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thedreamlessnights · 7 months ago

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Stress Relief

Satoru Gojo x F!Reader - NSFW

AO3 Link

Synopsis: During a drinking game, you confess you've never had an orgasm before. Gojo, your friend of a year, doesn't like that.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough). No use of 'Y/N.' Mentions of alcohol and being buzzed, but not during sex. Fingering, oral (giving and receiving), first time climaxing, facesitting, multiple orgasms. P in V sex, cumming inside, leaving and receiving marks.

Word Count: 7.3k

Your night starts like most of your bad ideas do: with a little alcohol in your system, a shot glass in your hand, and Shoko at your side.

You don’t know half of the people who are sitting in the circle around you, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s been a while since you’ve been in a situation like this. That’s usually a good thing, but you need the stress relief tonight.

Even your slight buzz has some of the constant tension in your shoulders slipping away, being replaced by a pleasant warmth.

“Alright,” Shoko says, sitting up. You can barely hear her over the blaring music of the party. “Never have I ever—”

“Hey, what’s this?” a voice cuts her off, and you don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Your entire body goes stiff. So much for releasing tension. “Playing without me?”

“Gojo,” she says, her tone dry. “If you’d like to join, you’re welcome to.”

“Satoru, over here!” someone chirps, scooting over to make room for him.

But he plops down in between you and Shoko, stretching his legs out in front of him. Shit. You’re dying to look over at him, to see what’s on his face, but you know better than to risk that. Your eyes stay trained on your fingers, determined to keep your drink steady in your hand.

“Here,” Shoko says. Out of your peripheral vision, you can see that she’s handing him a shot glass and filling it up. “Now, then. Never have I ever… fallen asleep during class.”

There’s a collective groan. Your glass meets your lips as soon as she’s finished the question, and you can see Gojo’s hand rise, too. Then comes his grimace. He’s never liked the taste of alcohol.

When you’ve downed the shot, you find Shoko’s eyes fixed on you.

“Gojo, I expected. But you?” she asks.

Your cheeks grow even warmer, and you can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or embarrassment. “It was only once,” you insist. “I was really tired from training, and… it just… happened.”

“Aww, Ieiri, give her some slack. It happens to the best of us,” Gojo says.

“Okay, my turn!” someone calls, sitting on Shoko’s other side. You don’t recognize her, but the pink flush in her cheeks tells you she’s had more than enough to drink tonight. “Everyone ready?”

You scramble for the bottle in the middle, clumsily pouring more. A little spills over your hand, wetting your glass and making it harder to hold onto.

“Pass it over?” Gojo asks, and it takes a moment before you realize he’s talking to you. Your fingers brush when he takes the bottle from you, and something hot and sharp shoots up your arm. You nearly drop your shot glass.

Damn him.

You can handle him when you’re sober, or when you’re next to Shoko—but he’s blocked you off, and you know he can read every reaction of yours. Gojo sees everything; isn’t that what everyone says?

“Never have I ever… faked an orgasm,” the girl calls.

Your stomach drops.

Gojo doesn’t move. Shoko doesn’t move. Great, you think. Of course. If you don’t move either, would they know you’re lying? No, they couldn’t possibly.

But… the point of this game is being honest. It’s no fun if people aren’t willing to take risks.

The alcohol buzzing in your veins must be giving you a temporary sense of boldness, because you find yourself tilting another shot down your throat before you can think better of it. Most people in the circle are drunk enough that they either don’t see you or don’t care, but you have no doubt that two people in particular have taken notice.

“Oh, really?” Gojo remarks softly, almost to himself.

“Wait. Hang on, what?” Shoko asks. “Who? The asshole at the bar that one night?”

“Shoko,” you hiss, trying to stop her, but she just keeps going.

“Or was it that one… what was his name? The one with black hair?”

“Shoko.”

“Come on, you can’t seriously think I won’t chop whoever it was into tiny pieces.”

“It really wasn’t, um. I- I mean...” You have to stop for a minute to gather yourself, sucking in a deep breath. “It really wasn’t their fault, I just…”

“Wasn’t their fault?” Shoko repeats, her tone sharpening.

“I’ve never really h-had one,” you stammer out. “So it wasn’t their fault that I didn’t. I don’t think I… can.”

There’s a long beat as they both gape at you. If you could melt straight into the carpet and never return, you’d do it in a heartbeat. Shoko’s staring at you, and you know Gojo is, too, but you refuse to look at him.

“It’s not a big deal,” you force out, giving a shrug. “It still felt nice, so…”

Just as you’re about to grab the bottle again, Gojo snatches it up, holding it out of your reach. “Hang on just a minute,” he says. “Am I hearing that right? You’ve never had an orgasm?”

And despite yourself, you find yourself meeting his eyes.

It’s a stupid thing to do. Absolutely idiotic, because the moment you look at him, it’s like he’s seeing everything. Every shitty night in bed, every small detail you’d prefer to hide from him, every embarrassing memory you want to lock away.

Worst of all, he looks so ridiculously pretty that you can barely tear your gaze away from him. His hair perfectly tousled like always, dark sunglasses perched at the end of his nose, blue eyes bright and attentive. The first buttons of his shirt undone, exposing his sternum.

You’ve been Gojo’s friend for the last year or so (and that’s mostly due to how much time you spend with Shoko), but it’s still a rare occasion when he gives you his full attention. It’s unnerving, and it takes everything in you not to spout a shitty excuse and bolt home, never to come out again.

“I need another drink,” Shoko mutters, shaking her head. “Something strong.”

She gets to her feet and you race to go with her, leaving Gojo with his unanswered question and the half-empty bottle of booze still in his hand. He’s smart. Probably smarter than you are. If he wants to know so badly, he can put the information together himself.

You’re almost expecting him to chase after you, but he doesn’t. In fact, you don’t see him for the rest of the night—not until the party is over, leaving scattered pieces of trash all over the carpet and multiple people sprawled out on various pieces of furniture.

You don’t envy the cleaning job Shoko and her roommate will have to do tomorrow, and you also don’t envy their future hangovers. You had your last drink hours ago, and much to your disappointment, it’s worn off completely.

“Heading out?” Shoko asks, leaning in to kiss your cheek. Her voice is still a little slurred.

“Yeah,” you tell her, giving her a smile. “I should really get to bed.”

She frowns. “You’re not walking, right?”

“It’s not far. I’ll be fine.”

She shoots you a look—both disappointed and annoyed. “Sometimes you really are stupid,” she replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to have to heal you up tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Ieiri. I’ll walk with her.”

Gojo.

“Good,” she says. “Make sure she doesn’t get killed.”

“I really don’t need—” you start, but he’s already slinging an arm over your shoulder and pulling you toward the door.

“See ya, Shoko!” he says. “Drink some water!”

You can’t hear what she says back, but she sounds annoyed.

Gojo practically drags you out of the apartment and onto the street, and the entire time, he keeps you close and his arm fixed around you. Much to your irritation, he’s warm, and he smells like sandalwood and vetiver. Some expensive cologne, no doubt. You hate how much you like that smell.

“So,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him. “You never answered my question.”

That asshole.

“Really? Which one?” you ask innocently.

“Oh, you know,” he drawls. “Just the one where I asked if it was true that you’ve never had an orgasm.”

He says it casually, like the two of you are talking about the weather, but it still makes heat flare across your cheeks. “Right. That one.”

You’re desperately trying to think of a way to get out of this, but you can’t find anything to save you. He’s got you wrapped in his grip, and there’s nowhere to hide. You’re almost home, though—if you can just delay him…

“Yeah. That one,” he echoes. You can tell he’s smirking, just from the sound of his voice. When you look up, his face confirms it. He holds your gaze evenly, not a trace of shame. Not that you’ve ever seen him look shameful, not in all the time you’ve known him.

Warmth stirs in your gut, and you swallow hard. He has to know what he’s doing to you, right? There's no way he doesn't.

“Why are you so interested in hearing the answer?” you ask.

The corner of his lip quirks up. “How about this: you answer my question first, and then I’ll answer that.”

Just a little further and you’ll be free. Does he have to be staring at you like that? Does he have to be so god damn close? It’s putting all kinds of stupid ideas into your head.

“It’s true,” you admit, looking down at your feet. “Not that it’s any of your business, Gojo.”

“Is it?” He doesn’t sound particularly surprised. “Well, then.”

The two of you come to a stop, and when he finally drops his arm from your shoulder, you realize you’re standing in front of your front door. You should dash inside and forget any of this ever happened. Wake up tomorrow, and rinse him out of your thoughts, and go on with your life.

But that’s wishful thinking, knowing you. He’d still be on your mind. He always is.

You know it’s stupid of you to want him like this. There’s no guarantee that he’ll be any different than the rest. No guarantee that he actually wants you back, or that this isn’t just petty flirting to get under your skin. Still, you can't quite find it in yourself to turn him away without even trying.

And if anyone is going to be different than the rest...

“Y-you didn’t answer my question,” you tell him, anxiously fidgeting with the bottom of your skirt.

“I didn’t?” he asks, tilting his head. “Must have slipped my mind.” He pulls off his sunglasses and steps closer. Even though he’s not touching you anymore, his eyes might as well be pinning you to the wood behind you. “I asked because that’s quite the injustice for someone as pretty as you are.”

You’re suddenly very thankful for the door at your back, because your knees feel like they’re giving out.

“And, to be honest?” he continues, taking another step toward you. “That upsets me.”

“Gojo,” you murmur, trying to remember a single reason that you shouldn’t grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside. There were so many just a few seconds ago, but you can’t seem to find any of them anymore.

“Satoru,” he corrects.

“Satoru.” It comes out breathy and weak, but he smiles at the sound of it.

“Well?” he asks, bringing his hands up to the door on your sides. Caging you in. “Were you planning to let me in any time soon?” His next words are delivered next to your ear, so close that you can feel his breath ghosting your skin. “I mean, I’m happy to fuck you out here, if that’s what you want—”

Now you really do grab him by the collar and yank him inside.

He doesn’t waste a second before he has you pressed against the wall, taking your face in his hands and kissing you.

God, for all his ego, he really does meet the mark. His lips are soft, and he smells so damn good, and when you get bold and tangle your fingers in his hair, it’s smooth and silky. You give an experimental tug, and he groans into your mouth.

White-hot arousal floods down your spine. For a moment, you think you might crumple to the ground.

Then one of his hands moves to your jaw, tilting your head to the side so he can kiss down your neck, and fuck, it’s incredible. He nips at the sweet spot behind your ear, and you find yourself letting out a soft, needy sound that he hums in response to.

If he really does manage to make you come, it’ll be ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous, because you can’t even count the number of nights you spent hours just trying to get yourself close and failing miserably. He can’t possibly be good at everything.

But his knee slides between your legs, and you honestly start to debate grinding against it for some relief. It’s pathetic.

“To the bedroom?” he asks, pulling away. He’s breathless; you’ve never heard that before.

“Bedroom,” you confirm, taking him by the hand and pulling him further into the house. When the two of you get in, you fall back onto the bed, propping yourself up on your elbows and shifting backward.

You just have the mind to be embarrassed about the multiple plushies on your sheets, shoving them aside as quickly as you can, before he's crawling over you and grinning.

“Cute,” he says. Then he straddles your hips with his thighs, sliding his fingers under your shirt and starting to peel it up. It comes off easily, leaving you in your bra, your chest heaving as you stare up at him. One nimble movement from him, and the bra is off, too, being tossed to the side.

This is insane. All of this. How is it possible that Satoru’s kissed you, and wants you, and is in your bedroom taking off your clothes? His eyes sweep over you and you squirm, suddenly self-conscious. He could have anyone he wanted—why you? What if you aren’t what he thought?

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, tracing a hand from your sternum down to your navel. His eyes are darker than usual, pupils dilated, and you can swear that his cheeks are the slightest bit flushed. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Satoru,” you whimper, and he grins.

“Relax,” he instructs, but he’s pushing your skirt up around your waist, and you know you must be absolutely fucking soaked, and how the hell are you supposed to relax?

He tilts his head, admiring the sight of you as he drags a slow finger over the front of the thong you’re wearing. You’re definitely soaked.

“Wow,” he says. “You know, I’ve barely even touched you, but I think you might already be ready for me.”

