everything was still. Cool fluorescent lights hummed above rows of lockers. The floor smelled faintly of antiseptic and old metal.

Natasha sat alone on a bench, still in the same pair of hospital-issued sweatpants and an undershirt. Her duffle bag sat at her feet, untouched. Her hair was damp again, she’d showered. Twice.

But the blood never really left. Not in her mind. She stared at the floor. Or maybe through it. Her elbows rested on her knees. Her hands hung limply between them, fingers twitching with phantom movement, like she could still feel your chest beneath her palms, still feel your pulse flutter and vanish.

She remembered everything. The scream. The gunshot. Your blood on her hands. Maria yelling. Her own hands shaking too hard to keep compressions going. The flatline. Your lips turning pale. That moment she’d said goodbye with her body but not her heart.

They’d sedated you after the surgery. Twice. Once for the pain. Once because you were fighting the ventilator. She hadn’t seen your eyes open since. She hadn’t heard your voice. She’d sat by your bed until they made her leave. Until they said she needed sleep. Until Maria gently took her shoulder and whispered, “Go breathe. Just for a minute.”

So she came here. But she didn’t breathe. She just stared. The door creaked open. Maria stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind her. She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at her. The way her shoulders were slumped. The way her fingers twitched like they wanted to dig back into a body and fix something. Anything.

Maria crossed the room and sat beside her, slow and careful. “Don’t.” Natasha muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I brought you water.” she said gently, setting a bottle down on the bench beside her.

Natasha didn’t look at it. Or her. “I’m fine.”

Maria’s sigh was quiet but sharp. “You’re the worst liar in this hospital.”

Natasha kept staring straight ahead, like if she just kept watching the tiles long enough, they’d start making sense.

Maria crossed her arms and leaned back against the lockers. “You haven’t checked on her.”

“She’s sedated.”

“She’s awake.”

Natasha froze. Maria looked at her fully now, eyes searching. “She asked for you. She’s groggy, and sore, and confused.” Maria said. “But she said your name. First thing out of her mouth.”

Natasha’s fingers twitched again, her nails digging into the heel of her palm. And then she said the one thing she hadn’t let herself say out loud:

“I don’t know why this hurt so much.”

Maria blinked. Natasha kept going, voice quieter, like the words were dragging their way out of her throat.

“I’ve lost people before. Friends. Teammates. Strangers on the table. But this…I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I can’t breathe right. I keep thinking she’s gonna flatline again if I look away. I haven’t slept. I haven’t even let myself breathe.”

Maria watched her. Then, gently: “You love her.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp, defensive, panicked. “She doesn’t know.”

“Do you?”

She looked down. Didn’t answer. Maria leaned in a little. “You didn’t just break because she died. You broke because she’s the only one who made you believe you could have something more.”

Natasha’s hands curled in tighter. “She doesn’t know.” she said again, more fragile this time. “What if she finds out?”

“She already has.”

Natasha flinched.

“Maybe not in words,” Maria continued. “But if you think she doesn’t know what your hands feel like when they’re the only thing keeping her alive, you’re wrong.”

The silence stretched long between them. Then Maria stood, quiet and calm. “You didn’t lose her.” she whispered. “Go remind yourself.”

The hallway smelled like lemon-scented disinfectant and something warm and sterile and sad. Natasha walked slowly. Not because she was unsure.

But because every step felt like a step back toward that moment. Toward the table. The blood. The line. The silence. When she reached your room, she didn’t enter at first.

She stood outside the door, her hand braced against the frame. Through the glass, she saw you. Propped up slightly. Pale. Worn. Eyes closed. Machines humming quietly around you. Your hand resting weakly over your stomach.

But your chest rose and fell. Steady and present. She exhaled, and only then realized she’d been holding her breath since Maria spoke.

She pushed the door open slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, sluggish. You blinked a few times, adjusting to the light. Then your gaze shifted and landed on her.

“…Hi” you croaked, voice raspy.

“Hey..” she whispered back. She didn’t ask how you were. She could see it. You were weak. Worn. Still there, but fading in and out of clarity.

So she moved to your side. Sat. Reached for your hand, but waited before touching it. You lifted your fingers slightly. That was all the permission she needed.

Her fingers wrapped around yours. Firm. Present. Steady. Just like before. Except now, there was no blood. No gloves. Just skin.

“There was a shooter..” you mumbled.

She nodded. “It’s over.”

“I got hit?”

“You did.”

“And…the OR?”

She froze. Just for a second.

“I don’t remember anything..”

Natasha didn’t speak. Your eyes flicked to her. “Did something happen?”

She squeezed your hand. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You watched her carefully. The way her voice dipped on you. The way her shoulders looked tighter now than they did during training runs or briefings. The way her thumb kept brushing across your knuckles, back and forth, like she was trying to remind herself you were warm.

But your body was heavy. Your brain foggy. You knew there was more. But you let it go. You weren’t strong enough to carry it.

And she..she wasn’t ready to speak it. So you squeezed her hand in return. Weak. But enough. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Her eyes flicked down. And this time, her voice cracked. “So am I.”

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader

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p0orbaby · 6 days ago

Text

Guy Fawkes Tesco Dissociation

summary: leah flirts with you, your sister isn’t too please by it

warnings: none

a/n: thank you to the anon who so kindly came up with this idea!

word count: 1.7k

You’re standing in the post-match hospitality suite trying to decide if the grey thing in the buffet tray is mushroom risotto or porridge that’s lost the will to live. The consistency is tragic. Congealed at the edges like it’s nursing trauma. Some rogue sprig of parsley sits on top, wilting like a garnish trying to convince you this sludge had aspirations once. You haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t either beige or pre-wrapped since you got here, and now you’re just holding a tiny wooden fork as if it’s a weapon. It’s one of those eco-friendly ones that splinters if you so much as look at it sideways—useless for food, perfect for passive aggression.

The whole lounge smells like disinfectant and faint victory—sweat, floor cleaner, and that metallic hum of a commercial fridge you’re pretty sure is struggling for life. Poor thing. It’s making that low groaning sound, like it wants to die but knows it can’t until the Lionesses are done selfie-ing with extended family.

There’s too much fluorescent lighting. That kind of overhead buzz that makes everyone look vaguely jaundiced. Too many footballers, too many PR girls in patent heels, too many conversations happening in that specific register where everyone’s pretending they’re chill but secretly vibrating with caffeine, adrenaline, and the knowledge that they’re about to be Instagram-tagged into oblivion. Everyone’s leaning too hard into the whole ‘just happy to be here’ thing. Even the champagne flutes look nervous.

You’re mostly here for moral support. And maybe a selfie. You’ve mentally drafted the caption twice—some tasteful mix of “so proud” and “she smashed it” with just enough cleavage in the frame to remind people that yes, you’re here supporting family, but no, you haven’t lost your edge. But also, selfishly, because the England women are hot. Like, disproportionately so. It’s suspicious. Someone should investigate.

“Let me guess,” a voice says behind you, low and amused. “You’re not here for the mini sausage rolls.”

You turn slowly, like a woman who’s watched enough true crime to clock tone, timbre, intent. You assess voices like others assess threats: slowly, carefully, always with an exit strategy. It’s Leah Williamson, living, breathing, taller than expected. That particular kind of tall that still manages to make you feel like you’d look better if you stood up straighter. Skin clear like she exfoliates with diamonds and filtered air. She’s wearing her England tracksuit half-zipped, no lanyard, like she doesn’t need it, like access is implicit. Hair up in a way that suggests zero effort and maximum effect. Like she got ready in two minutes and still managed to look like a Vogue cover. The kind that goes viral.

You blink. “What gave it away?”

She grins, eyes flicking down, then up. A practiced sweep. Not sleazy. Just clinical. “Your face is saying ‘get me out of here,’ but your outfit says you knew you’d be looked at.”

She’s not wrong. You’re wearing the blouse that gaps slightly when you breathe too deeply. The kind of outfit you wear when you want to seem chill but also low-key devastating. Your trousers are high-waisted and aggressive. Your earrings dangle like punctuation. Everything was intentional, even if you’ve lied to yourself about that three times already.

You sip the cava that’s slowly going flat in its flute. It tastes faintly of metal and regret. Like someone once promised it’d be champagne and then quietly backed out. “I like being looked at.”

She steps forward, just enough that you clock her scent—Le Labo Santal 33. Predictable. But still effective. Like rich girl pheromones. Every lesbian in a Soho House bathroom has worn it at least once. She wears it like it’s never been cliché. Like it was made for her skin.

“I like looking.”

You tilt your head. “Do you flirt with everyone who loiters by the catering?”

“No,” she says, completely serious. Not playing it for laughs. Just laying it out. “Only the ones who look like they’d let me.”

You laugh. You weren’t planning to. You’re not easy. You’re just—bored. Entertaining this. She’s entertaining. Her confidence is that particular brand of athlete-casual, like she knows she could outpace any awkward silence if it dared to challenge her.

She watches you, eyes flicking again to your mouth. Slow, deliberate. “You’ve got lipstick on your glass.”

“I always do. Bad habit.”

“I could help you fix it.”

Your eyebrow lifts, automatic. “Are you offering to drink from the other side or lick it clean?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

You hum. “Bit forward.”

She shrugs. One shoulder, casual. “Bit honest.”

“I’m older than you, you know.”

She grins. Not fazed. Not even slightly. “You say that like it’s not hot.”

You turn slightly, lean against the wall, tilt your head like you’re studying her for a project you don’t intend to finish. You’re playing now. Not because you want to win—just because you like the shape of the game.

“What’s your type?”

She takes a second. Bites her lip. Not nervous. Just drawing it out. Like she knows timing is half the seduction.

“Right now?” Her eyes scan, slow and obvious. “Blouse open one more button than is strictly necessary. Earrings from Mejuri. The kind of face that’s used to getting what it wants and the attitude to match.”

You glance at your reflection in the door of the fridge. She’s not wrong. You adjusted that button in the lift. Told yourself it was because it was warm. Not because you wanted attention. From someone. Anyone. Apparently, this is who you got.

She steps in closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel her attention like a spotlight. “Name?”

You sip again. Don’t answer.

She tilts her head. “You’re mysterious. That’s sexy.”

“Don’t push it.”

She leans in, voice dropping just slightly. Low enough to feel like a secret. “If I pushed it, you’d know.”

You almost choke on your cava. This girl. This baby-faced, cocky, post-match swaggering captain is throwing out one-liners like she’s seducing her way through a Netflix original. You don’t even know if you’re annoyed or impressed. Possibly both. Probably both.

“Do you work in media?” she asks, suddenly, sharp as a cuticle knife.

You shake your head. “No.”

“PR? Events?”

“Closer.”

“So not here for work.”

“No.”

“Just for fun?”

You give her a slow, unreadable smile. The kind that’s been mistaken for consent, for challenge, for foreplay. “I was invited.”

There’s a flicker behind her eyes—barely anything, but you catch it. A recalibration. You’ve nudged her off script.

“Ah,” she says, tone smoothing out like a hand over a silk dress. “Important, then.”

You nod. Ambiguous. Let her fill in the blanks. You haven’t said who. You’re not planning to. Yet.

She nods towards the glass doors, out to the lower tier where discarded pints sweat on plastic ledges and the pitch glows radioactive green. “Came for the game, stayed for the overpriced alcohol and emotional turbulence?”

“I stayed for the company.”

“Oh yeah?”

You glance at her, deliberate. “Wasn’t expecting this, though.”

She smirks, something feline curling at the edge of her mouth. “Happy surprise?”

“TBD.”

She pauses. Thinking. You watch her do it. It’s almost charming—like catching a model doing Sudoku. She’s calculating the angle. How much charm. How much cheek. Whether to go full throttle or ease off the accelerator.

She chooses both.

“I could give you a better tour,” she says. “Not the literal kind. More… you and me. Somewhere less fluorescent. Less beige carpet. Better soundtrack.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you do this a lot?”

She shrugs, effortless. “Only when it’s worth it.”

“And I’m worth it?”

“Oh,” she says, stepping into your space with the grace of someone used to getting the last word, “I think you might be a little dangerous.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing. For a night. Maybe two.”

You’re just about to deliver a line—something glib, maybe filthy—when a voice cuts the air like a dentist’s drill against enamel.

“Leah?”

Both your heads turn. And there she is: Grace Clinton, blinking at the scene like she’s just stumbled into a deleted scene from Sex/Life.

Her face spasms into an expression somewhere between disbelief and acute spiritual distress. “What the hell is this?”

You smile. Angelic. Like you’ve been caught volunteering at an animal rescue. “Hi, Gracie.”