At the sound of his words, you clench around nothing. He must be able to tell, because the smug smile he’s wearing widens. That cocky bastard. He’s still fully dressed.

You reach up to tug at the bottom of his shirt, but he’s faster than you—his free hand closes around your wrist and holds it above your head.

“Oh no you don’t,” he chides. “Your job is to relax, remember?”

You’re ready to launch into the argument that seeing him with his clothes off will most certainly help you come, but he starts shifting downward and leans in to kiss you again, releasing your wrist to cradle your cheek with one hand and drift the other across your chest. Every coherent thought you have melts away, replaced by the feeling of his hands on your body.

You’re just considering begging for more when he pulls away, kissing down your jaw. His mouth is hot, and everywhere his lips touch seems to light you on fire: your neck, your collarbones, your chest.

He pauses, and his breath tickles against your skin before he slowly trails his tongue around a nipple. You shudder and bury your hand in his hair, tugging and trying to get him to go a little faster, but he ignores your efforts and takes his sweet time—licking, kissing, nipping—until you’re certain he’s trying to cover every free inch of your skin.

Then, finally, his mouth starts to trail lower.

Just when he’s about to reach the place you most want him, he pulls away. Completely away, straddling your hips again and leaning his weight back onto his heels. Maybe he really does want you to beg.

At least, that’s what you think until you see the expression on his face. He’s not smiling—not teasing. Instead, his brow is furrowed, and he’s studying you with a look in his eyes that you’ve only seen in rare moments, during training.

Concentration.

He slips two fingers under the waistband of your thong and starts to pull it down, urging your hip up with his other hand until the fabric peels away from you. Then he moves a thumb to your clit and starts to rub slow, agonizing circles, and shit. You can hardly breathe.

It’s good—really fucking good, better than you’ve ever been able to do for yourself—but he’s dragging it out.

No one’s ever taken their time with you like this before, and everything about it is just… fucking overwhelming. The way he’s looking at you, the growing pleasure between your legs, the smell of him that seems to have bled into your sheets.

You can’t even squirm, because his weight on top of you is keeping you pressed into the mattress. His movements are almost lazy, but he’s watching your face attentively and taking note of your reactions to everything he’s doing.

It’s so nerve-wracking that you’re tempted to drape an arm over your face just to get a break. The only reason you don’t is because you get the feeling he won’t like that, and you don't want to risk anything.

And then, right as you’re actually starting to lose yourself in his touch, it happens. Just like it always does. The moment you feel at all close to the edge, the moment when pleasure is coiling in your gut and spreading and building into something more, it snaps. A rope pulled taut, cut in two.

You’re left with nothing but frustration and numbness, right back where you started.

Satoru stops touching you, and it takes a few seconds for you to swallow down your disappointment before you can meet his eyes. It had seemed like it’d be different this time. You’d hoped it’d be different.

When you do look up, though, Satoru’s just… smiling. Like he’d expected it, and isn't the least bit phased.

What the fuck? you think, staring at him.

“Like I said. Relax,” he tells you, and you really could punch him for that.

But then he lays a hand over your abdomen and applies a little pressure, and he’s right. You’re ridiculously tense. You force yourself to relax, and as soon as the tension under his hand releases, the pressure starts feeling… nice. Really nice.

“Good. Like that,” he says. “Breathe.” Then he shifts, and his weight on you eases. “Spread your legs for me,” he instructs.

When you do, he positions himself between your thighs. “Good girl,” he murmurs. You clench around nothing, and his smile widens. You’re waiting for him to start taking off his clothes, but he doesn't. His other hand returns to your clit, and you have to fight to keep your body from instantly tensing up again.

Breathe, you tell yourself. You’re not even sure it’s doing anything, but you do it anyway.

It’s not like he’s making it easy for you, though. He’s touching you like he has all the time in the world. It’s good, but you really wish he would speed up or press harder or something. You should have known that Satoru, of all people, would tease you.

Asshole.

Deep breaths.

Just when you’ve started to get the hang of breathing and relaxing, he slides two fingers inside you and everything you’ve been doing goes out the window.

It’s agony. It’s bliss. It feels so fucking good that it almost hurts, but it's not enough. And the moment you go tense again, he stops.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Your body relaxes little by little, and he goes back to what he’d been doing. Slipping his fingers inside you, tilting them until they’re brushing against a spot that has you seeing stars, sliding them in and out as your muscles fight to go tense. His thumb is still circling your clit.

“F-Fuck,” you choke out, grinding into his hand.

Your eyes flutter closed and it’s all you can do to keep breathing. In and out, no tension, relax. You’re so focused on it that you don't notice you’re approaching the edge until it’s too late.

You clench around his fingers and come so fucking hard that you forget how to think.

Through your haze, you’re distantly aware of a few different things. Your ears are ringing. Your back is arching off the bed. You’ve completely stopped breathing, and you’re not sure you’ll remember how.

The pleasure comes in hot, intense waves—ebbing and flowing, drifting you down from your climax until you finally come back to your body. And with your post-orgasm riddled mind, you can only think of one thing to say:

“Holy shit.”

It comes out half broken, strangled. You’re laughing, almost delirious. Your mouth is dry. His fingers are still inside you, and they haven't stopped moving. You can’t decide if you want him to stop.

“What was that?” he asks, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Shut up, Gojo,” you mumble, but you’ve already started grinding into his hand again.

“Satoru.”

“Sh-Shut up, Satoru.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he purrs. “I just might.”

His fingers leave you, and you nearly sob at the loss until your eyes fly open and you find him sucking them into his mouth and licking them clean, holding your gaze the entire time.

A shiver runs down your spine. You think you might even stop breathing again, but you can’t be sure.

Before you can think of how the hell you’re going to respond to that, he’s back at your navel, repositioning himself and kissing lower and lower down until you’re convinced that he’s going to stop. Surely he’s not about to do what you’re thinking he’ll do. He’ll pull away, just like he had before. Right?

Then the warmth of his mouth closes over your clit and you gasp, your thighs snapping together on instinct. He takes hold of them, lightning-fast, holds them apart and moans at the taste of you, and you immediately lose the ability to think.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. One of his hands comes up to press down on your abdomen again. Your skirt is still fanned out around your waist. You’re starting to wonder if you might be dreaming; you have to be dreaming.

But dreaming or not, the pleasure is building again, and your back is starting to arch, and it’s far too soon to be here again with how long it took you the first time but there’s no stopping it now.

He holds you down as you come, letting out another moan as you shudder and pant and make sounds you didn't even know you could make. All of this is only going to add to his ego, but—well, what are you supposed to do?

And Gojo must be crazy, because he just keeps going. It’s not that you mind, but you’re desperate to reciprocate. You still haven't done anything to him. With all the nights you’ve spent secretly wanting this, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don't get to touch him.

“Satoru,” you whine, tugging at his hair.

He gives a small noise of complaint and finally pulls away. “Fuck,” he gasps, reaching up to unzip your skirt with one nimble movement. “Need you to sit on my fucking face.”

“What?”

He’s already trying to get you to move, urging you to sit up before stripping you completely naked.

“You haven't even taken off your shirt,” you protest, attempting to scoot away.

He rips his shirt off so fast you think he might actually have torn it. One of the buttons pops off and rolls across the floor, but you barely hear it.

You’re too busy staring at the sight of porcelain skin, soft and warm when you reach out to touch him, muscles tugging under your fingers as he moves.

While you’re distracted, he takes the opportunity to pull you onto his lap, and it immediately becomes clear that he’s so hard it must hurt. There's something animalistic in his eyes, and you want it, want what he’s asking for. You also want to touch him so badly that you think you might die.

“Satoru—”

But he’s already lying on his back, shifting down until he’s settled under your thighs. He nips at the delicate flesh there, sinking his teeth in until you’re sure it’s going to leave a mark. “Sit on my face,” he mumbles.

And God help you, you do.

He instantly gives an appreciative hum, and the vibration has you squirming, hips stuttering. One of his hands comes up to grab your ass, encouraging you to grind against him. When you do, he groans. His mouth starts moving faster, and it’s almost more than you can take.

You’re starting to get lost in a haze again. A thick, pleasurable haze that’s clouding your vision and making it hard to breathe.

You’ve had a couple men go down on you in the past, but it was nothing like this. If anything, it felt it was a chore for them—an incentive to get a blowjob, and nothing more.

How the fuck is Satoru Gojo the one who makes it feel like he actually wants you? You should be the one begging for his attention, desperate to get a night with him. And yet, here you are, being eaten out like he’s fucking starved, growing closer and closer to your third orgasm of the night.

You can’t take it anymore. Even though you’re panting, one of your hands trails back to run along his chest, settling briefly over his heart and feeling the way it’s pounding before moving further down.

It’s an awkward reach, but you’re determined to touch him. You need to fucking touch him. He’s still hard, and it has to be painful, and you want to see the way he looks when he’s getting off.

But the moment you start to palm him through his pants, he pauses, kissing up your thigh. “Stop that,” he says breathlessly, punctuating the words with a soft bite.

“But—”

Another nip, a little harder. “I’ll fuck you once you’ve come on my face.”

Fuck, you think. Why’d he have to say it like that?

You’re still tempted to keep touching him, but he’s stubborn. It’ll probably be faster to do what he asks rather than try to argue with him. You reluctantly pull your arm back, and he continues what he’d been doing before.

Eating you out. Very enthusiastically.

You shudder into your next climax within minutes, tugging at his hair as you do, vision blacking out, and he doesn't pull back until your hips are quite literally jerking away from his touch.

He places one last lick on your clit and shifts out from under you, sitting up. As soon as he does, you’re yanking him close and kissing him, straddling his lap with your thighs. You can feel him laugh against your lips, but you don’t even care anymore. You need him, need to fucking touch him, need to hear him.

Then you start kissing down his throat, and his jaw clenches, and he inhales sharp and deep. I fucking knew it, you think. He’s just as affected as you are.

When you dig your teeth into the skin, his breathing hitches and he tilts his head back, giving you more access. On impulse, you drag your tongue up his neck and he groans.

It’s driving you crazy, not having him where you want him. Should you go slow? Tease him? Do you have the patience for that? Your hands, or your mouth?

You tug his belt off with trembling fingers, tossing it to the side, unbuttoning his pants as fast as you can.

“Got somewhere to be?” he asks, tilting his head.

On your cock, you think, shoving his pants down as far as you can. You give him a look, waiting. He huffs, then pulls them the rest of the way off.

Jesus, he’s hard for you. Even through his boxers, you can tell he must be desperate for some relief. Your lips find his on impulse, and he grips the back of your neck, licking into your mouth.

His other hand settles on your waist, urging you down on top of him until you can feel his hardened cock under you. He grinds his hips up into you, and his grip tightens. “Fuck,” he whispers, so soft you barely hear it.

It feels so good you’re almost tempted to let him take over—almost. You’ll be damned if you don’t have your way with him, even just for a little bit.

Placing your hands on his chest, you gently push him back, and you just catch a flash of the confusion on his face before you’re back at his jaw, trailing your lips down and over his collarbone, placing feather-light kisses down his chest.

Then you shift off of him and out of his hold. “Take these off,” you tell him, tugging at his boxers. While you’re waiting for him to comply, you push off the bed and kneel next to the edge, watching him expectantly.

But he doesn't move. The boxers stay on.

“What’re you up to?” he asks. “Planning to put that pretty mouth of yours to good use?”

“Yes,” you tell him. “Now get naked and come over here.”

He grins, and it’s so boyish, so charming that you almost don't hear the next words. “Say please and I’ll consider it.”

You blink at him for a moment, almost thinking that he’s joking. But he's not. He's looking at you, waiting for you to beg.

And damn it, you’re actually going to.

“Please.” It comes out airy, softer than you meant it to be.

“Oh, don't be shy now,” he purrs. “Let me hear you.”

“Please,” you repeat, louder this time, forcing yourself to keep your eyes locked on his face.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, finally pulling off those damned boxers and moving to the edge of the bed.

You adjust until you’re kneeling between his thighs, and his hand moves to your chin—tilting your face up until you’re gazing at him.

God, the sight of him. His eyes are dilated, blown so dark that you can barely see the blue in them anymore. There’s a pretty flush to his cheeks, and his lips are parted.

Something about seeing him like this, knowing it’s for you, has your thighs pressing together. But that’s not what you’re here for.

His cock is just as pretty as his face. Long and pale, flushed pink at the tip, already leaking for you. You knew he had to be desperate, but the proof of it in your hands is something else.

The taste of it is something else, too.

He groans as soon as you take him between your lips, head tilting back and eyes falling closed as the velvety warmth of your mouth envelops him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, and he takes in a shaky breath.

You’ve dreamed about seeing this so many times in private that it almost doesn’t feel real now. All those nights with your vibrator between your legs, thinking of him, wondering how this might feel—they don’t even come close to this.

The weight of him on your tongue. The way his brows pinch in pleasure when you take him deeper, your fingers taking everything you can’t fit, the way his breathing grows strained and heavy.

The way he starts to guide you with the hand that’s on the back of your neck, gently encouraging you to pick up the pace. His hips start to lightly jerk into you, fucking into your mouth.

“Shit, just like that,” he says.

You’re so turned on that you can barely think. Everything you’re doing is entirely instinctive. You’re only vaguely aware of the fact that you’re squirming, thighs pressing together to get some relief.

You’re desperately trying to commit every detail to memory, because you’re very, very sure that this is never going to happen again, and you don’t want to forget anything, not one second of it.

You file away every jagged inhale, the way the muscles of his thighs start to flex when he starts getting closer, the way he moans your name when you do something he particularly likes.

And then, just when it starts getting really fucking good, you find yourself being pulled off of him.

He’s panting, and there’s an intensity in his eyes that has a shiver running down your back. Jesus fuck, you want him. You’re about to start begging for him to finish in your mouth, but his thumb starts to trail slowly over your bottom lip and the words die in your throat, instantly forgotten.

“Satoru…” you mumble instead.

“Told you I was going to fuck you, didn’t I?” he asks, pushing two fingers between your lips, pressing the pads of them onto your tongue. On impulse, you start sucking on them, and he grins. “I’ve been dreaming of being inside you for months now, you know.”

You whimper, and the sound comes out muffled.

“That’s right,” he coos, pulling his hand away. “Planning to come up here, or do you want me to take you there on the floor?”

Arousal shoots straight down to your cunt, and you scramble up. The floor sounds hot, but from experience—it’d just mean an aching spine. And, if the way he’s looking at you is any indication, you’re already going to be limping tomorrow. You should really spare yourself, if you can.

“Lay back,” he requests softly.

You do as he asks, and he nudges your legs apart with his knee, sitting back on his heels as he runs a hand up your thigh. Then higher and higher, drawing a slow, lazy circle around your clit before sliding his fingers down against your entrance.

You’re fucking soaked. You’ve been ready for him since he first pressed you against that wall and kissed you, and you’re so wet now that when he lifts his hand away, you can see the evidence of yourself shining in the light.

The corners of his lips quirk up as he inspects his fingers, and he huffs a laugh. “Damn, baby, all of this for me?” He tilts his head. “Better not let it go to waste.”

He wraps his hand around his length and starts to stroke himself, and the moment you realize what he’s doing, you clench around nothing and whine, grasping at the sheets—even though it doesn’t do much to ground you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut. You swallow hard and study his long lashes against his cheeks for a moment, watching his brows knit together. “Need to be inside you right fucking now,” he says, the words quiet but intense, his gaze finally meeting yours again.

You spread your legs wider, and a muscle in his jaw tenses.

“So damn pretty,” he murmurs, grabbing at your thighs. “So fucking wet.” Then he pulls you over to him, the movement so smooth and quick that by the time your lips are parting in shock, he’s already bending down to kiss you.

It’s hungry and messy and desperate; sharp teeth and his hand on your cheek and the lingering taste of you on his tongue. Him moaning into your mouth when you fist a hand into his hair and tug him even closer.

Then he props himself up on his elbows and lines himself up with you, flashing you one more mischievous smile before he’s pressing inside.

He doesn’t go slow or particularly gentle when he thrusts into you, all the way to the hilt. You’re so ready for him that it’s all pleasure—white-hot, searing in your nerves until you can barely think.

Everything is heat and friction. The world fades away and becomes the addictive stretch of him filling you, him bending down and swallowing up the noises you make for him with another kiss.

“That’s it,” he says, moving a hand down to rub maddening circles on your clit. “Just like that. Taking me so well, baby.”

“Satoru—fuck,” you choke out. It’s the only thing you can say when he’s fucking you like this.

His pace quickens and he groans, nuzzling into your neck, biting down so hard that there’s no chance it won’t leave a mark. Something you’ll worry about tomorrow, but you lean into now.

He feels so goddamn good inside of you. His hips thrusting into you almost brutally, stealing away your air, one of his hands planted at your side and the other between your legs.

It has warmth coiling in your gut, building more and more as his movements start to grow faster, his breathing starts to sound labored, his noises start to become louder.

Your back is starting to arch—the pleasure grows blinding at the edges, clouding your vision over and parting your lips, making your thighs shake as you try to spread even wider for him.

“Satoru,” you gasp, cock-drunk and barely there. You’d meant to say more, but you can't remember what.

“God, yes. Come on my fucking cock,” Satoru pants, and that’s all you need.

It’s the strongest one yet. You clench around him and he immediately makes a strangled noise in response, fucking even harder into you as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you.

You can't breathe. Satoru hasn't stopped: not his hips, and not his thumb on your clit. Your lips are parted in a silent moan, and it’s so fucking good that you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to see or speak or even move after this.

Then, finally, it ends and you float back into your body piece by piece, limp and breathing jaggedly.

When you come down, you find your nails digging into Gojo’s back. He’s close. He has to be, with the noises he’s making, with the way his thrusts are erratic.

You wrap a leg around his waist and urge him deeper, and he shudders, leaning in to kiss you. He’s noisy—so fucking noisy, even with your mouth to muffle him, but you're too far gone at this point to care if any of your neighbors hear (or have been hearing, really.)

When the kiss finishes, you lean up to bite at his neck, licking over the mark you made, and his hips stutter for a moment.

“Oh, fuck, I’m—” he says, and then he's cumming inside you.

You watch him shamelessly, hungrily, memorizing how his face scrunches in pleasure and the way he’s mumbling your name like a mantra, over and over.

Then he kisses you again, and you start memorizing the way Satoru kisses when he’s barely there instead. It’s less controlled. He’s licking into your mouth and shuddering, his hips rocking into you until it’s over and he finally goes still, burying his face in the junction between your shoulders and neck and breathing heavily.

You find your hands sliding into his hair and playing with the soft strands of it. Your nails scrape lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your skin as his body goes slack.

The two of you stay like that for a while. His breathing slows. He’s warm and heavy, and the feeling of him on top of you is making you sleepy—you’re halfway to drifting off when he starts laughing. It’s quiet, but you feel the tickle of it against your throat, the curl of his smile. You’re half annoyed and half endeared.

“Something funny?” you ask.

He hums, pressing feather-light kisses up your neck. Then he pulls out of you, murmuring a soft sorry when you wince before he sits up on his heels and grins at you.

“I was just thinking about earlier. You know, how you said you couldn’t come. That was, what, three times? Four?”

Your cheeks go hot. “Shut up, Satoru,” you tell him, tossing a nearby pillow at him.

He catches it easily, fluffing it up and placing it on your stomach before he crosses his arms over it and rests his chin on his hands. “Not bad for a first try,” he says, mostly to himself. “Next time, I could get you to eight for sure. Maybe even ten.”

Next time? you think, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Ten!?

His grin widens. “Guess we can find out in the morning,” he tells you, sitting up again. “You don’t have any plans, right?”

You do. An important meeting with the higher ups before noon.

“I have a—” you start, but the way his brows rise immediately shuts you up. Screw the higher ups. “No,” you tell him. “I don’t have anything.”

“That’s what I thought,” he says, throwing one of your plushies at the wall. Somehow, it hits the light switch perfectly, and the two of you are left in the dark. You can see the faint glow of his eyes but nothing else.

You hear the pillow being put at your side again, his contented sigh as he stretches out on the bed, laying on his stomach. “Good night,” he says.

You swallow hard, hardly daring to believe that this is actually happening. “Good night.”

You’d been so close to sleep just moments ago, but now you’re wide away. The glow of Satoru’s eyes is gone—he really must be intending to sleep.

Here. In your bed.

The second you start thinking more about that is the second when everything falls apart, so you don’t. You force your eyes to shut. You can still hear him breathing. You hone in on the sound: soft, slow and even, and after a while the stillness of the room finally starts to take over you.

Your thoughts grow thick, like syrup. Your body goes heavy. Everything fades away.

You wake to golden light streaming in from the windows, and a pair of very warm arms wrapped around you.

The memories of last night hit you all at once (in vivid detail) and you instantly go tense, sucking in a slow breath. Honestly, part of you thought it might be fake. That you walked home from Shoko’s alone and fell into your bed, and dreamed it all up. But the feeling of him pressed against you is unmistakable.

Satoru Gojo is in your bed. He’s—he’s fucking cuddling you right now, and you can’t even tell if he’s awake or asleep.

Your answer comes when you adjust yourself a little and he stirs, the pillow you’re on shifting as he lifts his head. You hear him yawn, feel his grip loosen a hair around you. You don’t say a thing.

Will he snatch his arms away, now that he’s aware of what he’s doing? Will he change his mind about what he said last night, call it all a joke and leave?

But he just buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, kissing the skin. The tender, unexpected touch makes you shudder.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning,” you reply, letting out a soft gasp when one of his hands trails downward, rubbing slow circles on your thigh.

“Well?” he asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Ready to get started?”

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #mywriting

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whateverloomis · 4 months ago

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Sleepwalking hitchhiker 🌿

Note: For some reason I imagine them with a southern accent? Lmao. Could be a fun little detail, no? Anyways, part 2 with Stu?

🔞 Warnings: Dubcon, sexsomnia, GN!AFAB reader, age gap (Billy is middle aged, reader in their 20s,) fingering, nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie, reader is kinda bratty, suggestion of breeding kink, unedited

⚠️ Sexsomnia: Sexsomnia is a sleep disorder that causes people to act sexually while asleep. It's also known as sleep sex.

You were driving back from a college party in the middle of the night, alcohol and weed in your system but not enough to stop you from taking yourself back home.

As you were approaching the highway there was a road block, cops and to-trucks all over the place. They were re-directing people to different alternate routes and you decided to take the old street to your house. One that used to be the main road until the damn highway was built.

The old road was dark and gloomy, you could barely see with the thick fog that was slowly accumulating and you sighed in frustration. The last thing you needed was to encounter a ghost looming through the mist or something like that.

Time passed and it felt like you were driving for forever. To make your night even more annoying your car decided to break down.

"Fuck, seriously?" you muttered and pulled up to the side of the road.

Sighing, you got out of the car and opened the hood. You had very little knowledge on cars but you figured that maybe if you moved some cables around you'll magically fix the problem. That was until smoke came out of the engine.

"Why now? Why this? Ugh," you closed the hood and got back in your car.

You grabbed your phone to call for help but of course you didn't have a signal. Why would you? You had two options; stay in your car and wait till morning or go outside and hope for a car to drive by to give you a lift. Its dangerous but you had no other option.

You decided to go outside and walk for a bit to see if you spotted anyone. 20, 30, 45 minutes went by and you were starting to give up until finally you saw headlights. A truck. Not just any truck, a to-truck.

"Oh my gosh, YES!" you shouted excitedly and waved. The person saw you and parked behind your car.

A man climbed down the truck. He must've been in his 50s and fuck, he's hot and you couldn't let it go unnoticed.

"Hi!, oh my goodness, can you help me out? I don't know what's wrong with it," you said, sounding desperate as ever.

"Yeah sure, pop the hood for me sweetheart," he replied and you felt the slightest hint of excitement course through your body at the mention of the pet name.

As you leaned down to pull the small lever next to the front seat your skirt rose up, resting just under your ass and the man smirked at the sight before walking to the front of the car to open the hood.

You followed and stood next to him, eager to get an answer. He was leaning over the front of the car and his light wash jeans were hanging loose by his hips, exposing his grey boxers. It was attractive. It was doing things to you that you shouldn't have been feeling given the situation, but you couldn't help it.