Leah does a visible double take. “Wait—Gracie?”

Grace’s stare ricochets between you like a hostage negotiator. “That’s my sister.”

Leah looks at you.

Then at her.

Then laughs.

Then freezes.

“Wait, what?”

Grace throws her hands up, righteous as a preacher mid-sermon. “You were hitting on her!”

Leah’s eyes widen like she’s been offered ketamine at brunch. “You didn’t say your sister was hot.”

Grace looks like she’s about to throw up. “Why would I say that? That’s revolting. Are you okay? Do you have a head injury?”

You lift your cava flute like a toast. “To be fair, she was extremely flattering.”

Leah’s still short-circuiting. “This is… not what i was expecting.”

Grace stabs a finger in her direction like she’s summoning a demon. “Stop trying to seduce my family!”

“She flirted back!”

“She flirts with everyone! She flirts with lollipop men and the guy from DPD. It’s chronic. It means nothing.”

You shrug. “Not nothing.”

Grace groans like her soul’s leaving her body. “I need to be exorcised. Or euthanised.”

Leah rubs a hand over her face, suddenly aware of the PR disaster unfolding in real time. “This is going to be so awkward at camp.”

“You think it’s going to be awkward?” Grace gestures wildly, borderline unhinged. “Imagine me, stuck in midfield, watching you eye-fuck my sister from the touchline.”

“Language, Grace,” you say gently, like you’ve said it a hundred times before. A calm, familiar reprimand. Not scolding—just reminding. A soft nudge from someone who changed her nappies and taught her to spell ‘definitely.’

Leah turns back to you, a grin twitching at her mouth like it’s trying to behave. “So… about that better tour…”

“Jesus Christ!” Grace howls.

You grin, all cheekbone and implication. “She’s very protective.”

Leah grins back. “You’re very tempting.”

Grace’s voice goes up an octave, full banshee. “I hate both of you!”

Leah doesn’t flinch. “You gonna tell your mum?”

“Oh, I’m telling everyone.” She’s already got her phone out like she’s reporting a crime. “Group chat’s open. You’re getting dragged.”

Leah leans in, low voice, warm breath. “Still time to sneak out the fire exit.”

You drain the last of your cava and smirk. “I’ll drive.”

And somewhere behind you, Grace wails.

Perfect.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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ego13 · 2 months ago

Text

CRIMINAL ── yjm.

─ having cheated in one of the underground casinos, you didn't think you'd be caught red-handed and punished in a rather interesting way.

now playing : Taemin - Criminal

warnings, sensitive content: semi-rough sex, too much dirty talk, gp!karina, sex with strangers, sex in public places, dry humping, fingering (reader recieving), facefucking, deeptroating, praise kink, hair pulling, pet names (kitty, good girl, princess), nipple play, spanking (even too much), riding, hickeys, breeding kink.

word count : 3,2k

The aroma of whiskey, pricey perfume, and the slightest hint of cigarette smoke clinging to the velvet upholstery filled the air inside the casino. Its deep crimson fabric, adorned with swirling gold filigree, hushed every footfall as the main character stepped onto the luxurious carpet. With the occasional outburst of jubilant laughter or the moan of someone who had just lost a fortune, the sound of jingling slot machines filled the room like a fascinating symphony.

Crystals in the glistening chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling caught the light and dispersed it in stunning patterns on the marble floors close to the entryway. There appeared to be movement in every direction as cocktail waiters with trays full of glasses and elegant, shimmering gowns moved fluidly between the tables.

Men in fitted suits sat at the blackjack and poker tables with stone faces, their palms hovering over chips, while others, more relaxed, flung their bets in with reckless abandon. As you navigated the maze of flashing lights and velvet ropes, you passed tourists who were ecstatic and high rollers whose eyes glowed with either triumph or despair.

The sound of falling cubes was drowned out by the clamor of electronic jingles and whispered talks as a dice game broke out in cheers to the left. A huge indoor waterfall poured into a glistening pool as the casino extended past the main floor and past the high-limit salons where the real kings and queens of the gaming industry played.

Oh, you clearly had a very interesting evening planned.

You walked to one of the tables, which stood almost in the very center of the gaming room, sitting down opposite a man unknown to you in an expensive suit who looked at you as nothing more than easy prey, well, you're clearly not against playing along and pretending to be a fool, knowing that he'll give you more than a few for one game.

"Well, shall we play, princess? Or is Texas Hold'em not suitable for girls like you?" He chuckled, making the men standing at the table laugh with this phrase, and you clearly caught a sign of falsehood in this feigned laughter, well, it looks like you're not the only one lying today.

You were playing with the stack of chips next to you with your fingers, which the man noticed, raising his eyebrow as if offering to place a bet with you.

"All in," you said so calmly, as if you were trying to strangle him with your indifference, to which his eyes widened, but then his face broke into a satisfied smile, after which he pushed his chips towards the dealer.

"Such a delicate girl, but she plays for big money," he said before taking a small sip from his glass of whiskey, hearing the ice cubes touching each other, creating a pleasant sound.

He drank the same half-full whiskey, never taking more than a sip, while a server, well-paid for his quiet, made sure his glass was never empty. The room was buzzing with excitement as the city's elite gathered to watch the match.

Following the face-down dealing of two private cards, a number of community cards were positioned in the middle. The choices to bet, raise, or fold changed with each round. You're was planning on read the man, playing on his confidence, and laying the ideal trap were more important than simply using the hand.

Because of the fact, that you first played conservatively, he was able to win a few hands, which boosted his confidence. Feeling in charge, the wealthy man laughed and threw back another drink. You patiently waited for the right time to happen, allowing him to believe it. With one ace on the table and one in your hand, they had the starting point for an almost invincible full house. Yet you remained composed, hardly responding, as though fortune had finally shifted in your favor. The fake hesitancy was misunderstood by him, who grinned. In the absence of weakness, he perceived it.

As you called the bet and set down your cards, the room fell silent. The murmurs followed by few gasps. Three aces, two kings, a full house. Fucking amazing. When the reality struck, his confidence crumbled and he went pale. Someone had played him. Exactly. In your direction, the dealer shoved the pile of chips. Just enough to acknowledge your achievement, but not enough to leave a trace, you glanced at the rigged dealer and gave him a little, contented smile.

He shook his head incredulously and muttered a swear. "You're simply lucky," he whispered. In a silent toast, your merely lifted your glass which a minute earlier had been filled with fresh whiskey by the waiter, who was still obediently standing next to the table, with ease, you uttered, "It's hard to call my talent luck."

You just chuckled, getting up from the table with your glass in your hands, looking for someone else, someone who would once again give you everything they had acquired that evening.

Having noticed a table with several people, you were about to approach it when you felt someone put their hand on your shoulder, turning around, you saw a serious man in a suit, «Security» said the badge that hung on his black formal jacket. This realization made you wince, had you been caught? Had someone noticed that the playing chips were counterfeit?

"You need to go with me," said the man, taking you by the wrist, pulling you, at that moment you morally said goodbye to your friends and loved ones, thinking that you were clearly going to be killed to hell now, but everything changed after a long walk, as it seemed to you, around the entire casino, you were not taken into a dark room, only the sofa stood in the center, and the door behind you closed with a loud bang.

"What a beautiful girl cheating," you heard a rough female voice, the cold look on Jimin's face only intensified as she took in the nervous fidgeting of the girl before her. Her piercing gaze seemed to bore into the very soul of your soul, making her feel even more exposed under the scrutiny of all four women.

"You're really beautiful, It's a pity that you act like a rat," the room felt stiflingly hot, the air heavy with tension and unspoken promises of punishment to come. She smirked, clearly enjoying your discomfort, watching you shudder just from the feeling of the weight of their gaze on your body.

Once again, her hands were on your shoulders, the she smirked, feeling your skin get covered in goosebumps, slightly lowering the straps of your dress, "you know, all girls who behave like this should be punished," you lowered your head in shame, unable to maintain eye contact with them.

"Oh, what a shame, are you really embarrassed?" Jimin smirked at your timid movements, at the way you simply let her take off your dress like a person who had already resigned himself to his burden.

"As for being shy, don't be like that, I'll fuck the crap out of you," Jimin said, grabbing your wrist and forcing you to come closer, looking at the blush on your face with a smirk, "by the way, regarding your punishment..."

She backed away, sitting on the couch and patting her knees as if inviting you to sit down, "bend over, you fucking brat," the rough tone made you feel like your knees were weak, the other girls' hands pushed you to lean on Jimin's lap and bend over, causing them to exclaim your obedience.

A smirk played on Jimin's lips as you approached, the soft pad of her footsteps echoing in the spacious room. She watched, unmoving, as you leaned over her lap, the fabric of your dress riding up you creamy thighs. Her hand, already resting on her thigh, slid higher, fingertips brushing against the exposed skin.

"Oh, aren't you an eager thing?" She said, smirking and leaning closer to examine your body in more detail which made her lick her lips in anticipation, "Good enough to eat," she exclaimed, placing her hand on the bulge that had formed in her pants in such a short time, sighing heavily at the sensation of the touch.

Yu's hand crept further up, grip tightening, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh. She leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear as she hissed, "you better behave yourself so I don't fuck you senseless right now," with that, Jimin delivered a sharp smack to your ass, the sound of it ringing out in the room. She massaged the reddening skin almost immediately after, her touch a confusing mix of punishment and soothing caress.

"Taking her punishment like a good girl, fuck... I can cum just from this view."

Jimin let out a dark chuckle at your whimper, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction at the way you arched your back, her hand leaving a vivid red mark on the soft, supple skin. She could feel the heat radiating off your skin, could see the goosebumps prickling her flesh from the mix of pain and unwanted pleasure.

"Count it," she said in a rough vouce, raising her hand for another smack as her eyes glinting with a dark, twisted version of affection, Jimin growled, her voice low and threatening. Her hand leaned down on your ass once more, the sound of the smack echoing obscenely in the room.

"O-One!" you sniffled, making her smirk, tears pricked at the corners of your eyes but you blinked them back, not wanting to give Jimin the satisfaction of seeing you cry. Jimin's hand worked methodically, each smack harder than the last, each one leaving a more visible vivid red handprint on your tender skin. She could feel you squirming, could hear your breathy whimpers and ragged counting.

"E-Eight, nine, ten..." You gasped, trying your best to keep up with the relentless pace of Jimin's actions. Your delicate skin was on fire, each smack sending jolts of pain and something shamefully close to pleasure coursing through you.

Throughout the spanking, Jimin's other hand crept under the hem of your black dress, which during this time has managed to almost completely slide off you, fingernails raking up your thigh, dangerously close to where her legs met.

"Fuck, so wet from being spanked? Such a bad girl you are..." She raised her hand again, letting it hover for a moment, allowing anticipation and trepidation to build in the air between them. Then, with a contented grin, she brought it down hard, striking the same cheek as before. Her hand was relentless, moving from cheek to cheek with mechanical precision, each blow designed to punish and arouse in equal measure.

"Baby, I don't want to see you cry, you know very well that girls who break the rules are always punished," she said, stroking your flushed skin, giving you a few minutes to come to your senses while her other hand slid down to the front, cupping your pussy possessively, feeling the damp heat even through the thin fabric of your panties.

"Fuck... you're so soaked, kitty," She ripped away the flimsy fabric barrier, baring your cunt to the cool air of the room. Her fingers slowly circled your clit with a rough fingertip, feeling it swell and throb against the touch, as her fingers slowly slid inside, curled her fingers just right, knowing she'd found that spongey spot that would make you see stars.

"Such a drenched cunt, holy shit..." She punctuated her words with a particularly hard thrust, burying her fingers as deep as they could go and grinding the heel of her palm against your swollen clit, you let out a choked scream, hips bucking back against Jimin's hand, trying to take her fingers even deeper.

"Oh, aren't you a loud girl?" Jimin encouraged darkly, free hand coming down hard on your ass, leaving another vivid red mark blooming on the abused and sore flesh, she continued her relentless assault, fingers curling and scissoring, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside your walls.

"You're gripping me so tightly..." Jimin growled, feeling your pussy clamp down around her, you teetering on the brink of climax, "gonna cum for me, baby girl?"

She leaned down, teeth sinking into the side of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. She sucked and licked at the reddening skin, marking her possession, as her fingers never stopped their brutal pumping, fucking into your cunt with a single-minded intensity.

"Right now," with those words, she slammed her fingers in as deep as they could go and ground the heel of her palm against your clit, pushing you over the edge into oblivion. Jimin's other hand came down on your ass with a brutal slap, the sound echoing obscenely in the room.