"Looks like it overheated. Seemed like it affected the battery too," he explained and you sighed in frustration. He looked at you before staring at his truck.

"I can take it to my shop and give it a look. You can tag along and crash next door at my place while I get this fixed for you. Sound good?" he offered and made it sound like the best deal you've ever received.

"Yes, that sounds great," you agreed and sighed in relief.

Before you climbed up the passenger seat of his vehicle you gave him the sweetest look and asked, "Oh, by the way, what's your name?"

"Billy. Billy Loomis," he answered

"YN," you said and he smirked at you before walking up to your car begining to hook it up to his truck.

Little did you know, Billy sprinkled a little lie within his diagnosis. The car did overheat, but the battery wasn't fucked, no. It was easy enough to get it running on the spot but he decided it was a great idea to disconnect the battery and "test it" before hooking it up to his truck. It was a wonderful idea to show you how your car doesn't work at all. Yes, it was definitely a great plan.

•

The drive to his place was filled with small talk and a whole lot of tension, however it disappeared when you saw his "shop". It was a wooden shed with a single lightbulb providing barely any illumination. Next to it was a small cabin, his house you assumed.

What had you done?

You really should've followed the "don't talk to strangers" motto but everything seemed so perfect... And maybe they were? I mean, why wouldn't they be? He looked nice enough. Good enough... Delicious, even.

Everything will be fine...

Once he parked his vehicle in reverse and positioned your car, you climbed down the mini steps of his truck and looked around the area.

"Follow me," he said, opening the door to his cabin.

The inside was surprisingly cozy. Small but charming.

"You can sleep on the couch while I work, it's gonna be a while," he explained and you nodded, barely processing anything. You didn't give a fuck what happened next, you just needed sleep...

Sleep walking. You were sleep walking around the house and Billy was observing you from the kitchen entrance. He was more than amused at the sight and chuckled at the situation before walking out into the shed again. He decided he'd deal with you later.

Making your way into the bedroom you somehow found his bed and laid there. It was surprisingly soft and comfy.

You've always had that issue, sleep walking was part of your life and you didn't think it would happen at a strangers house since you were aware of your surroundings, but no. And to make the situation worse, you started to touch yourself in your sleep too.

Sexsomnia isn't as common for you to experience but when it does happen you get out of control...

You ran your hands up and down your body slowly, pinching your nipples softly over your thin crop top and teasing the sides of your tits all the way down to your hips. The little moans coming out of you were loud enough for Billy to hear and he stopped working on your car once again to check on you.

When he walked in his room the sight he was greeted with was definitely a treat, you were rubbing your cunt under your skirt, underwear long gone. Your breathing quickened as you slid your fingers down and started to finger yourself.

Billy got instantly hard at the sight. A pretty little thing like you on his bed? Fingering themselves while asleep? What more could he ask for?

Without hesitating the man kicked off his work boots and walked over to you. He observed to confirm that you were actually asleep before running his big hand over your cheek and down to your shirt, pulling it up to expose your hardened buds. He bit his lower lip at the sight before groping them. You moaned and leaned into his touch.

"Fuck..." Billy whispered and lowered his head slowly towards your chest, once again making sure you were sound asleep so he could bite your right nipple very softly. The sensation was barely there but it was enough to make you whimper and clench around your fingers.

Billy continued teasing you with his mouth and eventually replaced your fingers with his. They reached deeper than yours and he was methodically stimulating your gspot. Slowly. Teasingly. Pleasurable torture in your now waking state.

"Mph... More," you moaned, half asleep. Billy fingered you faster and your tits started to bounce slightly.

The sight made Billy twitch in his pants and he wasn't going to last much longer without burying himself inside you.

He wondered if you knew it was him. If you were going to push him away at some point, but you did the opposite. Once you realized it was him. That random man that gave you a lift and was fixing your car moments ago. That delicious looking middle aged man. Hell, you lost it. The pornographic moan you released at the realization made him pull his fingers out of you and quickly unbuckle his belt, pull his jeans down and release his hard... Big... Thick... Oh Gods, you were so ready.

Billy didn't waste anymore time and slid his cock all the way in. All 7 inches felt like pure ecstasy. He held your legs over his shoulders before pounding your cunt. Neither of you cared about protection, a horrible decision but it made everything so much more exciting and fucked up.

"Fuck... Mm yes..." You moaned. You were still somewhat in a sleepy state and moaning incoherently. Billy absolutely loved it.

The man needed to feel the clench around his cock so he rubbed your clit in circular motions which heightened the pleasure and elicited sweet little moans for him.

The way you squeezed around his length made him thrust faster and get harder inside you. The feeling built the orgasm inside you slowly. It rose up your spine until you finally came around his thick cock, milking him seconds after. You gave cero fucks that he filled you up, you'd get a plan B the next day... Or not.

"Fuck, that was good..." Billy whispered and put his pants back on, not caring about after sex care or clean up.

"Bathroom's right outside to the left. I've got a job to finish," he said and looked at you from head to toe, feeling satisfied with the mess he made of you.

•

The day after you stayed in bed until late, the night was intense and you barely had energy to wake up at a decent hour. However, Billy stayed awake all night fucking around with your car to make it seem like it still wasn't working to keep you with him a while longer. He definitely wasn't done with you.

As he was working, his neighbor Stu Macher walked up to him,

"Victim?" he asked simply and Billy wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with his forearm before looking at his friend,

"I don't know yet, I fucked them last night and" he finished his sentence with a soft whistle. Stu smirked and leaned against the shed's entrance,

"You gonna share a piece of that?" he asked and Billy looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Under my supervision."

#dilf Billy Loomis #dilf stu macher #ghostface smut #ghostface x reader #billy loomis smut #ghostfacesmut #billy loomis x reader #scream (1996)#billy loomis x you #stu macher smut #stu macher x billy loomis #stu matcher x reader

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wystiix · 1 month ago

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‘til death hits me (literally)

❥ pairing: luka x death ❥ synopsis: How long has it been since he laid there, cold and alone? Despite his condition, Luka had just one wish—to have one last look at the sky. ❥ cw: chronically ill luka in a wheelchair, he gets hit by a bus, satire and poorly written ❥ additional tags: bus gives him a kiss hyuna would never give him in this fic, idk hospital au, and just me bulshitting so possibly ooc luka ❥ word count: penis ❥ notes: shoutout to @milksnake-tea @papiliotao @starcharmed @luunares for curing my writers block! the formatting is asscheeks cuz I’m on mobile rn but I’ll fix it later because I just drank horchata and somehow I think god hates me and decided to make me lactose intolerant out of nowhere so I had to take the fattest shit in the middle of my barista session and yeah. reminder that this is SATIRE so don’t come for my ass pls 🥀🥀 I love Luka and this is my way of coping. I could not write a proper synopsis idk cuz I wa sin my barista session when I wrote this so YEHA idc idc I’ll fix the layout and stuff later.

The beeping of the machine next to him slowed. A thin light came into view, stretching across the hospital parking lot out of the window. Luka had always loved the quiet mornings.

He closed his eyes to listen for the birds that chirped outside his window. When he opened them again, someone was standing beside the bed. Nurse Kissmyass, he thought, or someone who wore Kissmyass’s face. Maybe he'd already started hallucinating. Maybe everyone was Kissmyass now.

"You're awake," Kissmyass, or someone, said softly. “Doctor said if you’re feeling up for it… we can take you outside for a bit. Get some sun.”

The sun.

He tried to say something like It's about damn time, but all that came out was a small rasp from the depths of his throat. Close enough.

Kissmyass smiled and started adjusting his IV. “We’ll get the chair.”

Moments later, they wheeled him hrough the sliding doors. Unc blinked up the sky. The sun was still rising, so blotches of orange and splashes of red scattered across the sky. A breeze tugged weakly at his hospital gown. The light was so clean, much unlike him.

Luka let his head to fall back onto the stiff chair. Everything ached from his chest to his crusty toes, but the pain had been there for so long that it felt more like a companion since the day Hyuna left him. His body was like an old, abandoned house.

But the sun. The sun felt good.

“Just a few minutes,” Kissmyass murmured behind him. “We’ve got to be careful with exposure. Delicate system and all.”

Luka hummed, watching the wind move through the trees across the lot, brushing the leaves in waves. Time passed like molasses.

Honk.

His eyes opened just in time to see a bus making a wide, confused turn. The driver looked panicked. The driver looked like they were mouthing “I’m so sorry.” The driver looked like… Hyuna—?

thunk.

The wheelchair jolted forward as something nudged it. Luka’s body followed half a second later. Everything happened absurdly slowly.

Kissmyass’s screams at him to get up felt muffled. Luka was still mid-“Huh?” when his forehead bounced off the license plate, sending him flying through the air. He floated for a second like a ragdoll, flailing gently in the morning light. His eyes took sight of the sun one last time. The last thing he saw and felt was the warm, yellow and eternal streaks.

So this was it. For a glorious moment, he looked majestic—like an angel. Lives flashes before his eyes, remembering the time he danced under the moonlight with Hyuna. When he was happy despite his chronic conditions.

The IV line trailed after him in the air, still bravely attached while flapping about . A single tear slipped down his cheek—whether from pain, joy, or windburn, no one could be sure.

Before he hit the pavement. And he fucking dies LMAOO LOSER

#☆ wystys ink #alien stage #alnst #alien stage luka #alnst luka #luka alien stage #luka alnst #hyuluka #alien stage fanfic #alnst fanfiction

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fandomloreblog · 1 month ago

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🗡️ Vergil Headcanons Post-DMC5 🫐

These headcanons are mainly for my DMC6 fanstory, but yall are more than welcome to claim them for whatever your silly hearts desire (if anyone does fanfics PLEASE TAG ME I am starved for content)!!!

Warnings: None! Pure fluff and giggles here!

Stuck in hell for roughly 3-5 months with Dante, so lots of impromptu bro bonding and family therapy. Hears about what The Order did and what happened with Nero and develops Overprotective Dad Syndrome™️ once he returns (Nero doesn’t know how to feel about it).

Ends up growing stubble and keeps it. Originally because he didn’t exactly have a decent razor (The Yamato can only do so much) but eventually grew used to it. His actual hair he keeps a bit longer, but tidy still and almost always naturally pushed back. Usually it’s only down once he wakes up or is too tired to fix it.

Actually uses the Yamato to cut a lot of stuff (hair, fabric, non-messy food, etc), his main issue is Dante using it. Nero grabbed it once to test the durability of a new Devil Bringer, and when Vergil attempted to get it back, Nero made a “Or what? You’re gonna take my other arm?” Joke that had him somewhat frozen for a solid 5 minutes.

V’s tattoo’s also ended up resurfacing, which he kept as a sort of “memento” of them. They glow when he’s annoyed or enraged, or just close to entering his Devil Trigger (think of djheretostay’s Demon Hunter Outfit Mod for Vergil in terms of look!)

Tries dressing somewhat more “humanly” and not “I am a demon in disguise wearing a hell boar skin coat and dragon scale armor”. Again, Demon Hunter fit is his go-to, along with still somewhat formal outfits, but still human-made and relevant to the fashion era. (He is somewhat embarrassed by his DMC3 fit looking back on it).

Starts cooking for the entire DMC after he returned. He discovered Dante’s poor eating habits when stuck in Hell and basically had to force-feed him scavenged food he whipped up to make sure he stayed healthy and didn’t starve. When they did get back, he took it upon himself to make sure Dante, Nero, and anyone else who was there get some damn veggies into their system. It’s basically his love language.

He made a whole vegan/veggie pizza once, and Dante didn’t notice the difference. Nero had to jump between the two when Dante found out, and now Vergil is required to notify what’s in whatever he cooks.

Ends up becoming cooking partners with Kyrie somehow? Kyrie wants to get into Vergil (technically her father-in-law)’s good graces, while Vergil wants to figure out something healthy that Nero and Dante will eat.

Speaking of cooking, Vergil actually has a wide knowledge on hell-based cooking and gardening. Due to his decades of experience living there (both as Nelo Angelo and Vergil), he actually knows more about Hell’s fauna and flora than Earth’s. As a result, he’s basically the go-to knowledge guy when it comes to dealing with anything that is more complex than “charging in and slashing up the demons”.

Ends up having a somewhat secret garden somewhere in his apartment where he grows the few fruits and veggies from hell that everyone likes. It’s sort of an open secret, but they don’t pressure him over it just in case he stops or gets embarrassed about it.

GOD this man becomes such a book nerd. Not even just for poetry, in general. While poetry is his favorite, he is curious about other books/genres, so he has a whole collection (again) at his apartment. Nico gave him a demon-based smut book to see what he’d do/react to it, but then he didn’t do anything? And no no one has the balls to question if he actually read the damn thing or hasn’t yet.

Speaking of The Apartment™️- it’s a small condo in a somewhat decent spot in Red Grave City. he actually owned it waaaay before DMC5. He got using some “totally legit funds” during his wanderings as a place to store info/supplies in his search for power. Basically he owns it outright and doesn’t have to worry about taxes, and it’s better to not ask questions.

Doesn’t really have much in terms of furniture. He has a bed, a dresser/closet, a bookshelf, the hell garden, and a few boxes, and that’s basically it. Very minimalist, but only because he doesn’t really exactly know what he likes in terms of decor (yet). Take him into an IKEA, and he’ll be sat in front of 4 near-identical lamps for 2 hours wondering what he likes best.

Still struggling with actually verbalizing that he cares. Very much an “actions speak louder than words” person, so he’s constantly doing small things/actions (like cooking) to show that. He’s trying hard to be a better person, and just hopes that everyone see’s it.

They do, Nero’s just too prideful to admit it, and Vergil takes everything Dante says with a grain of salt.

VERY SAPPY!!! He’s down bad missing (insert y’all’s Lady-In-Red name)/Addie. Has one ring she gave him because he expressed a modicum of interest in it, and that’s his most cherished possession. NEVER takes it off.

Dante tried grabbing it once, and Vergil actually hissed at him out of pure defensiveness.

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thinking1bee · 7 days ago

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Such A Tease One Shot

Requested by unholyhelbig based off this

Pairings: Kate Bishop x Reader

Tags: FILTHY NASTY SMUT, CEO!Kate, Wife!Reader, PWP, Office Sex, Oral, Teasing, Heavy Edging, Some Angst (Not Between Reader and Kate), Strap Ons, Squirting, Fingering, Rough Sex, Sloppy Sex, Light Come Tasting, Degradation, Praise, Emotional Sex, Body Worship, John Walker Being a Whole Asshole, Slight Dacryphilia, Light Mention of a Belly Bulge, Praise, Degradation, Kate Talks R Through It, 18+ Audience

Word Count: 14.1K

Everything Taglist: @ara-a-bird @iliketozoneout @unholyhelbig @owloftheshadows

A/N: @unholyhelbig got me writing this filth in broad daylight ya'll 😩. Ask and you shall receive. If any of you know me in real life, on god, you don't 😭

Kate couldn’t stop the exhausted sigh that blew past her lips when she sat back in her luxurious office chair. The sun was shining, and the birds were singing, but she was far from a joyous mood. Today was a long day, and she was sad to say that it was nowhere close to being over. The morning started off dreadfully. The networking system that kept Bishop Security running went down for an hour. That halted everything else, plus her ability to do her job. Some security systems that were connected to that network bugged, and IT was still working on fixing the mess it made. By extension, Kate received word that her customers were also being affected, and customer service had been slammed ever since. It was just approaching noon, and Kate was in her massive office, a space that was more for show and opulence than anything else. She teetered between boredom and irritability, a restlessness that she couldn’t shake eating at her and making her jittery.

She was in another conference. Another one, pointless. She muted her end of the line while the call droned on and on. It’d been almost an hour of the shareholders bickering amongst themselves, and Kate checked out 45 minutes into the call. All things considered, she lasted substantially longer than any other meeting she’s survived before. She wasn’t missing out on anything important, just a group of men trying to out piss each other in the business world.

Since taking over Bishop Security, this was what her days were turning into. Just hours of being lectured by her mother about responsibility, and hours more of being talked over by decrepit, old men who were too worried about their money and not about their health. This wasn’t what Kate was hoping for when she became CEO of her mother’s company. She was hoping for a more hands-on approach instead of attending meeting, after meeting… after meeting…

after slow, torturous meeting.

She hadn’t known that this was what she was signing herself up for. Kate was more of a figurehead than a pioneer. She didn’t know that she was going to be an over glorified icon, just a mascot for the business and a sigil of morale. The last one was the joke of the century. This was the most burnt out that Kate had ever felt. Even now, she felt so drained, as if she got up and took a step, she’d collapse onto the floor. At this point, the job kept the money flowing, the customers safe, and the shareholders happy. If nothing else, there was, at least, that.

… sometimes.

“Mrs. Bishop???”

A grating voice cut through her thoughts, and Kate flinched at the way the volume seared through her eardrums. She blinked once. Then twice. Her office came back into focus after zoning out for so long. The call was now quiet, with the exception of the background noise from various different receivers that were crackling with sounds.

“Bishop!”

Kate sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes closing as another sudden wave of exhaustion washed over her. It was more trouble than it was worth having to pretend to listen to whatever the hell this was. Her mother’s shareholders knew good and damn well that she didn’t want to be here. And maybe that was the problem. With them having this knowledge, Kate couldn’t help but think that they went out of their way to make these conferences as mentally taxing as possible.

They were petty as hell.

That same voice growled her name again, and Kate groaned. She slapped at the unmute button before leaning forward to rest her elbows on the polished mahogany wood of her desk.

“What?!”

Her voice came out harsher than she intended, but she wasn’t apologetic about it. There was no sense in pretending, to be either listening or sorry, especially when these men have demonstrated more than once that they would tear her apart if she showed any weakness whatsoever. John Walker, a man she would personally castrate herself if it weren’t for the laws of man, scoffed.

“Have you listened to a word we’ve said???”

Kate was convinced that her mother went to hell herself to exhume Walker. There was no other place on earth to find a human being that could get on her nerves quite like he did. Walker was handcrafted by the devil himself, and whatever circle he crawled out of to get here, he was Kate’s problem now. She audibly groaned and he snickered.

“Unless you’ve argued about something other than this damn business contract, then no. I am not listening.”

Walker had the gall to laugh. “Wonderful person Eleanor picked to take over your father’s business.”

Kate sat up straight, the blatant insult making her bristle more than it should. It wasn’t the first time the topic of her status has come up, and it certainly won’t be the last. Normally, Kate wouldn’t care, but when it’s out of Walker’s mouth, something akin to defensiveness would flare to life inside of her without fail. It was stupid. She had nothing to prove, and ever since Bishop Security became her responsibility, the company has never done better. This fiscal year was the highest grossing year to date, and if things progressed as they were, then Kate was going to be the most successful CEO since Tony Stark.

The defensiveness may have less to do with the company itself, and more to do with Walker’s jab at her mother’s choice to whom would take over her father’s company. Kate’s father was dead, had been so for years, and it was still a sore spot. The memory of him had been tainted the moment his shady and less-than-legal deals he’d made were unearthed after his death. He did everything to keep Bishop Security going when it was just a starter up. Eleanor had spent a better part of a decade cleaning up his mess and wanted to retire the moment the dust finally settled.

Now it was under Kate’s care. Her success was better than Walker’s, and with that in mind, she smirked.

“John, jealousy isn’t very becoming of you at your big age.”

A sound of a snort and a guffaw filled the speaker before the other members of the conference dissolved into raucous laughter. Kate couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her lips, but it was less out of amusement and more out of maliciousness.

“And this is bold talk for a man who had to declare bankruptcy twice in a row.”

“Now, hold on-!”

“Actually, if memory serves. It’s your merger with my company that’s keeping you from waiting in the unemployment line, and I can terminate that contract with a simple email.”

John was shocked into silence; the sounds of his furious and heated breathing barely heard over the laughter of the other conference members.

“Your mother…!”

“My mother isn’t here, Walker,” Kate responded with a flippant roll of her eyes. “But please feel free to bitch to her after we’re done.”

He usually did, and Kate knew. Now, John knew that she knew as well. Eleanor was not shy about name dropping him whenever he made a complaint, and Kate could only laugh as he blubbered incoherently.

“Let’s not be rash,” he tried, backtracking from his earlier words as nervousness began to set in. However, Kate laughed humorlessly. Her patience had effectively run dry, and he was shit out of luck. “Let's talk about this.”

“You can talk about this, Walker,” Kate spat before she slammed the phone back on the receiver, terminating the conference right there.

That was going to get her a call from her mother for sure, but a headache sank its claws into her head and burrowed itself deep. The silence that filled the office was what she needed right now. She let her head fall into her waiting hands, the pressure against her face doing very little to alleviate the increasing pain and discomfort. Kate considered ending her workday right there, the mood to finish anything that she came here to do completely gone. A familiar fatigue was settling into her bones as a weary sigh left her.

“What the fuck,” Kate groaned.

“Long day?”

Kate jumped, sitting up so fast that her head spun. Her eyes widened as she watched you close the door behind yourself and stroll closer to her. She hadn’t heard you enter her office. Kate hadn't known that you were coming over today. Her crystal blue eyes took you in, the alarm draining from her features as she gave you a genuine smile. She stood up to meet you as you got closer.

“Hey there beautiful,” she husked, her eyes taking you in again, but for a different reason entirely.

You knew that look and you smirked, your eyes twinkling at the effect that you were having on your wife. Maybe you were wearing her favorite outfit. Maybe you were wearing one of her expensive dress shirts. Maybe it was the oversized one, the one that was a size too big by design so that it could accommodate her muscular body. Maybe it was the one where the sleeves were currently rolled up to your elbows right now. Maybe it was the one that was a silk, royal purple, and maybe, there was one too many buttons undone just for her. It exposed most of your collarbones and the beginnings of your chest to her gaze, a gaze that was darkening with want and appreciation despite the exhaustion that you could see. You wore a pair of black slacks, the same pair that hugged you tightly enough that Kate could see the body that she fell in love with. Finally, on your feet were a pair of black dress shoes.

Kate loved it when you took her clothing. She loved it when she woke up to you wearing one of her flannels after she made love to you, or when you stole one of her old baggy shirts to wear while cleaning. Something about it made her feel possessive. It made her feel protective of you. Though no one else could know that the clothing you wore sometimes was hers, Kate knew, and that’s all she cared about. You were hers, and when she kissed you, she did so knowing that she was the lucky one in this marriage.

You gave her a smile, kissing her gently on the lips the moment Kate was close enough to you. Her arms wrapped themselves around your body loosely, but underneath the expensive material of her suit, you could feel her muscles ripple with every move. You gave her an expectant look, your previous question still unanswered. Kate cleared her throat and pressed another kiss against the column of your neck.

“I had a nice, riveting conversation with Walker again.”

Sarcasm, and you knew it. It was only noon, a fact that Kate tried hard to not dwell on again. The sun was almost at its highest point in the sky, and Kate was already so stressed. Still, you kissed her again, this time, with more fervor as you savored the taste of her on your lips. She always tasted so good. Like mint and something spiced. Expensive.

“You’re going to kill him one day,” you half joked, knowing that if the opportunity ever presented itself, Kate would more than likely act on it.

“You know where the bail money is.” She paused as she looked at you, truly taking you in, and noticed the bag in your hands. Kate quirked an eyebrow. “What brings you here today?”

You pouted. “I need a reason to come and see you?”

“You know that I will always want to see my wife, beautiful. You are, however, on the opposite side of the city, which means that you had to walk here. And while I know I’m good, I know that you wouldn’t commit to a commute like that unless you needed something, baby.”

Ever observant. That was Kate Bishop. You smiled as you held up the Chinese takeout in the bag. “You are good. I’m here for lunch and it seems like you need a break.”

“Trust me when I say you’re right on time,” Kate replied wholeheartedly. “It’s been a shit show all day.”

You made yourself comfortable beside Kate, her desk long enough to fit you both as you unpacked the food and turned towards her.

“Tell me about it?”

Kate didn’t need another invitation. The moment the words were out of your mouth, Kate was already ranting about her day. You listened attentively, commenting when appropriate but otherwise silent as Kate aired the frustrations of her day. By the time you were caught up, lunch was already finished and the trash disposed of. Now, you sat beside Kate on a spare chair she had in her office and rested your head in your hand.