"Good fucking girl, such a good girl..." She praised darkly, fingers pumping through your orgasm, drawing it out and making it last longer, she continued to grind against your swollen clit, rubbing through the aftershocks, until the you collapsed forward.

"On your knees," she said in a hoarse, rough voice that made you immediately climb off her lap on trembling legs, standing on your own knees, Jimin's hand drifted down, palming herself through her pants. She could feel how hard she was, how much she ached to shove her cock down your eager throat.

"You're going to take it all baby, every. fucking. inch," She punctuated her words by rubbing her clothed erection against your face, letting you feel the size and shape of her as her breath grew heavier, the anticipation building in her chest.

She smirked as she watched you scramble to obey, eagerly tugging at her belt and the button of her pants. The desperation in your movements was palpable, her need to free Jimin's cock an almost vulgar thing.

Jimin tangled her fingers in your hair, gripping the silky strands as she forced you to look at her, slowly and deliberately, Jimin rubbed the swollen head of her dick against your soft lips, smearing them with the musky essence of her arousal.

"Open up, kitty... Let me feel that tight throat of yours," As she spoke, she began to slowly push forward, the thick length of her cock made you to part your lips, invading the warm, wet cavern of your tight throat which you immediately tried to relax. She groaned at the feel of the girl's tongue sliding along her sensitive flesh, the slick heat of her mouth engulfing her.

She began to thrust, dragging her length in and out of your mouth, fucking her face with slow, deliberate strokes. Her heavy balls slapped against your chin with each pump of her hips, a filthy wet sound that echoed obscenely in the room, "Fuck, you're such a little cocksucker, don't you? Fucking hell..."

Yu could feel your throat constricting around her, the tight muscles fluttering as you struggled to accommodate her length. It felt incredible, the way you choked and gagged as you tried to take her more deeper, from the feeling of how she almost touched the back of your fucking throat made your head spin.

Jimin growled in pleasure, fingers tightening in your hair as she began to pick up the pace, fucking your face with increasingly rough, brutal thrusts, her hips moved like a piston, slamming into your throat. Drool leaked from the corners of your stretched mouth, bubbling obscenely as Jimin fucked your throat raw.

"'m getting close," Jimin panted, the hand not tangled in your hair drifting down to grope and squeeze at your breasts, pinching and rolling the stiff peaks between her fingers, with a final, brutal thrust, Yu buried herself balls deep in your mouth, grinding against the back of her throat as she came with a guttural groan.

Thick, hot ropes of cum poured from her spasming head, flooding and forcing you to swallow around the heavy load. As the waves of her intense climax finally began to stop, Jimin slowly withdrew, her softening cock slipping from your abused mouth with a wet pop. She looked down at you, taking in the sight of your flushed face, messy hair, your ruined makeup and the way you gasped and choked as you tried to catch your breath.

She reached out, thumb and forefinger pinching your chin, tilting your face up to meet Jimin's intense gaze. Her eyes were dark, filled with a hunger that promised all sorts of sinful delights. She licked her lips as she stared down at her girl, a slow, filthy grin spreading across her face.

"Oh baby, I think I ruined your makeup..." she smirked, grabbing your wrist only to have you fall back onto her lap, gripping your hips tightly, "while you're riding me - makeup will be the last thing you need right now."

She leaned in, capturing your lips in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, all clashing teeth and tangling tongues. All the while, her hands continued their sensual assault on your breasts, kneading and massaging the soft, pliant flesh with a reverent hunger.

You sat up slightly, allowing her to slide inside, letting out a low moan into the kiss, causing her to squeeze your hips tighter, deepening it, It made Jimin's cock throb and pulse inside you, the sight and sounds of your pleasure stoking the flames of her own desire.

"Fuuck... tightest pussy ever..." She punctuated her words with a sharp thrust of her hips, slamming up into your dripping cunt. The wet, obscene sound of fucking filled the room, the lewd slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

Your whimpers and whines only spurred Jimin on, urging her to grope and tease more roughly, to pinch and tug at the stiff little peaks of your breasts. She could feel them hardening further under her ministrations, could see the pretty pink flush spreading down your neck.

"Such a good girl, taking me so fucking deep like you were made for it..." Jimin thrust up hard and fast, burying herself balls-deep inside your fluttering cunt. She set a rapid, almost punishing pace, fucking up into you with brutal, animalistic intensity.

"Gonna breed you, princess, make you full of my pups, fuck..." She could feel the pressure building, the coil of ecstasy winding tighter and tighter in her core. But she gritted her teeth, determined to hold back, to make you finish first.

With a final, brutal thrust, Jimin buried herself balls-deep inside your spasming cunt. She could feel your release crashing over you in waves as your pussy gripping and rippling around Jimin's thick shaft like a vice.

Jimin's body shuddered and convulsed as her own mind-blowing orgasm ripped through her. A guttural, feral growl tore from her, thick cock pulsing and throbbing as it pumped stream after stream of hot, thick cum deep into your spasming cunt.

"Fuck, fuck fuck!" Her eyes rolling back as she filled you to the brim with her seed. Her hips jerked and spasmed erratically, grinding her cock as deep as physically possible as she rode out the intense waves of pleasure crashing over her.

As the final aftershocks of your mutual orgasms began to subside, Yu slumped back against the couch, pulling your limp, sated body against her own. She wrapped her arms around your trembling body possessively, holding you close as they both struggled to catch their breath.

"Fuck... baby, I hope you're not dead, because I'm not done with your punishment yet..."

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bamboostorage · 9 months ago

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honeyncherry · 1 month ago

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we never tell - joe burrow

summary should've left it alone when you had the chance, but then again, you've never been good at knowing when to walk away

content 18+, smut, drug usage (weed), language

The last thing you should be doing right now is sitting in Joe’s truck, tucked away in an empty lot with the engine off, the streetlights barely reaching the edges of the windshield.

The last thing you should be doing is watching him roll a blunt, the earthy scent rising and mingling with the warmth of your perfume, his demeanor unhurried as he works.

But you are.

You know you shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And the strangest part? Neither of you have really said a word.

Since the second you slid into the passenger seat, the silence has stretched between you, not quite awkward, but more like something waiting to be filled. It could be the weirdness of the day still clinging to you, or maybe it’s just how nights like this always are — edges blurred by exhaustion, by the hour, by whatever unspoken thing brought you here in the first place.

Either way, you don’t say anything.

And neither does Joe.

The cracked window lets in just enough of the cold to send a chill through you, but the inside of the truck feels warm, stifling almost, with the hum of energy between you. Your fingers slip into the oversized sleeves of your sweatshirt, tucking into the fabric as you shift in your seat, eyes flicking to Joe’s lap.

A silver tin sits open against the fabric of his grey sweatpants, hinges creaking slightly as he flips it open with one hand. Everything is laid out with the kind of precision that tells you this isn’t his first time: a packed container of weed, a grinder, rolling papers, a lighter. He pinches a small nug between his fingers, twisting it slightly before dropping it into the grinder. The metal teeth scrape together with a faint crunch, and your ears tune into every detail: the sound of the weed breaking down, the steady twist of his wrist, the rhythmic motions that seem practiced, effortless.

You don’t mean to stare, but it’s hard not to when his hands move like that.

He taps the bottom of the grinder against his knee once, then unscrews the lid, tilting it so the finely ground pieces spill onto the rolling paper stretched across his thigh.

The calloused pads of his fingers press into the paper as he spreads the ground weed evenly, smoothing it out before tucking and rolling with ease. His thumb grazes the edge, pressing it down, sealing it shut. His tongue flicks out for just a second, wetting the paper, and for some reason, your breath catches.

You don’t know why.

Joe doesn’t look at you, just runs the lighter along the seam, heating it enough to tighten the paper. Then, finally, he leans back against the seat, resting an arm along the window frame as he brings the blunt to his lips.

The tip flares orange as he inhales, cheeks hollowing slightly, his jaw tightening before his head tips back. He holds it for a second, then exhales, the smoke curling from his lips in slow, lazy spirals, disappearing into the night.

You watch him.

You shouldn’t, but you do.

“You do this during the season?” The question slips out before you fully think it through.

Joe doesn’t answer right away, just takes another slow hit, his gaze flicking toward you. “They only test once a month.”

Your brows pull together slightly. “That’s it?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he flicks the ash into the tray by the dashboard. “Gotta be smart about it.” You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. Joe watches you, tilting his head slightly. “You nervous?”

You scoff, shifting in your seat, “please.”

He doesn’t believe you.

The truck creaks slightly as he shifts, extending the blunt toward you, fingers loose but expectant. You hesitate just long enough for something amused to flicker across his expression, but he doesn’t say anything.

Your fingers graze his as you reach out and take it from him, the warmth of his skin lingering for just a second too long. You ignore the flicker of pride on his face as you bring the blunt to your lips.

The inhale is thick, warm, expanding in your lungs — a slow burn that settles deep, unraveling inside you. It doesn’t hit right away, but you feel the shift, the way it spreads through your chest, your fingertips, making the world tilt just slightly softer.

You hold the smoke for a second before turning and exhaling through the window like him, watching it curl into the air.

Joe watches carefully as you take another hit before handing it back.

The silence lingers for a second before a giggle bubbles up.

You bite down on your lip, trying to suppress it, but it’s useless. Your head is spinning just enough, not from the high of the drug, more the high of the moment.

His brows lift slightly. “What?”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together, but another quiet giggle escapes, and Joe smirks like he’s already figured it out.

“Don’t tell me you’re high already…”

“No.” You shake your head again, but another laugh betrays you.

Joe exhales a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Then what’s so funny?”

You hesitate for a moment, then shrug. “It’s like you’re corrupting me.”

His smirk lingers, but something flickers behind his eyes. Joe turns back, blowing out toward the windshield, fingers rolling the blunt absently between them. “You smoke often?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

Your eyes flick to his. “Who I’m with.”

Joe hums, his smirk deepening as his gaze drags over you. Then, with a curious tilt of his head, he asks, “You actually high yet?”

The warmth is fully in your system now, softening everything, making your limbs feel light, your thoughts a little hazy. You feel good — comfortable and at ease, but still present. You shift slightly in your seat, stretching out your fingers. “Not enough.”

He nods like he was hoping for that answer.

Bringing the blunt to his lips, he takes a slow, deep drag, holding it in. He stays like that for a second, letting it settle, his breath steady, his jaw tight. Then, without a word, he lifts his free hand, curling two fingers in a slow beckoning motion.

Your stomach tightens.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explain any further. Just waits like he knows you’ll come to him.

And you do.

The space between you shrinks as you shift closer, your body reacting before your mind fully catches up. The truck suddenly feels smaller, air thick with smoke, warmth, something headier. His scent wraps around you — clean, woodsy cologne, tinged with the smoke. It makes your pulse skip, your head light in a way that has nothing to do with the high.

His fingers lift, curling beneath your chin and tilting your face up. The rough drag of his skin against yours sends heat straight to your stomach.

His thumb reaches higher, grazing the edge of your bottom lip. It’s barely a touch, but it unravels something in you, something that has been simmering beneath the surface since the other night. The pad of his finger presses just slightly, coaxing your mouth open — just seeing how easily you’ll give in.

You notice the way his eyes light up, or maybe they darken. It’s hard to tell when all your hazed mind can process is the way his hands feel on you.

His lips part just slightly, his breath deep and controlled as the smoke rolls from his mouth to yours, warm, slow, wrapping around your lips before sinking into your mouth. The burn spreads through your chest, but it’s nothing compared to the way his eyes are on you.

Joe’s grip tightens, his thumb stroking over your jaw. His gaze drops again, flickering down to your mouth, lingering just a second too long before meeting your eyes again. The way he looks at you sends a sharp, dizzying pulse through your body, heat curling low in your stomach, making you press your thighs closer together before you even realize you’re doing it.

Your eyes flutter shut as you inhale, breath unsteady, pulling in the smoke, but that’s not the only thing you’re letting in. Your body is fully locked into this moment, your pulse hammering against his fingers where they still hold your face.

Joe doesn’t move immediately, holding the space between you for a second too long to be accidental. His touch lingers, thumb ghosting against your skin once more before he finally leans back, releasing you with the same kind of control he’s shown all night.

The loss of his touch leaves you untethered, breath shaky, body thrumming with something you don’t dare trying to name. You exhale the last of the smoke, trying to steady yourself as you sink back into your seat, pulse still stuttering in the space he just left.

Joe doesn’t say anything. He watches you for a moment longer than necessary before falling back into his seat. The warmth of his fingers lingers, imprinting itself in your mind, settling deep enough that you barely notice the way your lips part slightly — almost as if you’re still waiting for him to come back.