“I’m sorry that you’re going through all of that, baby girl,” you empathized seriously.

Kate smiled and gave you another kiss on your lips. Her headache dissipated the moment she ate and drank something. Kate hadn’t realized how hungry and dysregulated she was until she finally had the time to slow down and think. You being here with her helped and she rested a strong hand on your thigh. You reveled in the comfort of her warm touch, humming contentedly as you looked into her eyes. The blue housed within them were crystal clear and bright, unlike the stormy blue and gray they were when you first arrived. It made you happy knowing that she was feeling so much better.

“You know that I love you, right?”

Kate beamed, looking every bit like a puppy that just received praise. The hand that was on your thigh slowly slid up, her touch and the pressure behind it tantalizing as you chuckled and nibbled your lower lip.

“I hope you know that I love you too, baby,” she husked.

Her fingertips, feather light and scorching hot through your clothes, painted a teasing trail up your thigh, against your hip, and further up still. Kate caressed you, treasuring you, her hand worshiping you as much as it could, her touches respectful and addicting at the same time. A shiver ran down your spine, the reaction not going unnoticed to your wife as you watched her with anticipation. Her smile turned into a cocky smirk. You were always reactive, a characteristic about you that Kate adored. You were just about to retort, no doubt saying something quick witted and sassy, if she hadn’t chosen that exact moment to wrap her strong hand gently around your throat.

You choked on whatever you were about to say, the words disappearing along with your ability to think.

Kate wasn’t holding you hard. She was as gentle as ever, your safety at the forefront of her mind always. Her hand was secure, the bulk of her palm resting closer to your collarbones so that she didn’t hurt you. Her fingertips rested against the sides of your neck, the pressure of them firm and even. Kate could feel your pulse pick up, the thundering of your blood and the warmth of your skin making her lick her lips hungrily as her gaze flitted between your eyes and mouth. You could feel that small inkling of aroused fuzziness blanket your mind, and you laughed breathlessly as Kate pulled you closer.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” you asked, your voice quiet and breathless with the promise of something sinful.

Kate could see the fire dancing in your eyes. At the same time, they grew darker as your pupils expanded. You watched her raptly, your teeth sinking deeper into the soft, fleshy part of your lip. Kate’s nostrils flared, something inside of her snapping as she suddenly surged forward and pressed a hungry kiss against you.

You knew what you were doing. Biting your lip in front of Kate was teasing her with something she wished to do herself, and you were excited to hear her grunt and her teeth bite gently into your lower lip. It was fun to rile her up, to tease her, to make her so frustrated that you could see her eyes darken more with frustration.

“I’m already having a frustrating day, baby girl,” Kate growled before she pressed another hungry kiss against your lips. “You’re really going to frustrate me more?”

You giggled and kissed her back, nipping her lips in return. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Kate smirked. You were being coy, and as much as she loved your brattish tendencies, she was a little beyond humoring you today. She stood up slowly, her hand around your neck guiding you to do the same. Your lips parted slowly as you watched Kate’s muscles ripple within her forearm.

You were always addicted to her strength. Kate was strong and had been so since she was a teen. Years of sports and karate would do that to someone, and you regularly took advantage of it by goading Kate into manipulating your body in any way that she liked while she fucked the life out of you. You loved it when she pinned you down. You loved the feeling of being trapped. You loved it even more when Kate was the one to do it.

Kate Bishop was a beautiful woman, and you loved her body in its entirety. You loved all the parts that were soft, all the places on her body that were sensitive and tender. Those were the same places that needed to be worshipped with soft caresses and gentle kisses. You adored all the places that radiated strength, the parts of her that strengthened when she flexed. Those were the places that you loved to sink your teeth into, to run your nails on, to carve your love into her and sooth it all with a kiss afterwards.

It was why Kate was having this effect on you. Your smirk weakened as she kicked away both chairs and led you backwards until your ass pressed against her wooden desk. Your hands shot out behind you to press against the sturdy surface in an attempt to steady yourself. Her leg slipped in between yours, the muscle pressing against your core. Heat against heat. And you couldn’t stop the small hiss of breath that passed between clenched teeth. You shuddered, your eyes fluttering when the pressure of her flexing muscle caused your clit to pulse. Her free hand grabbed you by the hip and held you steady to her. Even through your slacks, her touch was scorching. It burned in all the right ways, your body and soul drawn to her and only her. You swallowed the developing dryness in your throat and released another shaky breath. You could feel the way your underwear pressed against your heat, could feel the way your molten desire smudged and soaked into the cotton. It was embarrassing just how fast Kate could turn you on, and when her harsh laughter filled your ears, you knew that she could feel your body’s reactions through your shared clothing.

“You’re so beautiful,” Kate breathed as she pressed more kisses, sloppier now, against you. “My gorgeous, little slut.”

You released an unsteady breath you hadn’t known that you were holding, your eyes finally slipping shut as bliss and ecstasy coursed through your veins. Kate was smiling, her straight, white teeth glinting in the sunlight. You were gone, already in a headspace that only she could put you in. She had never seen you so relaxed, pliant, and receptive, and Kate nosed her way passed the opening of your shirt to press more kisses against the soft, exposed skin there. Her hand, the one on your hip, began to caress its way to the button on your slacks. One of your own moved away from the desk, your fingers tangling into Kate’s long, dark, and wavy tresses. The moment you used her to hold yourself steady, you urged her on. Some desperateness bled into your movements, and if you were able to think straight, you’d have the decency to be a little embarrassed. Kate chuckled throatily, the sound the biggest turn on of your life, and it was your only warning before you felt teeth sink into the supple skin of your upper chest.

You gasped, your head falling back while Kate’s grip around your neck tightened. Her teeth never breached past skin, but it hurt deliciously. Ached delightfully. Stung sinfully. Kate could feel the warmth of your blood rushing to collect just under the surface of skin, satisfaction blooming in her chest when she felt her mark form. Her thigh was rocking into your center, and you released another heavy breath that puffed right past Kate’s ear. Kate kept going, her cheeks hollowing and her tongue laving against you earnestly as the bruise turned a slight shade darker.

Good luck covering this one with concealer.

“A-Are we really doing this right here?” you asked shakily, and Kate pulled away to look at you, her lips parting from your body with a soft smack.

The mark glistened with Kate’s spit, the teeth marks fading slowly but the deep crimson of the hickey settling itself on you. She raised an eyebrow, her smirk wide and her expression knowing as she regarded you lightly and with mirth. This wasn’t the first time that she’s had sex with you inside of her office. There had been enough quickies in here to put a high school bathroom to shame. Fingers, lips, tongue. Giving. Receiving. It didn’t matter. The desk, the walls, the chairs, and everything else in between were christened thoroughly, and the look on Kate’s face was enough of an answer.

Something about this didn’t feel rushed. It was why you felt the need to ask. Kate went out of her way to leave a bruising mark on your skin. Normally, she did just enough to have you coming in her hold, before she kissed you and sent you off with the promise of more when she got home later in the day. You weren’t asking because it wasn’t obvious. You were asking because you wanted to know just how far she was willing to take this. How much was she willing to risk in a building full of people? Just because Eleanor wasn’t the CEO anymore didn’t mean that she didn’t have any pull within the company. She was not above firing her own daughter, and while you and Kate could be discreet, someone would know what was going on when you were in here longer than usual.

“With your permission, baby, of course I want to do this.”

You thought about it, your arms shaking with lust and the effort needed to hold yourself up as Kate sucked another mark onto your skin. She was meticulous, thorough. She was tasting you like she was starving, her tongue threatening to make your eyes roll when you imagined it on other parts of your body. As much as you wanted Kate to do anything and everything to you, something else made you hesitate. An idea, small and devious, breathed to life, and you knew that Kate wouldn’t appreciate this at all. At the same time, this was worth whatever retaliation that she’d concoct, and before you could really think it through, you flipped her around.

Kate flinched when you gently guided her to lean against the desk, her body occupying the space you once had, as her eyes widened at the sudden change in positions. She was just about to say something, her hands grabbing your hips, but you kissed her before that could happen, before she could ask or say anything that would give away what you were about to do.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered against her lips. You cupped her cheek and kissed her again, this time, deeper.

You angled her head to deepen it, to let your tongue steal tastes of her. Kate whimpered, actually whimpered against you, her eyes fluttering shut while she nodded her consent. You let your lips wander, your kisses getting messier and sloppier as you explored her skin like the countless times you’ve done before. You’ve mapped out every scar, every freckle, every mark, and loved them all the same. You’ve buried your teeth into her, the ghost of your heated breaths still making goosebumps appear on her flesh every time you were intimate. Every part of Kate Bishop was perfect to you. There was nothing about her that was undeserving of love and reverence. Every time you kissed her, you did so with admiration in your gaze and with deference in every touch.

You held her tightly, confidently, your movements sure and precise as saliva slicked her skin and yours. You unbuttoned her shirt, allowed the cotton to slip down perfect skin to bunch around her arms. Kate let her head fall back, her breaths deepening as you continued to press more messy kisses down her body. You wanted her naked. You wanted to undress her desperately and touch her in every way that would make you happy and lucky to have her, but you didn’t have the time, and this wasn’t the place. You briefly lamented in the loss, but kept going, your hands untucking her undershirt and reaching for her belt. You caressed her, encouraged by the sounds of Kate’s deepening breaths. You could feel the way her abs twitched as you pushed the shirt out of the way and kissed them. The muscles coiled under your touch, the skin warming as you dragged your tongue over them.

Kate released a quiet and breathy sigh, her hand reaching up to rest on your head as you sank to your knees. She didn’t do it to guide you, or to take control of you. It was to ground herself with the feel of your body. The warmth of your hair soaked into her palm, and a blissed smile overtook her features as she began to gently scratch your scalp with her short fingernails. Your hands undid her belt, the expensive leather loosening as you grabbed her slacks and pulled them down. The same thigh that was once pressed against your core flexed under your touch. You pressed another kiss against her, reveling in the way Kate was struggling to remain quiet.

You loved moments like these. When things weren’t rushed or desperate, where you could take your time and touch Kate with devotion. You loved to worship her, to let her know just how beautiful and handsome she truly was. You switched between her legs, sucking marks of your own onto her. These were special, placed only in spots that you and Kate would be able to see, like a shared secret. Your teeth sank into quivering muscle before your cheeks hollowed, and your tongue flattened. Kate’s jaw clenched, a slight breathy sigh leaving her as the grip on her desk and the one in her hair tightened. You smiled, your tongue laving over the tender area as you gazed at her lovingly.

“You’re so gorgeous,” you praised. Kate blushed, a fine dusting of pink coloring her cheeks while her fingers carded through your hair gently.

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. Her smile was reward enough. It was dopey and lopsided, showcasing teeth so radiant that based on looks alone, you would have assumed that Kate was a goddess. But you were done with your teasing. You could smell her, could smell just how wet she was for you. You inhaled softly, the musk of her desire making your mouth water. There was already a sizable wet patch staining her boy shorts. Your hands massaged her thighs as you hummed.

“Look how wet you are for me, baby” you purred, and Kate nodded as she widened her legs.

“Only for you.”

You nodded, agreeing with her. Not out of cockiness, but from a place of appreciation. It was an appreciation for the way Kate trusted you to see her like this. She was utterly wrecked, open, and vulnerable. In a world where openness and vulnerability were vilified, it was hard for Kate to let people in, to be open in the presence of power and bureaucracy. But you? You were different. Of course you wouldn’t be the people Kate had to interact with on a daily basis. You were so much more. You were her wife, her partner, the person she bared her soul to, the one she married. The one she loved irrevocably. The one she would end the world for if you so much as asked. You were the one that challenged her to look outside of her upbringing, past the grief and pain of loss and death. Without you, Kate would never know true love. Even in this way, she was lucky. It was already a blessing to be the one to make you orgasm so hard that you’d see stars, but to be on the receiving end of your reverence, of your desire?

Sometimes, it really did take her breath away. Just like now, when Kate felt your tongue press against her core. It was over her underwear, but that didn’t stop the soft and quiet moan that fell from her lips. The taste of her caused you to sigh, your hands gripping her thighs tighter as the little wetness you licked coated your tongue.