Instead, he brings the blunt to his lips one last time, taking a slow drag and holding it, letting his head tilt back against the headrest. His chest expands with it, muscles pulling tight beneath his t-shirt, but his eyes remain half-lidded as he exhales in a long, steady stream. The last bits of smoke quickly dissipate as he reaches for the ashtray.

He stubs the blunt out, pressing the end into the tray with lazy precision before leaving it there, abandoned. Then, he sinks further into his seat, arms folding over his chest as his head turns slightly toward you.

The weight of the moment sticks, thick and unspoken, wrapping around the both of you like a slow-burning fuse that neither of you are quite willing to snuff out. You don’t move. Neither does he. The only sound is the faint hum of the truck’s heater and the slow inhale-exhale of your breath, still slightly unsteady from what just happened.

Your fingers twitch against your lap, curled loosely in the fabric of your sweatshirt. The high is settling deeper now, spreading in soft, warm pulses through your body.

His fingers drum once against his arm, then he shifts, blowing out through his nose, his voice low, almost contemplative. “So…” His head tips slightly to the side, eyes sharp despite the haze that lingers behind them. “I’m corrupting you, huh?”

Oh.

You don’t respond right away. You don’t know if you can. Joe watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching. His expression is unreadable, but his patience is unwavering, like he’s perfectly content sitting there, letting you squirm under his gaze, waiting to see how you handle this.

You inhale, slow, steadying yourself, but it does nothing to calm the pulse hammering in your throat. “I mean…” Your tongue flicks out over your lips, a nervous habit, but Joe’s eyes catch it immediately.

It feels like your whole body reacts at once; skin flushing, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweatshirt, toes pressing into the soles of your shoes like grounding yourself could stop the dizzy, slow-spreading heat from taking over.

“I’m not wrong,” you manage, voice softer than before.

His tongue drags briefly across the inside of his cheek, his jaw tightening for just a second before relaxing again like he’s keeping himself in check.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice lower, rougher than before. “You seemed pretty willing to give in to it.”

Heat pulses through your limbs, pooling deep in your stomach and curling low, leaving your hands restless where they settle against your lap. Your fingers jerk, then curl, then smooth over your thighs as if the simple action could erase the tension building in your body.

Joe notices.

His eyes flick down quickly, barely a glance, but you feel it. You hear the subtle inhale through his nose, see the clench of his fingers where they rest against his arms, the way the tension, already high, twists tighter.

Your body begs for an escape, urges you to shift, to move — anything to break the spiraling tension. It’s dangerous, suffocating in a way that steals your breath, hijacks your thoughts, and leaves nothing but him.

Joe doesn’t say anything; the silence is deafening. He shakes his head slightly, like he’s resetting himself, like he’s dialing something back. His smirk returns, lazier this time, but his eyes don’t quite match it.

“You make it too easy,” he mutters, voice low, almost thoughtful. Joe doesn’t move at first. He just sits there, head tipped against the seat, watching you like he already knows exactly what’s going through your head. Like he’s known for a while.

You should say something. Should laugh, deflect, break whatever this is before it turns into something you truly can’t take back this time.

But you don’t.

Because when Joe moves, lifting his head, his gaze stays locked on yours, and the space between you is already too small.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it doesn’t matter, because suddenly he’s there, his fingers brushing over your thigh, just a light press through the fabric of your sweats, just enough to make you forget how to breathe.

Your pulse stutters as his hand moves, fingertips skating along the waistband of your pants before hooking beneath them, tugging just enough to make your stomach flutter.

“You gonna stop me?”

You don’t answer right away, but the second you tilt your chin up, just enough for your breath to brush against his — he pounces.

Joe’s mouth crashes against yours, all heat and restraint unraveling in the same breath. His fingers tighten where they grip you, pulling you closer, dragging you into his lap before you can process what’s happening.

The second you’re in his lap, he takes what he wants. His hands are firm against your hips, tugging you down, forcing you to feel him — all of him, right where you need it. The heat of his mouth is intoxicating, his lips parting yours easily, tongue slipping past with a deep, hungry groan that rumbles low in his chest.

You moan into him, rolling your hips instinctively, the friction sending a sharp pulse of pleasure through you. His grip tightens, blunt nails digging into your sides like he’s holding himself back.

He’s going to let you work for it.

You rock against him again, hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his shirt as you chase the heat building inside you. His cock is hard beneath you, thick and hot, pressing against your core in a way that makes you ache. You can feel how badly he wants this. How badly he wants you.

You break away from his lips with a gasp as you roll your hips again, grinding down harder, searching for more. Joe groans, head tipping back against the seat, fingers flexing against your waist, but he still doesn’t make any further movements.

He’s taunting you.

Letting you have what you want, but not really.

The realization makes frustration bubble up in your chest. You shift again, trying to pull his hands higher, trying to make him touch you properly, trying to get him to break.

But he just smirks. "That all you got?"

The words hit like a spark to gasoline.

Your hands move before you can think, gripping the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head, tossing it somewhere into the darkness of the truck. You pause for a second, taking in the sight of him all over again. Your nails drag down his stomach, hot skin over tense muscle, and you swear you hear his breath stutter.

Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his sweats, pushing them low enough to free his cock, thick and already leaking. He exhales hard through his nose, control fraying, but he still doesn’t help you.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t give in.

It should piss you off. It should make you frustrated, and should make you want to give up. But it only entices you further. Your thoughts swirl, about ready to push off him and climb into the backseat when Joe finally makes a move.

His hands snap to your waist, rough, impatient, gripping at the fabric of your sweats and panties pushing them down as far as they’ll go with the way you’re hovering over him. His fingers drag down the curve of your ass, knuckles brushing against your thighs.

You suck in a breath, body lighting up from the feeling of his hands on you, the quick, nearly frantic way he rids you of the last barriers between you. It’s messy, rushed, the fabric bunched around your knees, but it doesn’t matter.

Because the second he’s done, he stops.

Just sits there.

Just waits.

Joe leans back against the seat, any previous cocky expression he held wiped off his face. For a second, you hesitate, waiting for him to move first, but he doesn’t. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and knowing, challenging you without uttering a word.

Fine.

You shift, lifting yourself just enough to line him up, your breath shaky as you sink down, slow, stretching around him, taking him in until you can’t take anymore.

Joe curses under his breath, hands twitching against your thighs like he wants to grab you, wants to slam you down the rest of the way, but he still doesn’t.

You gasp sharply, adjusting to the feeling of him throb inside you. You brace your hands on his chest, steadying yourself, and start to move.

Slow at first.

A roll of your hips.

A drag of his cock inside you that makes you both gasp.

His hands finally tighten, nails biting into your thighs as he watches you, blue eyes dark and wild, his own breath coming harder, sharper, but he still doesn’t help.

He makes you do it.

You work for it, lifting yourself up, sinking back down, faster now, harder, needing more, chasing it. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach, your moans breathy and desperate, your thighs already burning, but you don’t stop.

You can’t.

Not when he’s looking at you like he knows exactly how this is going to end.

And fuck — he’s right.

Because the moment your rhythm falters, the moment your body starts to tremble, Joe moves. His hands snap up to your waist, grip tightening, and then he takes over. He slams you down onto him, meeting you halfway with sharp thrusts that punch the air from your lungs, that leave you falling apart.

"You tried, baby," he breathes, voice strained. "Really did. But you need me, don't you?"

You can’t speak. You can’t do anything except nod, except whimper as he keeps fucking into you at a brutally relentless pace. His lips drag along your jaw, biting, sucking, making you dizzy. "That was cute."

You shudder, nails digging into his shoulders, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense you think you might black out.

Joe feels it the second you do, the second you tighten around him, the second your moan turns into a desperate little sob.

And he fucking loves it.

His pace stutters, a low groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, holding you there, filling you up, claiming you. Your body melts against his, boneless, your face pressing into the curve of his neck as you try to catch your breath.

His lips brush your ear, voice raspy, still ruined from how hard he just came. "See how easy that was?"

A weak sound escapes you, something between a breathy laugh and a sigh, because you don’t have it in you to argue. Not when your body still feels like it’s floating, not when your pulse still hasn’t figured out how to slow down.

For a while, neither of you move.

Joe’s fingers drag lazily up and down your spine, his breathing still uneven, his body still pressed against yours. He doesn’t move to pull out, doesn’t shift away from you, just keeps you there.

Your head stays tucked against his neck, skin damp, mind trying to recollect from what just happened. You’re not sure how much time passes — seconds? Minutes? It’s quiet, the air thick with something that feels like more than just sex.

Joe’s hand stills.

“You gonna leave again?” His voice is lower now, less teasing, more weighted. The way he says it, it’s not a throwaway comment. It’s not smug, not cocky, not just some post-orgasm power trip.

You swallow, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His expression is unreadable, “do you want me to?” Joe exhales through his nose, a short, quiet huff, his lips quivering like he’s about to say something but doesn’t quite get there.

“No.” His eyes flicker over your face, searching for something, waiting for something, like he expects you to say otherwise.

You should.

You should pull away, put space between you before this turns into something bigger than it already feels. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not once, and definitely not twice.

You swallow, pulling back just enough to really look at him, like maybe you’ll find the answer in his face.

But, you don’t. So you shake your head, “no.”

Joe exhales through his nose, a quiet sound — something like relief, something like satisfaction. His fingers flex against your skin like he’s taking his time with this moment. And then, just as easily he states, “Give me your number.”

A slow heat spreads through you. You tip your head slightly, searching his face, as if you don’t already know exactly where this is going. “Why?”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, his smirk deepening, stretching into something so certain. His fingers tighten against your waist in a knowing way — like he’s already thought about this, already decided how this goes.

“Well,” his eyes drag down between you before flicking back up like he’s taking his time with it.

Like he’s already picturing it.

“I don’t know if I can wait until Christmas to see you again…”

His grip shifts, his thumb sweeping lower, dragging slowly along the curve of your pelvis. His voice turns downright sinful, his breath warm against your lips as he murmurs—

“Might need something to hold me over.”

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

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Could you do something for cat animangus reader x Sirius where they're older like order of the phenix older during winter time and Molly makes a comment to Sirius about him having a sweet cat and when he turns to corner he finds reader cuddled up to Remus again do to his body heat and Sirius just reacts to a "really this again?"

Things between Molly and Sirius are still frosty, but the same stuff that chills between them glazes over the windows, and the winter air serves as a healing balm while everyone huddles around the fire for warmth.

The heating systems in Grimmauld Place are functional, but ancient, and it's much easier to stay by a roaring fire than to huddle by the floor vent on one of the upper levels. Sirius has insisted, as the owner of the house and as the man unwillingly cooped up inside of it for years, that he will make the cocoa, because if he goes any longer without making himself useful he will begin yearning to touch the fatally cursed objects his mother hoarded before her demise.

Molly relents, if only to keep his callused hands away from a music box that will kill him if the tune reaches his ears.

"Oh, that's lovely," The woman coos, peering at your feline form curled up on Remus's lap in front of the fire, "Remus, I didn't know you had a cat. I thought the only one we had was Hermione's, but he's orange."

"She's not mine," Remus hums, though he drags a palm flat over your head, letting you butt into it to your own liking, "She's Sirius's."

Molly's brows scrunch; surely Remus doesn't mean the dog man that stands eerily alert at the back door whenever he hears the pitter patter of little paws on the back fence-? But when the aforementioned animagus comes into the room with a tray of cocoa, she confirms Remus's words straight from the source.

"Sirius, your cat is lovely." She muses experimentally, watching the way the man's eye twitches slightly.

"Oh? And where is the little devil-?" Sirius peers around the room, and when his gaze lands on you lounging on Remus's legs, he shoves the tea tray haphazardly onto a side table with a scoff. It makes a cacophony of sounds; most of them unpleasant as glass-on-glass tends to be, "Oh, you're joking."

"Sirius, it's warm here," Remus attempts to calm the man, but it's no use as he steals a mug of cocoa and makes a break for the staircase. You're glad to see that prison never took his flair for dramatics, but he's being a tad ridiculous. Remus keeps explaining, "You're welcome to take her if you want to sit by the fire! She's just getting warm!"

"Keep her! Keep her," Sirius calls from the ledge of the second floor, "And Moony, why don't you just take the deed to the house, too! And my things, you can steal the clothes right off of my back next time."

With a huff and a flourish that are aided by his chin-length curls, Sirius turns to beeline for his room, and the slam of a door that rattles the paintings on the wall is your confirmation that your husband will be sulking until you pad upstairs and settle on his chest.

"Well, that was fun while it lasted." Remus drawls, scooping a hand beneath your belly and hoisting you out of his lap. He sets you on your feet, and you mourn the loss of the fire's warmth.

"Go humor him, love," Remus nudges you towards the stairs, and Molly watches bewildered as you begin your ascent.

"We've been having this fight for over a decade," Remus muses, sipping at his cocoa and skillfully avoiding a whipped cream mustache, "When your children aren't eavesdropping with that extendable ear, I'll tell you about the time he found her curled up in my bed instead of his."

#sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #sirius black scenario #sirius black oneshot #sirius black one-shot #sirius black one shot #sirius black headcanon #sirius black headcanons #sirius black hc #sirius black hcs #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fic #sirius black blurb #sirius black drabble #sirius black dialogue #sirius black fluff #sirius black x reader fanfiction

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deebris · 10 months ago

Text

The Mysterious Visitor 3

Batfamily x batsis (platonic!)

Synopsis: Bruce begins to suspect that Damian is hiding something after the two of you finally see each other, and the father-son trust between them is shaken. Tim finally sees your face, and something strange happens. The meeting between siblings was not successful, and to their dismay, Bruce will need to confront Talia face to face once again.

Warnings: The reader is 13 years old and is Damian's twin sister; the tone of the story is somewhat sad; Bruce is intimidating; Hugo Strange mentioned; family discussion; maternal overprotection.

Word count: 3.6k

Note: I'm sincerely sorry if I didn't include someone on the tag list or if I made any mistakes. This part took longer because it's a bit longer.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

"Forgive me for not offering anything sooner, miss," Alfred said, watching you carefully pick up the hot chocolate he had given to you. He found it curious how you ignored the handle of the mug, instead holding it with both hands, making sure wouldn't spill it.

You diverted your eyes from the brown liquid and looked at the old butler, now knowing his name, licking your lips after the sip to clear the excess drink. "It's okay," you responded, unaware of the chocolate mustache that had formed.

Bruce, still in the room, watched the scene from the side while patiently awaiting Damian. He traced circles with his index finger on the rim of the whiskey glass he had poured for himself, trying to keep control of how much he drank. Bruce would never admit it, but he needed to calm down, and perhaps a bit of moderate alcohol might help. He knew it wasn't appropriate to drink in front of someone as young as you, but he couldn't stop himself.

He was caught looking at you with a suspicious gaze that didn't waver. The room was filled with a palpable discomfort, and you, embarrassed, went back to staring at your own drink again, focused on listening to the crackling of the fireplace.

"Here, take this," Alfred said gently, extending a napkin from the tray. You accepted it and wiped around your mouth, finally realizing you'd made a mess.

Your mother would have scolded you for your lack of manners, you thought to yourself. And, for the thousandth time that night, you worried about how she would react to discovering you weren't in your bed. Maybe she had already noticed and was preparing a furious speech along with your punishment.

"What are you thinking about, dear?" Alfred asked, noticing your quietness as you rested the hot chocolate mug in your lap and started staring into nothing.

You snapped out of your stupor upon hearing the question, fiddling with one of the charms on your bracelet, the "T" specifically, Bruce couldn't help but notice. His mind was in turmoil, much like yours, with a thousand different thoughts arising every second. He felt strangely betrayed, questioning how much more his son hadn't told him—important things like the fact that he had a sister.

"I was just thinking that..." you trailed off, swallowing hard as the nervousness grew. Letting out a shaky sigh and with visible tears forming in your eyes, you continued, "My mom's going to be mad at me."

"And are you afraid of your mother?" Alfred insisted, trying to sound gentle upon seeing your distress.

"It's not quite that," you replied, trying to ease the situation so he wouldn't jump to conclusions.

You weren't exactly afraid of her, but you knew that rummaging through your mother's belongings, stealing a letter, and sneaking out in the middle of the night would disappoint her. You worried about her reaction and, above all, about Damian's reaction. If he was still the same, he certainly wouldn't be happy with the circumstances.

You tried to calm yourself, convincing yourself that you had the right to be angry for the first time in your life, not them, even knowing that your family would see you differently. It was as if you were perpetually a five-year-old in their eyes, always needing to hear lectures about every dangerous step you took.

Even though you and your brother were the same age, he was more responsible, smarter, stronger, destined to be a leader. And it annoyed you so much, but no matter what you said, your mother wouldn't change her mind about your upbringing.

When Damian left, Talia had said he would spend some time in a different place to learn new things and improve himself. For the first few weeks, it was even liberating not having him on your neck all the time, but then you realized it was because of him that you could do simple things like take a walk around the neighborhood alone.

Without Damian at home, your mother had no one to contradict her decisions, and her constant protection began to suffocate you. Then came the longing, and what was supposed to be a few months turned into years, and you never saw him again. You never stopped thinking about him. Every day, every birthday, and every Christmas, you would wait near the entrance of your apartment before going to bed, hoping that he would open the door again.

"Where is your mother?" Bruce suddenly interrupted, feeling Alfred's cautious gaze on him. You hesitated to answer, after all, although Mr. Wayne was a very popular man with a good image, you didn't know him. "I don't intend to harm you, but I need to know to take you back home," he justified, looking directly at your face, but Alfred knew this was Bruce's way of telling him that he wasn't interested in Talia, but rather in ensuring your safety.

"I'm not dumb, I know how to get home by myself," you tried to defend yourself. And though the words might sound arrogant, you said it calmly, not wanting to offend him.

"The point is not that. This is Gotham City, you shouldn't have gone out alone in the middle of the night." Bruce tried to reason with you, and it seemed to have worked because you fell silent.

"You need to trust us, miss," Alfred tried to encourage you to respond, but you remained silent. Bruce turned the glass to take a big sip of his drink and both gave up, not wanting to pressure you further.

The following minutes were silent, interrupted only by the sound of you drinking the hot chocolate in a few sips. Unexpectedly, Titus, Damian's German Shepherd, seemed to have taken a liking to you. He entered the room from the kitchen and stopped by your side to smell the new scent in the house. The relatively gentle dog sniffed around you, appreciating the head pats he received while you were enchanted by the furry animal.

Bruce couldn't help but compare you to his son since he began to analyze you. Damian had his mother's cunning personality and an arrogance that Bruce couldn't deny he had too, but it was more pronounced in Talia. He clearly remembered the first meeting with Damian. The first thing the boy did was make a ridiculous joke about his height, and he never seemed shy when meeting Bruce or the other boys. Also, when he arrived at the mansion, he felt comfortable analyzing every tiny detail of the house, unconcerned if his opinions were unpleasant.

You, on the other hand, although in different circumstances, limited yourself to a small space on the couch, responding only when asked and gladly accepting the kindness of Dick and Alfred. Bruce wondered how Talia could have raised a daughter like you. She and her sister, Nyssa, were sharp women, trained to be natural-born assassins, despite having a traditional father like Ra's. It was hard to believe that you, an apparently ordinary and shy girl, could be her daughter.

"Do you like dogs?" Bruce asked, deciding to stop being grumpy.

"I do, but I think I prefer cats." You continued to stroke Titus's cheeks, who began to want to climb onto your lap. Unfortunately, he was too heavy, and you had to push him back to the floor. The animal seemed to interpret that as a game because he kept trying to climb several times. "Mom gave me one for Christmas last year."

"Titus." Bruce's voice caught the dog's attention, patting his right thigh, calling him to sit on his lap. His gesture, although meant to stop the animal from bothering you, made you a little disappointed that you couldn't pet his soft fur anymore.

"What a coincidence. It seems you and Damian share something in common." Alfred was smiling while talking to you, which was rare for him. "Last Christmas, he also brought us two stray cats. The black one lives with us, but unfortunately, I don't know what happened to the other one. Curiously, the cat has my name." The butler tried to make a face at you, pretending to be unhappy. A Cheshire smile spread across your face, followed by the most contagious laugh he had ever heard, and he couldn't help but widen his own smile.

"The cat's name is Alfred?" You asked incredulously, seeing him nod positively. "Mine is an orange cat. He's cute but very troublesome; he even scratched one of my ballet shoes." You commented, much more at ease in Mr. Wayne's presence.

"An orange kitten?" Bruce's eyes widened slightly, just like Alfred's.

An orange and a black cat, both mentioned on the same date. Your seemingly trivial confession revealed to both of them that Damian had indeed kept in touch with you. Perhaps not directly, but it showed that he hadn't forgotten your existence and cared enough to have given the other cat to his sister as a gift. Now, because of you, they both finally knew what had happened to the other furball.

"Your brother also raises a cow here on the property." The butler thought it would be of interest to mention the funny fact, given that Damian was too irritable to raise something like a cow. And it seemed to have worked, as you laughed with genuine surprise in your eyes.

Bruce couldn't help but let out a muffled laugh when reminded of the cow, and unlike how he had been so suspicious of you moments ago, he was now more relaxed. He wondered when was the last time he saw Alfred so cheerful with someone new here at the mansion. The butler was a man full of tenderness for the family, but he was difficult to deal with for outsiders, although he always presented himself in a polite manner.

But the pleasant moment was suddenly interrupted by a series of voices coming from the top of the stairs, making Bruce and Alfred frown. Both stood up to see better what was happening and saw Damian pushing and shouting at his three brothers while struggling to descend the steps without being hindered by them.

Jason saw that Bruce and Alfred had already noticed them, failing to prevent the boy from confronting you three, and let go of his arm. Dick and Tim followed suit, defeated. The events of the night were revealed to him by his brothers, who told him everything from you being here to the fact that you had had some sort of contact with Strange. Damian went berserk at the last part and stormed out of the room in a flash.

Seeing his son in the Robin uniform, Bruce thought of reprimanding him, knowing he had gone on patrol alone again, but decided that was a matter for later.

"Damian," Bruce called out, calming him down a bit from his excitement. "We have a visitor." There was no view of the stairs from the living room, so you couldn't grasp that Bruce was calling Robin by your brother's name.

Damian descended the steps slowly, as if it were a very difficult task for him, and then finally looked at you, then at Bruce, and back at you, completely ignoring anyone else. He took a deep breath, trying to process the situation. Dick had told him that his father didn't know anything about you being his daughter, but he was sure this secret wouldn't last much longer. And honestly, he preferred that both of you knew the truth, even knowing that his mother wouldn't be happy.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

You slowly got up from the couch, gripping the hot chocolate mug tightly. The truth was, Damian hadn't realized he was still dressed as Robin, and that's why you didn't recognize him. You stood there, paralyzed, not understanding why he was in Bruce Wayne's house, and why would he talk to you? Or maybe this was some kind of joke, and you still hadn't figured it out.

Damian was silent for a moment, his expression serious. "You were supposed to stay with Mom. It's not safe for you here."

"Master Damian," Alfred spoke, signaling to the mask on his face. Damian quickly tore it off, feeling stupid for forgetting about it.

You almost let the mug slip when you saw him. Your brother had grown a lot since he was ten. His face was thinner, more defined, and his eyes smaller, plus his voice was deeper. That's why you didn't recognize him at first. Before, you would have known who he was just by the sound of his voice, but it wasn't the same anymore.

You were happy and surprised at the same time. That moment was shocking, and the bitterness you felt a while ago was forgotten. Your anger at discovering Damian ignored you for two years for the people in this house didn't cross your mind now, too busy trying to memorize each of his new features. The superhero world wasn't new, after all, but how could your brother be Robin? And if he was Robin, did he know Batman?

"I wanted to see you," you replied, your voice trembling. "I missed you."

Damian sighed, approaching. He wanted to argue but fought against it, knowing the last thing he should do was yell at you after so long. "I missed you too, but you shouldn't be here, S/n. Things are complicated here." He responded tensely, calculating his words and trying to find a way to get you away from Bruce as quickly as possible before something slipped.

Bruce watched your interaction, unsure of what to do. He didn't understand the depth of your relationship, wondering if he should intervene or let you talk alone. It seemed too personal to discuss in front of so many eyes.

In a brief exchange of glances with Dick, in a kind of silent conversation, Bruce signaled for him and the others to leave.

Understanding as always, Dick nodded, indicating they should leave but not before approaching Bruce with something. "Bruce, promise me you'll only read this card when you're in a clearer state of mind," he asked in a whisper, placing a piece of paper in Bruce's hand, careful to put the written part facing his palm. Dick rarely asked for promises, so Bruce reluctantly agreed.

"Can you at least tell me what it is?"

"It's a clue about Hugo Strange," was the simplest response he could give. "But let's leave that for another time," Dick emphasized, looking at you and Damian, who, to their surprise, were watching them.