“Fuck…” you breathed, your eyes fluttering as you savored her.

It was all her. All Kate Bishop. A taste that could never be fully described, but one you still knew intimately. It was overwhelming in the best way as you rested your head on her thigh. Kate laughed breathlessly.

“Even when in control, you’re still such a bottom.”

You smirked because that wasn’t the issue. In any situation, no matter what, you would always be Kate’s bottom. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that you were rapidly losing control over yourself. The heated breaths tearing through parted lips had nothing to do with your rising heart rate. The tips of your fingers gripped her until something inside of you snapped. Your head snapped up, your hungry gaze meeting her blown eyes as a hand fisted her underwear and yanked them down and remove them. Your other hand wrapped around her thigh to throw her leg over your shoulder.

Kate didn’t even have a chance to take a breath.

Your tongue split her open, the muscle flat and firm as it parted through sopping flesh. Fuck! She coated you in desire immediately, the warmth of her wetness smudging on your chin, cheeks, tongue, and the tip of your nose. You swallowed her down greedily, moaning as well as you continued to pleasure her.

“You’re so fucking wet, Katie.”

Kate couldn’t answer. She only nodded rapidly, her grip in your hair tightening as you dove back into her. Despite eating her like a woman starved, you continued to take your time, your tongue not caressing any of the places that Kate needed it to. Still, when you sank into her center, Kate’s eyes threatened to roll into the back of her head as she clenched her jaw. You went on like that, licking, sucking, and tasting all of her, but not giving her the pleasure she truly needed to satisfy the growing ache in between her legs. It didn’t stop her from getting wetter, that’s for sure. The sounds, besides your shared, heavy breathing, were obscene and criminal. Wet squelches began to fill the air, every pass of your tongue against her body more sinful than the last.

Kate’s chest heaved and she let her head tip back until the full expanse of her flushed throat was exposed.

“Please, baby. Please. Don’t tease me.”

You looked at her, the sounds of her begging like music to your ears. From between her legs and with your mouth buried deep into her molten center, you took in the blissed expression on her face. You looked at the cute furrow of her eyebrows. You took in the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed thickly, the muscles within her neck working fluidly with every movement. Her mouth opened and closed, torn between succumbing to the pleasure and risking her reputation, or staying silent and in control.

You were going to make that decision for her when you readjusted her body to move the flat expanse of your tongue against her clit.

You felt it pulse, the thump of blood and the rush of heat through it calling out to you like a siren, and Kate’s thighs tensed the moment you suckled on it. Despite trying to hold it back, a small moan fell through parted lips.

“Oh my god, baby. Yes.”

You hummed your affirmation, the vibrations striking through her like a bolt of lightning. She arched her back in pleasure, her fingers now wicking through your hair to guide you as she pulled you closer. You started with gentle sucks, pulling her clit tenderly past your lips to shower it with steady licks. Then, you let it go to swirl your tongue around it steadily. That was the one. Kate’s breath hitched the moment she felt your tongue swirl against her expertly, the muscle causing her thighs to clench and her abs to flex as she fought to keep quiet.

You smirked knowing that if you were home, Kate would be a moaning mess. She tended to be a bit more vocal than you, so you knew that what you were doing to her now certainly wasn’t helping. Kate’s hips began to rock against your face, and you teased her pussy with your fingers. Swiping through the mess you were making of her, you started off easy with two, just to make sure that she was safe and comfortable. You pulled away, syrupy strings of her desire connecting you to her as you panted, your eyes not leaving hers once as you put those two fingers in your mouth. With quick swipes of your tongue, you coated them in a mixture of saliva and arousal, lubing them thoroughly before removing them from your mouth. Gently, you eased yourself inside Kate.

She moaned again, gutturally, deeply, the volume increasing slightly as you curled your fingers just right. You pressed against her, your fingers finding that perfect spot with practiced precision before pulling out and fucking them back into her. Kate panted, her core sucking you in gluttonously, like her body couldn’t get enough. The warm heat of her trembling body enveloped you, clenching, her come squelching, dripping onto you. The sight alone made your mouth water profusely. You ached for another taste of her, to drink Kate down until all you could think of was her.

But not yet.

She was clenching around you harder now, a sheen of sweat blossoming to life over her flawless skin. Kate was gasping, her pathetic attempt at swallowing her moans making her somehow louder than if she didn’t hold herself back. You slowed your movements but didn’t stop. A teasing smile, one still covered in her, shiny and slick, spread across your cheeks.

“Be quiet, babes. As much as I love the way that you sound, everyone in the building is still here.”

Kate grunted before she nodded profusely. She licked her lips, the tip of her pink tongue polishing kiss swollen flesh before she clenched her jaw shut. You kissed her inner thigh, both a tease and a reward, before you went back to fucking her with your hand. Most of Kate’s body was supported by the desk. One of her legs remain resting on your shoulder. Your other hand made sure to hold her other leg open for you, so that you could have unrestrained access to her.

“You’re so beautiful like this, Kate,” you whispered, utterly enthralled by the look and feel of her body in your hold. “Fuck.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore, your teasing even grating against your own patience when you leaned forward. Immediately, your tongue pressed against her clit, the pressure firm and torturous. Kate’s reaction was to bite her tongue. Her sharp molars threatened to slice the muscle, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care when she felt you drag your tongue against her. She didn’t care when you suckled her clit into your mouth, and she certainly didn’t care when you trapped the bundle of nerves in between soft and plump lips, just to secure her in place, before you swirled your tongue in perfect circles over it.

Kate was wrecked.

Nails dug into polished wood. Her thighs began to shake. Trembling and unsteady breaths exited her through flared nostrils. You knew that she was about to come. Having learned her tells intimately, you knew that she could feel the growing heat and pressure of her mounting ecstasy. You knew with the way her back arched so slightly, with the way her abs flexed and relaxed with every laborious breath. You knew with the way her hips were grinding into your face, the way her desire was now dripping down your chin and neck. You struggled to swallow it all, not wanting any of it to go to waste. Kate let her head tip back, her long hair swaying with the movements of her body. Her throat was exposed, the muscles and flesh moving and bobbing with every desperate gulp of air.

Kate was so close.

Between the obscene sounds of her juices, the way her pussy clenched around your fingers, and the way more and more blood was rushing to her clit, Kate was surely going to fall over the edge. Small pants, ones that choked back the full force of her moans, did little to compete against the sounds emanating between her spread legs. Just a little more. Another sure curl of your fingers. Another sinful swirl of your tongue…just another second.

And then the phone rang.

Harsh. Dissonant. Loud. It completely shattered the lustful atmosphere that you and Kate cocooned yourself in, and Kate? She swore. The expletive the final swing of the executioner's sword on this moment. Nothing about it was hot. It clearly held every molecule of frustration that Kate felt.

“Keep going, please,” she rushed out. “I was almost there.”

You looked at her, your smile now transforming into a smirk. This was all a part of your plan. It was mean. It was so, so mean, but this couldn’t have worked out better even if you planned on being interrupted. To edge Kate, to see and hear the frustration and slight anger in her voice, it excited you. It meant that she was going to take that frustration out on you in the most delicious way. It meant that you would be at her mercy, and that was the only true way to get Kate Bishop to relax. She needed to fuck the anger, and irritation, and frustration out of her system.

And you did love being her stress outlet.

So, you leaned forward, pressing a gentle and loving kiss against her clit. You enjoyed the brief flash of hope, of appreciation, before you squashed it completely by removing your fingers and standing up.

“Sorry, baby,” you began before you sucked your fingers into your mouth. You made a show of it, savoring her, sighing contentedly as you cleaned yourself up. You removed your fingers when you could taste nothing but your own saliva, and they left your mouth with a lewd, wet pop. “I know that’s your mother.”

Realization, and the slightest notes of betrayal, darkened her eyes and made her mouth drop. You eased her underwear back up into place, fixing them with soft touches and more presses of your sticky lips against her sweaty thighs.

“Are you being serious?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, doing nothing but smudging the residual traces of her slick across flushed skin, before you leaned passed her to press a button on her phone. Immediately, the call went to speaker, a voice cutting through the audio.

“Katherine. Elizabeth. Bishop!”

Oooof. That was going to be a tough phone call.

“Why is Walker bitching to me on the other line???” Eleanor demanded.

You took that as your cue, kissing Kate’s slacked lips as you gathered your things and made your way towards the door. Kate stared at you, her expression full of disbelief as you blew her another kiss and whispered to her that you loved her. You closed the door to her office with finality, opening it just enough to slip out so that her workers wouldn’t get a good look at her disheveled state. Kate continued to stare, the thump of her blood and the aching pulse of dissatisfaction between her legs stunning her. It wasn’t until her mother snapped, her daughter’s silence and Walker’s complaints pushing her over the edge of patience, that Kate blinked back to reality.

“Kate!”

Kate released a slow breath before she bent over to grab her pants and put them back on. She reached to her office phone, transferred the call to her personal cell and grabbed her keys.

“What are you doing?” Eleanor demanded when she heard the jingle of metal and the sounds of movement through the receiver.

“I need to make a pit stop home,” was all she said, her voice flat.

Eleanor couldn’t see the color of tumultuous blue overtake her daughter’s eyes. She couldn’t see the way Kate clenched her fist around her keys, the sharpened points of metal digging painfully into calloused skin. Kate was a woman on a mission. After the day she had, there was no way that she was going to let that go.

She didn’t bother with fixing her appearance. Kate left the building as she was. When she reached her car in the garage, she turned it on and peeled out of the parking spot, the sharp squeal of rubber on cement echoing vociferously in the air. She shifted gears fluidly, her feet switching between the gas and clutch as she raced home.

Kate already knew what she was going to do. She patched the call through her sports car as she drove.

“Walker is about to be shit out of luck if he doesn’t stop,” she spat as she weaved through traffic.

+++

You knew the text for what it was: a trap. You parked your car next to hers before taking out your phone and rereading her message again. Kate sent it to you over an hour ago, asking for you to come back to her office at the end of the day. There wasn’t an “I love you”. She didn’t add any emojis. It was just that one simple message. Short, sweet, and to the point.

And you knew that when you walked into her office, you would be entering the lion’s den.

You ran home and showered, washing off the weight of the workday before returning to Kate. You still opted to wear the same clothes, but you changed your undergarments to freshen up altogether. Now, you were sitting in the car, your heart thundering in your chest from either nervousness or excitement. You couldn’t figure it out as you pocketed your phone.

When you entered the building, the first thing you noticed was that it was empty. You looked around, and not a single soul was in sight. Not even the nightly patrol guards. You could drop a pin right now, and it would be the loudest object in the hallway. If it weren’t for the fact that you knew Kate was here, this would be eerie and creepy as hell. You’ve never seen the building this empty, especially not in the evening or at night. The sun was descending below the horizon, notes of orange and pink dusting the sky as it transitioned from day to night. You immediately beelined for the elevator, taking it to the top floor and entering Kate’s office with little hesitation.

She sat there, her eyes focused as she typed, her upper body barely visible behind the computer screen she worked behind. Though her eyes didn’t look up from her task, a bright smile did illuminate her face.

“Hey, honey. Glad that you’re able to make it.”

You hesitated, a look of suspicion twisting your features as you took the few steps needed to reach her side. This wasn’t the reaction you were expecting to receive for your earlier antics. Kate hated to be edged. Actually, correction. Kate hated to be edged if it meant she didn’t receive her gratification immediately afterwards. She told you that the ache and the need messed with her ability to concentrate on work, and what you did was stack more frustration on top of what she already felt from earlier in her day. You would have thought that Kate would be livid right now. Instead, she greeted you calmly…suspiciously calm…and you looked at her with a knowing expression. Not everything was what it seemed.

The closer you got to your wife, the more you noticed that she showered too. You could see it mostly in her hair. It looked softer, like she washed it and let it air dry. The waves cascaded neatly down her back, a feat that still made you jealous of her to this day. Your hair could never. Kate was also in a suit, a different one from earlier in the day. It was darker, almost a chestnut color, with small, thin, white stripes running down the length of her pants and suit jacket. Underneath, she wore a white, pressed dress shirt and a black and white polka dot tie. It was an antiquated look, but a look that suit her perfectly. You could smell her cologne. Expensive and spiced, like aged wood and liquor.