"Let's go. This is no longer our business," Dick tried to pull Jason and Tim along, but Tim was stubborn:

"Did you give it to him?" Tim said just loud enough for Dick to hear.

"Yes, Tim," he replied, not wanting to give him more room to argue, going up the stairs two steps at a time, followed by Jason who climbed more calmly, holding onto the railing. Tim gave one last look at Bruce, then at Damian, Alfred, and then you, who was now watching the three. You already knew Dick, but the other two figures aroused your curiosity. How many more people live in the mansion?

The boy you didn't know was called Tim started staring at you with an intrigued expression. He hadn't managed to see your face closely before, but now, looking calmly, he couldn't avoid noticing how familiar you seemed. He felt he had seen you somewhere, but where? You examined him with the same perplexity, and for a moment he parted his lips to say something, maybe to ask if he knew you, but Bruce's voice made him jump:

"Tim, you should go to bed, just like your brothers." He asked in a gentle tone.

"Sorry, Bruce." He responded quickly, going up the stairs in same style as Jason.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?" Damian took advantage of the fact that the three had left and angrily threw it in your face, but trying to disguise it at all costs to avoid sounding too harsh. His eyes were frantic, looking at every part of your face.

He wasn't sentimental, and he refused to go through the humiliation of showing any weakness at seeing your grown-up figure, even if it caused him heartache. "Why did you disappear like that? Mom's been worried for hours."

"I already told you. I wanted to see you." Your voice rose a bit, desperately trying to justify yourself. You wanted so much to hug him but felt too embarrassed to do so, finally realizing that the intimacy you had before no longer existed. It was as if he were a stranger.

"Let's go. I'll take you back." He grabbed your wrist, wanting to disappear from his father's sight at all costs, but you pulled away, surprising him.

"Why are you so eager to get rid of me?" You asked indignantly, trying to swallow the sob due to your wounded pride. The warmth in your heart rose to your head, finally feeling that old anger again. "I haven't seen you in years, and the first thing you do is want to keep me away again!" You were distressed, feeling rejected.

"Maybe it's because you only cause problems!" He exploded.

"I had forgotten how irritating you are!" You shouted at the top of your lungs, trying to push him back as you did in childhood arguments. Back then, you two were equal in strength, but now Damian was becoming a man, and he barely moved.

You didn't notice when you dropped the mug on the floor, which luckily didn't break as the impact was cushioned by the rug. But the little liquid left had spilled and stained it, and seeing Alfred pick it up to clean made you feel awful. You should have done it, but he stopped you when you made a move to bend down, saying it was okay. Alfred felt he shouldn't participate in this conversation and used the mug situation as an excuse to go to the kitchen.

"Stop." Bruce intervened between you two, separating both and giving his son a challenging look. He knew this kind of attitude was typical of him, but seeing how loyal and obedient Damian was to Talia, he thought he would at least show some sympathy to his sister. "S/n, why don't you go sleep a bit? It's late, it would be good to rest." He offered as a truce and also as a way to interrupt your meeting, seeing how bad it was going.

"Do you realize the danger she got into? Talking to strangers, no less." Damian spoke again, his voice dangerously calm, ignoring Bruce. "Do you have any idea who that guy was, S/n? Do you have any idea?!" His voice began to rise a few octaves.

A solitary tear rolled down your cheek, recalling the man who had helped you on the street. At that moment, he seemed like a good person, but the way your brother was talking, apparently he wasn't. "How many times do we need to tell you not to talk to strangers? Not to leave the house without telling anyone? It's always been like this since we were kids, you never change!"

You had no reaction. That single tear had turned into two, then into several others, as you shrank into your own shame. You felt ridiculous for coming here because of him.

"Damian, who are you talking about?" Bruce held him by the shoulders to stop him from continuing to spew anger at you. His voice was much deeper than the boy's, and although it didn't intimidate him, it was enough to make him look at him at least.

"Hugo Strange, Dad! Damn Hugo Strange!" Damian lost control of his own mouth, speaking without thinking and not realizing the slip he had just made. "Because she's too stupid to have the slightest notion about anything!"

"Hugo Strange?" Mr. Wayne asked out loud. You knew exactly who Strange was, just as you knew other villains, although you might not recognize them by appearance. But that didn't matter to you now, as you spoke right after:

"Why did you call him Dad?" You looked your brother in the eyes, expecting some kind of explanation, not noticing how his body hairs stood on end.

Suddenly, a realization hit you. This was his new family now, and this man was his father. That venomous jealousy returned once more, and you didn't know if it was because Damian now had someone to call 'Dad' or because it meant how close he had become to these people. Damian swallowed hard, sweating and standing still like a statue.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne. I didn't mean to cause trouble." You apologized, deciding to completely ignore Damian from now on.

"No need to apologize." Bruce felt uneasy, and like you, he drew a wrong interpretation from it. He thought Damian hadn't told his sister who his real father was, which was possible considering he also hadn't told her he moved in with him. The fact that you two were twins was also still unknown to Bruce. The most logical idea, though not spoken or thought, was that you were Talia's daughter with another man. "I'll ask Alfred to show you a room."

You looked one last time at Damian before disappearing into some wing of the mansion. It hurt to see him watching you leave without even saying goodbye. A 'good night' would have been hopeful, even though you hated him now.

"Come, miss." You felt Alfred's hands on your back, guiding you. "I'll show you the guest room," he explained, and you looked back, seeing Bruce watching the two of you.

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne," you said, trying to sound as grateful as possible, while wrapping one arm around Alfred's waist affectionately. Bruce gave you a slight smile, uncrossing his arms to wave goodbye, which you returned with your free hand.

"You and I now have a lot to talk about." Bruce's aura had become cold again. The trust he had built with Damian wasn't broken, but it definitely had a crack.

"Mom is coming," he said in a low voice "I called her as soon as Dick started told me everything," he confessed, knowing Bruce would be furious, watching him run a hand through his hair to relieve the tension.

Following his example, Damian also sat in one of the armchairs in the room, analyzing his father's movements. Whenever Talia and Bruce were in the same room, even if they didn't do it openly, they fought for some kind of dominance.

Bruce made a move to take out the card Dick had given him to see its contents and maybe pass the time while the second storm of the night was yet to come. The first had been you, of course. He ran his fingers along one of the edges of the card, without taking it completely out of his pocket, and then remembered his son's words:

'Promise me you'll only read this card when you're in a moment of clarity.'

The last thing Bruce had now was clarity. So he sighed heavily and pushed it back into his pocket, staring at the boy beside him. "Why do I feel like your sister should be a secret, Damian?"

Tag list:

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@rafa-the-beautiful @shehrazadekey @fairuzwhat @bedeater @arianapjs

@idonthaveanameforthisacc @azulawayne @nciolisa @lovelywritersgarden

@spideybv28 @faimmm @formula-space @cherry-peach-flavored

@godknows-shetried @randomrosie01 @whatsupstark @paastaboi @m3ntally-unstable

@masterradd-28 @justanormalpersin @6000-fandoms @fennecspage

@homan-oid @fluffy-strawberries @animegirlfromvietnam @tamsyien @ari-sama21

@kataraluvr @boatempollstriper @lokisgoodboy @enjisthings @thereeallink

@lumalesa-kadichizho @fyodorssimp1 @shintax-error @lara20aral @sulatsadark

@notahappystan @nebuluma

Credits for the divider: @cafekitsune

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insidekatmind · 2 months ago

Text

Secretary~Cho Sang-woo

Wearning+18,smut,age-gap, semi-public

Working for Cho Sang-Woo was an oppressive experience. You had been his secretary for two weeks, and from the very first day, you realized he was not an easy man to please. Demanding, authoritarian, always with a stern gaze fixed on you as if he were waiting for you to make the slightest mistake. He had given you clear instructions from the start: short skirts, tight dresses, low-cut blouses. You weren’t even allowed to question it.

And, as if that weren’t enough, he had often grabbed your wrist with an unsettling firmness, forcing you to sit on his lap while he worked. You never knew what was going through his mind, but you were certain that every one of his actions had a precise purpose.

That day, you had been distracted. Maybe it was his gaze that seemed to pierce through you every time you stepped into his office, or maybe it was the constant tension that made you walk on eggshells. He had ordered you to get him his favorite coffee—you weren’t supposed to make a mistake. But you had.

You stepped into his office, the tray in your hands, your heartbeat quickening. He was there, seated at his desk, idly twirling a pen between his fingers. His eyes lifted to you the moment you crossed the threshold, but he said nothing as you handed him the cup.

He took it with measured movements, bringing it to his lips for a first sip.

His reaction was immediate.

The sharp sound of the cup being set down on the desk broke the silence, the liquid inside trembling from the impact. His eyes locked onto you—hard, impenetrable. His gaze pinned you in place.

“What is this?…”

His tone was low, dangerous. He didn’t need to raise his voice for you to feel the weight of his disapproval.

You swallowed, your hands tightening around the empty tray. “I-I made a mistake, I’m sorry, I thought—”

“You thought?” he cut you off, resting his elbows on the desk and intertwining his fingers in front of him. “I told you exactly what I wanted, and yet you thought it was a good idea to bring me something else.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a glacial statement.

You felt paralyzed, his gaze held you like invisible chains. You wanted to look away, lower your head, but you knew it would be pointless. He wasn’t going to let this mistake slide.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cho, I’ll go get the right one immediately.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes still locked onto you. A finger drummed against the armrest in a slow, deliberate rhythm, almost absentmindedly.

“Come here.”

You nod and fix your dress and walk over to him. Cho gestured for you to come closer, his eyes roaming over your form. As you approached, the room seemed even more oppressive, and the air was thick with tension.When you were standing in front of his desk, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze traveling over you from head to toe. His eyes lingered on the curve of your hips, accentuated by the tight dress he had picked for you.

He extended a hand, his fingers brushing against your waist. An invisible shiver ran down your spine at the touch, his grip becoming firmer as he tugged you a step forward. Sang woo said nothing, just pulled you a little closer until you were standing between his legs, your hip and stomach pressed against the edge of the desk.

He makes you sit astride him and lets out a satisfied hum as he caresses your side. His touch was possessive, his hands roaming over your body with a casual familiarity. His fingers lightly traced the contour of your thighs under the tight dress, his eyes fixed on your face.

Sang woo pulled you closer, wrapping one arm around your waist and holding you firmly against him. You could feel the heat of his body through the fabric, and his breath was warm against your neck as he leaned in, his lips trailing along the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“You made a mistake and it needs to be corrected.” His voice was low, a dark, almost sensual edge to it. His other hand moved to rest on your knee, gripping it firmly as if to keep you in place. He pushed the hem of your dress up a few inches, his touch leaving traces of heat on your bare skin. Sangwoo pressed a kiss to your collarbone, his teeth grazing over the flesh of your neck. He moved his hand higher, gripping your knee with a possessive force.

“What should I do?” you whisper in a small voice. He hummed against your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

“Punishment’s are meant to teach, you know.” He pulled you closer, his hand still gripping your waist and thigh possessively. He moved his lips against your neck, his teeth occasionally grazing your skin as he spoke.

“Apologies won’t work this time.” The fingers on your thigh moved even higher, the edge of your dress now riding higher than it was supposed to, and you could feel him smirk against your neck.

“Kneel for me,” he orders, patting your ass.

You obeyed him instinctively, the tone of his voice making your stomach twist into knots. Your movements were slow and deliberate, your knees pressing against the carpeted floor beneath you. The position felt degrading, but there was something about the way he was looking at you, a mix of authority and desire, that kept you from protesting.

"Now be a good girl and make it up to me" he orders you, unbuttoning his trousers. His words had an undeniable effect on you. Your entire body felt tense as you watched him unbutton his trousers. You knew exactly where this was going, and even though you felt a thrill of excitement, it was mixed with a sense of fear and helplessness.

"Yes, sir," you manage to say in a breathy whisper, the words coming out almost involuntarily.Sangwoo smiled satisfied. “Good girl,” he murmurs. You pull down his boxers and gasp at his thick length.

Sang woo smirks and strokes your hair as he watched you. “You have such beautiful eyes and gaze,” he murmurs and then plays with your lip. "Your lips are beautiful too and you know what?" he whispers looking at you. “They'll be even prettier with my cock in their mouth,” he says and almost growls.

At his words, an electric shiver runs down your spine and your mind fills with heat. His hands are in your hair, playing with it as if it were a toy. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and you avoid his gaze, but you can't deny the effect his words have on you.

You began to lower your mouth onto his cock slowly and he made small sighs as he stroked your hair. “That's right, take it all,” Sang woo murmurs satisfied.

You start sucking him slowly and he lowers his head into his chair. “You have such a nice warm mouth” He murmurs moaning as he starts to move your head faster. You try not to suffocate yourself as he used you to his heart's content. “Such a good girl” Sang woo growls in satisfaction as he fucks your throat.

All you could hear in the room was the sound of your mouth on his cock and his satisfied sighs.You look at it with your eyes and moan at the sight, she was so beautiful with her look satisfied and full of pleasure. His satisfaction was like a drug for you and you moved faster as Sang woo drove you fast, as if you were a sex toy but you didn't mind in fact, you were enjoying it and you wanted to give him more pleasure.

Your body, and the fact that he was praising you only made the sensation more intense. You wanted to hear more, wanted to feel more of him. And then the door opened.

As soon as you heard the sound of the door behind you, your heart skipped a beat and a shiver ran down your spine. You were about to pull away but Sang woo held you tight as he hid you at his desk still with his cock in your mouth as he raised his hips towards your mouth.

His head moved in the direction of the sound and his eyes met Mr. Kim standing in the doorway. Sangwoo didn't miss a beat as he smirked at him. "Come in, will you? And close the door."

Sang woo looks at you for a second as if to say 'continue, he doesn't see you'.

Mr. Kim, the executive in charge, stepped into the office and closed the door behind him as Sangwoo requested. His expression was serious and professional, as usual."You wanted to see me?" he asked, taking a seat across from Sang woo, apparently ignorant of your presence under the desk.

Meanwhile your tongue was circling around Sang woo's cock and he made a satisfied hum. “Yes, I had to talk to you about the project that was going well, but the meeting is in two hours” Sang woo says as his hand moved your head.

Mr. Kim nodded in acknowledgement, his gaze never leaving Sangwoo. He seemed blissfully ignorant of the situation unfolding before him. Sang Woo continued, his voice calm and even, the only hint of his concealed excitement in the way he bit his lip.

His hand on your head never stopped, guiding you to follow his pace. “But in the meantime, I wanted to address a... personal matter” he said, the last words almost a low grunt.

Mr. Kim raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Personal matter?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, it involves one of my employees.” Sang Woo’s eyes flicked to the figure beneath the desk for a moment, his gaze fixed on you, and a sly smile played on his lips.

Mr. Kim nodded, his interest piqued. “Oh? And what's the issue?” he asked curiously.Meanwhile you continued to suck his cock while watching him talk. "Nothing much," Sang woo finally said, handing him a folder. “Study the numbers,” he said and then bit his lip to keep from groaning and looked at you for a second.

Mr. Kim took the folder and began to leaf through its contents, his attention fully focused on the sheets in front of him. He was totally unaware of the secret game that was taking place right in front of him.

“Now you can go, I'll have my secretary call you” Sang woo says as he moves his hips to make you take more.

Mr. Kim rose to his feet, still oblivious to your presence, and nodded. “Understood. Looking forward to the meeting later,” he said before exiting the office, closing the door behind him.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sang Woo let out a deep breath and then looked down at you with a smirk. "Such a good girl..." he murmured, his eyes fixing on yours. The intensity of his gaze, the hunger in his expression, it was as if Mr. Kim's presence had never existed. Now, you were back in the center of his attention.

You suck him and swirl your tongue around his cock and he moans as he fucks your mouth even harder than before, cumming in your mouth. “Swallow it all and don't waste anything,” Sang woo grunts, stroking your hair.

His command was firm, and you felt an immediate surge of heat and electricity coursing through your body. You obeyed him, your mind clouded with the desire to please him. The taste of him on your tongue was powerful, and you swallowed it all and then pushed his cock out of your mouth with a pop.

"Such a good girl," he whispers, still in his seat as you try to catch your breath from under his desk. "That was a very good lesson" he states and chuckles.

Sang woo lifts up his boxers and jeans and motions for you to get back on top of him. You obey silently, rising from your knees and sitting on his lap, facing him. His arms encircling your waist, his chest pressing against yours. His fingers are playing with the fabric of your dress, occasionally slipping under it.

His gaze is still intense, his eyes roaming over your face and body as if he can't get enough. He moves closer, his lips finding your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and gentle bites that cause you to gasp softly. Sang woo nuzzles against your skin, his hands roaming over your thighs and hips, possessive and demanding. “You did well,” Sang woo murmurs, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

He continues to lavish attention on your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a path of tingling sensations. Then he cups your face in his hands and captures your lips with a sudden hunger, his tongue immediately seeking yours in a deep kiss. It’s as if your bodies are drawn together with a magnetic force. He pulls you closer, and there’s no space left between you. His hands are in your hair, gripping and pulling slightly, as he controls the kiss with an almost feral intensity.

He then lifts you from his lap and places you on the desk, his body between your legs. “You're so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his eyes taking in your every curve as if committing it to memory. Your body is reacting to his touch, a heady mix of excitement and trepidation filling you. His gaze is still heavy, possessive, and hungry, and the realization that he has complete control over you is both thrilling and intimidating.

He leans down, his lips finding your neck once more, but this time his trail goes lower, to your collarbone. One of his hands roams over your thigh, moving up and under your dress.

He moves your panty and slides two fingers inside you and you gasp in pleasure. Sang woo chuckles next to your neck feeling you get wet. "You got excited sucking my cock, hm? what a slut" he murmurs satisfied as he nibbled your neck and moved your fingers inside you.

Your body is on fire with every touch, his words making your skin tingle and your stomach clench. You have no control over the sounds that escape your lips, small moans and sighs of pleasure that only fuel his desire.

His fingers are relentless, curling and pumping into you, and his lips continue to work on your neck, leaving a trail of bites and kisses. “I knew you were such a slut for my cock” he hums in satisfaction as his fingers hit your g-spot with ease. You moan loudly, you had never felt so good in your life, you were putty in his hands.

The sensations he's evoking in you are overwhelming, your body surrendering completely to his touch. You can feel him all around you, his scent filling your nostrils and his voice low and seductive in your ear.

He makes you come on his fingers in four minutes and he chuckles. "Have you come already?" he murmurs arrogantly licking your juices from his fingers and grunts. “You taste so good, baby,” he grunts in satisfaction.

You are still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm, your breathing ragged and your body flushed with pleasure. His words and actions are so possessive, so domineering, that you feel like you belong to him, body and soul.

You cling to him wanting more and Sang woo chuckles. "Go make me my coffee first and then I'll reward you with my cock, yes?" He whispers orderly as he nibbles on your lip making you moan.

You nod, unable to find your voice at the moment. The mix of desire and obedience is so strong that you'll do whatever he asks. You get up from the desk, feeling your legs like jelly, and start to prepare his coffee.

Sang woo smiles satisfied and gives you one last look before sending a work email, Oh he would have had so much fun with you.

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charlotteking23 · 5 months ago

Text

Bouquet Toss - MV1/33

Max Verstappen x reader

summary: You and Max attend a wedding, sharing moments of laughter and love, even some mischief with the bouquet toss.

Max's eyes darted across the bustling ballroom, taking in the sea of well-wishers and flashing cameras.

The wedding reception of his best friend, Charles Leclerc, was in full swing, and the atmosphere was electric with laughter and music.

He tugged at the collar of his tuxedo, feeling the heat of the room and the pressure of his role as best man.

In the corner, a waiter carefully balanced a tray of champagne flutes, weaving through the dance floor where couples twirled in a blur of color and light.

The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the warm aroma of a five-tiered wedding cake, drawing Max's gaze to the beautifully decorated table that dominated the space.

He spotted his girlfriend, you were chatting with Kika, your eyes sparkling with joy as you listened to your best friend talk.

You had a vision in your elegant gown, the fabric whispering softly against your skin as you moved.

your laughter was infectious, drawing smiles from everyone nearby. Max felt a swell of pride in his chest; you looked absolutely stunning.

Two years into their relationship, he knew he had found something special.

They had navigated the ups and downs of life in the fast lane, and here they were, sharing in the happiness of their friends' union.

As the band switched to a slower tune, Max took a deep breath and approached you, extending his hand.

"Care to dance?" he asked, a hint of mischief in his voice. You looked up at him, a playful smile playing on your lips, and placed your hand in his.

The music wrapped around them as they moved together, their bodies fitting like perfectly interlocking gears.

It was a moment of pure, unfiltered bliss in the midst of the chaos.

Max leaned closer, whispering, "Are you nervous about the bouquet toss?" You giggled, feeling his hand tightening around your waist.

"Should I be?" The playful banter was their usual dance, a dance that had grown familiar and comforting over the past two years.

The anticipation grew as the bride got ready for the bouquet toss, your cheeks flushed with happiness as you took your place in the center of the room.

As the music swelled, the crowd of single women around them grew denser, their excitement palpable.

You leaned into Max's embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours.

His arms tightened around you protectively, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to forget about the tradition unfolding before you.

The bouquet, a cascade of white roses, was tossed into the air with a flourish.

A cacophony of squeals filled the room as the flowers arced gracefully through the space.

With surprising agility, Max stepped back, allowing you to position yourself in the fray. You watched the bouquet's trajectory, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves.

The bouquet descended, and as if in slow motion, you reached up, your hand outstretched. Time seemed to freeze as your fingertips brushed against the soft petals. Then, with a sudden jolt, the bouquet was in your grasp.

The room erupted in applause and cheers, the noise washing over you like a tidal wave. Max's eyes met yours, a look of pure shock and delight etched on his handsome face.

He stepped closer, taking the bouquet from your hands and holding it above your head like a prize.

"Looks like you've won the competition," he teased, his voice warm with affection. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "You're the only prize I need."

The tension between you grew, a thrilling undercurrent of possibility. The crowd parted, and Max took your hand again, leading you back to the dance floor.

As the music picked up, he twirled you around, the fabric of your gown billowing like a cloud around your legs.

The bouquet remained in your grasp, a symbol of the love and commitment that swirled around the room.

Throughout the rest of the evening, you both danced, mingled, and laughed with friends, the bouquet serving as a silent reminder of the future that might await you.

Max's hand never left yours, a constant reassurance that no matter what the next chapter held, you would face it together.

As the final song played, you looked into his eyes, the question unspoken but lingering in the air.

In that moment, as the lights dimmed and the music faded, Max pulled you in closer, the bouquet forgotten in the background.

He whispered, "I love you," the words resonated through your entire being.

The crowd melted away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the rhythm of the night and the promise of a life intertwined, as you leaned into him, feeling his heartbeat in sync with yours.

As the final notes of the song drifted away, Max leaned down and brushed a soft kiss against your cheek.

"Thank you for being here with me," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. You felt a warmth spread through you, a warmth that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.

You knew he wasn't just talking about the wedding. He was talking about the race, about every moment that had brought them here, to this dance floor, together.

The rest of the night was a whirlwind of congratulations for the happy couple, shared stories with friends, and lingering glances that held secrets only the two of you knew.

You and Max stole moments together when you could, his hand resting on the small of your back, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric of your dress.

With every laugh, every shared glance, you felt the bond between you grow stronger, more tangible.

As the party wound down and the last guests began to trickle out, Max took you aside, his eyes holding a question.

"Ready to go?" he asked, his voice low and intimate.

You nodded, feeling the weight of the bouquet in your hand, the petals soft against your skin.

It was time to leave the fairy tale wedding and return to the real world, but somehow, with Max by your side, it didn't seem so daunting anymore.

Together, you made your way to the hotel suite that had been reserved for the night. The door clicked shut behind you, and the outside world was left behind.

Max took the bouquet from your hands, placing it gently on the side table before turning to face you.

The air was thick with unspoken words, the promise of the future hanging between you like a shimmering veil.

He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw, his eyes searching yours.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, his voice a gentle caress.

You took a deep breath, feeling the anticipation coil tightly in your stomach.

"I'm thinking…" you began, your voice a whisper, "I'm thinking that maybe it's our turn to write the next chapter."

Max's smile grew, a warm, genuine smile that lit up the room.

"Is that so?" He stepped closer, his body heat wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

"What does that chapter look like?" His eyes searched yours, hungry for every detail, every hope and dream.

You leaned into him, your heart racing. "It looks like us," you murmured, "You're racing in the future, and me cheering you on through every step".

Max's gaze softened, and he leaned in to kiss you, the tender touch of his lips sending sparks through your body.

The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if he was trying to convey every feeling, every hope and fear, through the press of his lips against yours.

His hands found the zipper of your gown, easing it down, revealing the soft, bare skin beneath.

You gasped against his mouth as he kissed down your neck, his touch setting your body alight.

The bouquet on the side table was a silent witness to the passion that ignited between you.

Max's strong hands gently guided you to the bed, the softness of the mattress enveloping you as he laid you down.

The night was far from over, and the promise of forever was just beginning to unfold.

Masterlist

Btw: Requests are open for ideas so please write some. LOVE YOU!

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chrissv4mp · 3 months ago

Text

♱ pass the salt . . .

all the chatter in the packed diner was merely background noise as everyone listened to the old stories your mom was telling billie about you. your father smiled in amusement beside her, and you just slumped in your chair, blush creeping up onto your cheeks.

you nudged billie's shoulder whenever she laughed, shaking your head softly as you groaned in both embarrassment and faux annoyance. but, underneath that, you loved whenever she laughed—even if it was caused by the embarrassing things you'd done when you were younger.

"okay, mom," you interrupt, sitting up straighter in your chair as you lean over the table to grab a glass of water.

your mom only shrugged, offering you a smile before giggling quietly to your dad about how cute the two of you were. when you glanced up, a waitress held a tray filled with the different dishes your group ordered. you gave the woman a smile, quiet, 'thank you's' being passed around as she set down the plates.

as soon as you got your food, you began to pick at it with your fork, cutting it up with the knife in your other hand. when you finally finished cutting it all, you brought a piece up to your mouth and quickly realized that it was missing something.

raising your head, you search for the salt from your seat, the opposite side of the table from your mom's. you nod your head in the direction of the salt before you speak, "daddy, could you pass me the salt?"

your tone wasn't sexual, it wasn't even sultry in the slightest. yet, billie extended her arm just as your dad did, both of their hands reaching for the salt. but when billie realizes that the question was directed toward your father, she quickly retracts her hand, her entire face flushing red.

"oh," she murmurs, biting on the inside of her cheek as she locks eyes with your dad.

your own cheeks flush a deep shade of pink as your mom's eyes drift to you, her lips curling into a small, awkward smile. your dad, however, cocks and eyebrow and tilts his head as he stares at your girlfriend.

billie offers him a bashful smile, hands tugging at the hem of her polo shirt underneath the table, "honest mistake?" her voice is an octave higher, very clearly showcasing her nervousness. her words do absolutely nothing to lighten the situation.

"yeah." your father's tone is dry, montone like he really can't stand to look at billie anymore. but when he speaks again, you let out a breath you hadn't even known you'd been holding, "i'll let it pass since i like you."

your girlfriend smiles brightly, her embarrassment washing away at his words, "thank you," she mutters, voice shaky despite the smile on her pretty lips.

a quiet chuckle is heard from your mom, and it only makes your embarrassment worse. you shoot a death glare in billie's direction, to which she just shrugs and laughs quietly before going back to eating her food.

by the time your dad passes you the salt, you don't even want it anymore. instead, you just let it sit beside your plate while you eat your food, your heart beating rapidly as you feel your dad glance at you from time to time.

"you're callin' her 'daddy'?" your father asks, a hint of amusement laced within his voice.

"dad!"

LETTERS. here's this little blurb because i have no motivation for anything else at the moment 💔💔 ily alll!!!

TAGS. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @vyntagess @afteraftercare @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @stonerfromlesbos @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @karaeilishh @mybluebossanova @sturnsmia @moralesluvr @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @hopelessfawn @zayluvss @meliciousmel13

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ikeuki · 3 months ago

Text

and the crowd is . . . confused ? / 제이크

( pairing ) sim jaeyun x fem!reader ✶ mutual pining? ; fluff/crack, miscommunication + cursing — ( wordcount ) 1.8k

ᯓ★ ikeuki’s note. never jump to conclusions ladies & gents! also cliffhanger lol sorry, will prob make a pt.2!

synopsis. after three years of crushing on popular classmate, sim jaeyun, you finally muster up your courage and decide to confess. but you overhear him fawning over someone who clearly isn’t you, are you too late?

“just do it! i swear i will do it myself if you don’t,” your best friend chaewon complicated. she was spread out on the cafeteria lunch table, clearly overreacting in your opinion.

“i’ll do it after break, trust trust,” you assured and kept your eyes on the mushy carrots on your plate.

jungwon groaned at your blatant lie, “oh come on! you said that last time!” he was right. you’ve been delaying your confession for about three breaks straight, coming up with a stupid excuse each time.

first it was that the year was an all-time stressful one where your crush was apparently “too focused on his studies.” but your friends knew better. especially when they saw jake sim playing video games during bio everyday.

next was that you claimed he was sick and the confession would just “add stress to his aching pain.” chaewon and jungwon genuinely could not take that one seriously, both overhearing from his friends sunghoon and heeseung that he was just on an extended family trip to jeju island.

most recently, you blamed it on no time! you just never seem to bump into him at school! LIE.

jungwon stared at you dumbfounded while chaewon turned your head for you to show jake laughing with his friends across the cafeteria.

he looked perfect. the rays of sunlight lightly illuminated his figure as he had that oh-so charming smile. his soft dark hair and bangs slightly hiding his eyes, but not enough for you to miss his sparkling gaze. the loud chatter of the cafeteria was suddenly quieter when all you could hear was his sweet voice laughing.

“here she goes again,” chaewon sighed, watching her best friend go head over heels this damn boy for the eighth time today.

the school bell snapped you out of your trance, watching as he and his friends got up to leave. before doing so, he grabbed his tray as well his friends, gathering the little wrappers and napkins they all used.

“dude—you don’t have to do that,” his friend commented, nodding towards the exit.

“yeah, but it doesn’t hurt,” jake smiled and quickly finished cleaning up. on his way out, he threw all the trash into the garbage can and piled the trays by the counter, before flashing a grin to the cafeteria ladies who all adored him.

that’s what you liked about jake the most.

of course, he was the most handsome boy you’ve ever laid your eyes on. but he was the sweetest too. you would know—because that’s how you first met him.

back in freshman year, you were completely lost on the first day, all your middle school friends going to a different high school than you. hugging your textbooks close to your chest and trying to keep a low profile, you wandered the entire school in search of your first class.

where the hell was class d-4?

taking a moment to look at the room number plates, you stood in the middle of the hall. suddenly, four boys or so rushed by you and one of them bumped into your shoulder causing you to lose control of your books.

they fell onto the floor as you rushed to pick them up. you didn’t even give the boys another glance as you assumed they were already gone. ‘so this is how high school is’ you internally grumbled and rolled your eyes.

but when you reached to grab your last textbook, another hand already picked it up. the figure was rising to his feet, you subconsciously followed.

“i’m so sorry about my friends, they’re playing this stupid game and—” the boy started, but you almost tuned his words out.

you looked at the boy standing in front of you. his shaggy dark hair and awkward stance while holding one of your textbooks. he nervously held the back of his neck and continued explaining his friends’ antics and apologized.

surprised was an understatement.

“—anyways i apologize on the behalf of my friends and all this,” he softly laughed. you couldn’t help but crack a small smile at his rambling, lightening the mood.

“ok good you’re smiling!” he noted and let out a sigh of relief. the last thing he wanted to do was make any enemies on the first day of a new high school.

“yeah and i forgive you, don’t worry. it wasn’t even your fault, i was standing in the middle of the hall,” you replied and looked at where both of you were now standing. it was true, your body was quite literally in the middle where people were trying to pass by.

“i was just trying to find my class,” you continued and looked back at the small post-it on one of your textbooks that read the room number you were in desperate search for.

“oh d-4?” he asked calmy and titled his head to the side like a puppy.

a faint blush painted your face as the boy widened his eyes awaiting your response. he really did look like one of those golden retrievers you would stay up all night looking at on tiktok.

“yeah…algebra?” you hesitated. “yeah yeah ms. park’s! i have her first period too, c’mon that’s where my friends were going,” he answered enthusiastically and lead the way down the hall.

he walked with your textbook still in his hands and began small talk, introducing himself and asking for your name. the two of you got a little close that year, thanks to the class.

jake would always say hi in the halls and the courtyard, whether he was alone or with his friends. as he got popular when joining the varsity soccer team in sophomore year and gaining more friends, he remained loyal to you in his acknowledgements towards you.

you were surprised when on the first day of senior year, he ran up next to you.

“hey y/n! how was your break?” he exclaimed with such interest. he still had his shaggy dark hair and that puppy-like habit of tilting his head when asking a question.

so if you two were that friendly, why was it so hard to confess your deep-rooted feelings for him?

wait, it wasn’t. cause what’s the worst that could happen…?

“y’know what, i’m going to do it,” you blurted. jungwon and chaewon stopped in the hall, running back to you and holding onto your shoulders.

“i should’ve recorded that—fuck!” chaewon shouted, catching the attention of passing by students.

“wait are you serious? like actually? actually!” jungwon repeated and started jumping up and down as if he just asked to be the best man at your wedding or something.

“yes. dead serious. today, after fifth period and before he walks to the field for soccer practice,” you nodded your head and looked straight, determined look in your eyes and all.

“should i be alarmed that you know his everyday whereabouts?” jungwon muttered.

“who cares! she’s finally doing it!” chaewon celebrated and jungwon whispered a “ok true,” getting giddy with her.

“wow i did not think you guys would be this hyped,” you raised your eyebrow at your best friends who were probably happier than you were.

“now this means we wouldn’t have to hear your delusional thoughts anymore!” jungwon exclaimed and raised both his arms in the air. chaewon joined in, “no more stalking and obsessing!”

“oh fuck you guys!”

the entire fifth period, you thought about how you would confess to your crush: jaeyun sim.

writing a love letter? too complicated.

asking him out on the spot? too risky.

texting him? too scaredy-cat.

before you knew it, the bell was ringing and passing period began which meant you had ten minutes to locate and find jake first and quickly tell him your feelings. luckily, there were a couple boys on the soccer team in your class so you just needed to discreetly follow them to the field.

and that’s exactly what you did. until a familiar figure was only a few steps away from you. you hid behind the bleachers as him and his friends were on the field getting ready.

you took a couple breaths and tried to collect your thoughts. what would you even say? ‘hey jake! could i talk with you for a second? so basically ive been in love with you since freshmen year wh—’

“isn’t she so cute!”

the voice you loved so much felt like a betrayal now. you peeped your head above the bleachers to see jake showing his friends something on his phone.

“much cuter than mine, bro i swear she’s the devil,” one of his friends mentioned and leaned in to see something on jake’s phone.

what were they talking about? more importantly, who?

“not mine—she’s an angel, i love her! her birthday’s next week,” jake smiled fondly, as if he were in love.

your heart shattered at the very sight. not that he was happy, but that he was…talking with heart eyes about a girl. one that was obviously not you, your birthday being months away.

“what’s her name?” someone asked, you narrowed your eyes to try to catch a glimpse of the photo but he casually put his phone back in his pocket before you could.

“layla!” he answered gleefully and laid down on the grass, thinking about his favorite girl.

you bit your lip, turning around and walking away from the field. your chest felt heavy and there was apparent discomfort spreading throughout your body. how could you be so blind?

of course, jaeyun sim would have a girlfriend! after all he was cute, sweet, athletic, smart, and popular! he had you fawning over him for the past three years, but obviously you weren’t the only one. did that mean he picked up other girls’ textbooks and walked them to class? fuck.

defeated, you decided to ditch your sixth period and walked to the parking lot instead. you pulled out your phone, texting the group chat.

TWO WONS = ONE RIGHT !! 😈😈😈

you soooo #missionfailed og won WHAT SPILL WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED chae aka the better won HUH NOOOOOOOO you soooo he apparently has a girl! omg kill myself!! hahahaha…hahaha chae aka the better won

og won ummm i didn’t consent to that

chae aka the better won 🫥 ANYWAYS im so sorry y/n HE FUMBLEDDDD og won jake DOESNT have a girl tho???? you yea he does i heard him and his friends talking abt HOW CUTE his girlfriend was. chae aka the better won AW HELL NAH

og won bros using her own memes now no no sunghoon told me during third that they’ve all been trying to set him up with jay’s cousin but he liked someone else or smth you THIRD???!!!! AND YOU DIDNT THINK TO TELL ME THIS DURING LUNCH?!?!? chae aka the better won jungwon. smhsmh og won SORRY SORRY but y/n. he’s single. you ok but then who tf is layla???? og won … who’s gonna tell her chae aka the better won y/n im going to hold your hand when i say this…that’s his dog. og won pls tell me u didn’t think layla was the “girlfriend” you oh fuck chae aka the better won

og won OKAY WHY AM I STILL GETTING SLANDERED

wait. did you just fuck yourself over?

…pt.2?

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