“Are you okay?” you asked her slowly, taking in the report she was typing and her relaxed features.

“I’m fine,” she answered, and you could hear the honesty in her voice. “I have one more meeting and then I’m hoping that we can spend some time together.”

You laughed, the shaking in your chest caught between incredulousness and nervousness.

“So you’re not mad?”

Kate smiled, as smooth and sweet as honey. “No baby. I’m hoping that you wouldn’t mind sticking around for the meeting though.”

“No, of course not.”

Kate finished her report, sent it off to where it needed to go, before pushing away from her desk. Her legs were spread, the material of her pants bunched around her hips and upper thighs. You were none the wiser to anything going on, though your defenses weren’t a hundred percent lowered. You would admit that you weren’t prepared for what was going to happen next.

“There’s just one more thing that I need for you to do for me, if that’s okay?”

You nodded and watched as she stood up. Her hands went to her belt, and you smirked, assuming that she’d want to pick up from where you both left off at lunch.

You couldn’t be any more wrong.

When Kate’s pants dropped, you were greeted with something that made your breath hitch. She was packing, a strap already secured around her hips. The harness, a black jock strap with a small pride flag embroidered closer to her upper hip, was fastened and secured to her body. What made you gulp nervously, however, was the sight of the dildo. It was a gradient purple. Not surprising for Kate. But it was thick. Perhaps too thick in comparison to anything you’ve taken in the past. It was girthy, at least the width of four of Kate’s strong fingers, and it was round. The toy itself was shaped, vaguely, like a penis, but it was smooth all around. It had no defining characteristics to give it a realistic look. No. The head of it was bulbous, and resting on the top were two humps, back to back. The first hump, near the head, was smaller than the second, which sat closer to Kate.

You watched with widening eyes as Kate removed her suit jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. Then, she undid the buttons to the cuffs of her dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up to her elbows to ensure they stayed out of her way. You watched as her hand wrapped around the toy to stroke it up and down. The silicone was soft and malleable. Kate wasn’t fisting it hard to make it move in the way that she wanted, but what caught your attention was that she could barely and comfortably wrap her entire hand around it. Only her middle and ring fingers were touching her thumb with every lazy pass of her fist. That’s it. You tried to swallow the developing nervous pit in your throat with little luck.

“I thought-” you began, but your voice failed you when Kate motioned you towards her with the crook of her finger. “I thought that you weren’t mad?”

“I’m not,” she answered with a sly smile. “I don’t need to be mad at you to want to get even.”

Touché. You approached her with faltering steps, and the moment that you were close enough, Kate took your hand.

“Baby, I don’t think that’s going to fit inside of me,” you confessed nervously.

Up close, it was much, much thicker. You wondered where Kate could have found such a dildo outside of a gag gift store. Kate chuckled, the sound teetering on the edge of harsh as she looked at you and took her seat back in her chair.

“Don’t you worry about that, baby girl. It’s my job to make it fit. But we’re getting too ahead of ourselves.”

She sat back in her chair, making herself comfortable as you stood in between her spread legs. Her hands went to her shirt and unbuttoned the garment until you saw nothing but abs and her sports bra. She took off the tie and flung it to the side carelessly, but she didn’t make any moves to remove anything else. Kate let it hang open as she looked at you expectantly.

In this moment, Kate had never looked so fucking good. She leaned to the side and rested her chin in her open hand. She was the picture of unrestrained masculinity as her smirk settled into something confident. Her chest rose and fell lightly, her body at ease as the strap she donned sat intimidatingly between her legs. Though you’ve never taken a toy this size, you were always ready for a challenge. Already, you could feel yourself growing wet at the prospect of sitting on her lap. You set down your keys, and unbuttoned your own shirt, matching her state of undress as your free hand undid your slacks.

“What do you want me to do?” you asked.

Kate’s smirk widened. “I want you to get on your knees and suck me off. Think you can handle that?”

You didn’t answer her. You didn’t have to. You followed her directions, seamlessly slipping onto your knees in between her legs. Your hand wrapped around the dildo, and to your surprise, it was softer than what its size would suggest. The silicone was pliable, the material easily conforming and changing under your grip. It brought you more comfort knowing that it felt real. There was nothing more uncomfortable and off putting than getting fucked by something that felt like a foreign object. It easily bent under the force of your strength, but its malleability did little to quell the nervousness you felt about its size. You were lucky if you’d be able to swallow anything past the head, and you gave Kate a pointed stare. She looked at you, her gaze soft and patient as she carded her fingers through your hair.

“We’ll go your pace. As always.”

That made you smile. One thing that you loved about Kate was that she always made you feel safe. Her words settled something in you, put you at ease. Never once has she forced you to do something you’ve never wanted to do. To hear the verbal reassurance that you were safe with her, always made the love you feel for her throb in your chest. You leaned forward to place an all-consuming kiss on her lips before pulling away. Then, you kept eye contact with your wife as you leaned forward and placed a sloppy kiss on the head of her cock. Kate sighed, the view of you sucking her off more erotic than she was prepared for it to be.

Starting off slow, you wrapped your lips around the head, your tongue swirling around it as the taste of clean silicone filled your mouth. It was big, your jaw already struggling to accommodate it, but you relaxed. Your head bobbed up and down as you worked on taking more. Kate sat there, her breaths growing deeper as she watched you move your mouth and hand in tandem. You were doing so well, the soft swallowing noises, the slurps, and the choking sounds you were making were like music to her ears. Eventually, she watched you pull away, your swollen lips coated in your own shiny spit. Kate watched as you closed your mouth and worked your jaw. You swirled your tongue, gathering a glob of saliva that you spat on her cock, the fluid dribbling down the silicone until you wrapped your hand around it and spread it around. Every pass of your fist, and every wet squelch that you made, made Kate’s toes curl, her nostrils flaring as she fought to control herself.

She watched you, her eyes focusing, but no words passing through clenched lips as you took the toy back into your mouth and swallow as much as you could. You gagged, and then slurped, your hand meeting you in the middle as you bobbed your head up and down. You could smell Kate’s arousal, and assumed it was from earlier today when you edged her. However, when you moved your mouth up, your hand following in the same direction, it forced the dildo to shift in Kate’s harness. That’s when a few things happened all at once. First, Kate moaned. Unrestricted and guttural, her head falling back as her hips rose off the chair. Second, when the dildo shifted in your grip, you heard it. It was faint but unmistakable. The wet squelch of Kate’s sopping pussy. You paused, your eyes widening when you realized that the dildo was double ended, and that every move you made could be felt by her. You wouldn’t be able to see it, unless Kate really made a mess of herself, but you could hear it and smell it. That was enough for a devious smile to spread across your lips.

“I see why I’m down here now,” you husked before licking the underside of her cock.

Kate squirmed but she rose a flawless eyebrow. “This is for your benefit, sweetheart, not mine. At least, not yet. I plan on coming as deep inside of you as I can.”

You looked at her, the question written all over your face. If you weren’t doing this to make Kate come in your mouth, then why were you doing this at all? She answered you wordlessly, helping you to your feet and helping you undress completely. She was soft with her touches. Gentle. Tender. Reverent. Every part of you that was exposed to her, she kissed until it was just you. Just skin. Just your body. Just the amazing woman that she fell in love with. Her hands rested on your hips as she drank you in, her eyes wide and dark with want and lust.

“Gorgeous,” she breathed before she turned you around and away from her.

You knew what was coming next, and Kate was gentle and loving with you all the same. She parted your legs as you sat down, her hand holding the spit slicked dildo steady as she guided it towards your entrance. You could feel its softness against your center, the silicone cool while the growing, heated ache of being turned on beat in time with your heart. It scorched you from the inside out. Kate didn’t force you down. She waited, her lips pressing kisses against your sensitive back to ground you.

“Are you ready?”

You nodded, inhaling a deep breath as she guided you down. The head of her cock was fat, the tip of it catching against your entrance as Kate gently eased her way in. The toy gave way to the shape of your body easily, your core immediately clenching around it. The stretch was instantaneous, the delicious burn of it forcing a broken moan from you.

“Oh, god,” you whimpered as one inch, then two, then three, sank into your body.

You were stretched so wide open that it almost, almost, hurt, the intrusion making your eyes roll to the back of your head. It became apparent what those two humps were for, the ones that sat on top of the dildo. As more glorious inches sank into you, they pressed against your g-spot, and your pussy fluttered against the pressure they exerted within you. The head was buried deep, deep enough to cause another hungry ache to breathe to life inside of you. It consumed you, your body a slave to the feeling, and you found it hard to let the full weight of your body rest on Kate’s thighs. Not because you were scared that you were crushing her. Not because you were in pain, but because the pleasure was already so intense, already so overwhelming, that you couldn’t keep still, and Kate wasn’t even moving inside of you yet.

“Relax, baby,” Kate encouraged, her hands reaching around your body to play with your nipples.

The moment her fingers closed around them, you clenched around her again, another hitched breath getting caught in your chest. Heat and more want blanketed your body from the front, every gentle tweak of your nipple sending a pull of arousal straight to your core. The movement served its purpose when you truly leaned back against Kate, the weight of your back pressing flush against her bra and abs.

“That’s it,” she cooed. “That’s my girl.”

Kate rolled her hips experimentally, and you grabbed at her wrists. To pull her closer or push her away, you didn’t know. What you did know was that your brain short circuited the moment you felt her cock sink into you even further. It reached into places that have never been touched before, and it fucked against several spots of aching and deep pleasure inside of you. It hit them all at once, all simultaneously, and you couldn’t stop the gasp that fell from you. Kate smirked as she continued to play with your nipples. You were about to say something, but the ring of her office phone interrupted you.

“Here is what’s about to happen,” Kate said with clear authority in her voice. “You’re going to sit here and not say a word while I have this meeting. Do not move. Don’t you even so much as twitch. I have business to take care of, and once I’m done, you’ll have my undivided attention.”

A meeting? Fuck. This was a bad idea, and you were just about to stand up.

“Baby, I don’t think that’s a good idea-”

You got maybe an inch off her cock when you felt her hands grab your hips and force you back down. It sank back into you easily with the help of your dripping arousal. You coated the toy in no time at all, a ring of creamy white already forming around the base. You choked on your spit, the pleasure licking up your spine with a deadly amount of heat and electricity. Full. You felt so, so fucking full. It split you open, no part of you left untouched.

“I said no moving,” Kate reiterated with a wide smile on her face. She was enjoying this a little too much. “You can be my good little slut and be quiet, can you?”

“W-Who-” you tried, only to be interrupted by another lazy roll of Kate’s hips. You hissed, your hands grabbing blindly at whatever as you fought to ground yourself. “Who’s this meeting with?”

“Walker.”

Walker? John Walker??? Oh...

+++

You knew that cock warming Kate would be no easy task, but what you failed to take into account was that she had no intentions of making this even feasible for you.

This was the pay back that you were waiting for, and tears were streaming down your cheeks. An hour had passed. What Kate and Walker were talking about, you wouldn’t know, having lost your concentration after ten minutes. At first, you were determined to win this. You’ve done this before, having sat through more tedious conferences many times over, but your body was too overwhelmed by the toy that was buried deep into you. Kate would shift her hips, her body rearranging itself in her seat to find another comfortable position. How could something so small be such hell for you? Every shift of her body, and every breath that she took, pressed the humps of the toy against you. It didn’t take long for the whimpering to start. The first time it happened, you felt Kate pinch your nipple harshly, a torturous reminder for you to be quiet. You swallowed it all back, determined to see this to the end, but that was until you felt Kate’s free hand move towards your clit. You were already hanging on by a thread, but this was too much. You would have moaned, loudly, if Kate hadn’t anticipated it. The hand on your breast flew up to your mouth, and the next thing you knew, three of her fingers were a makeshift gag for you.

“Easy,” she whispered to you, just loud enough to be heard over Walker’s irritating voice.

She pressed the pads of her fingers against your tongue, and you focused on them, on literally anything else besides the roaring ache of fullness in between your legs. You thought that she wouldn’t do anything else, but, again, you were wrong. Her finger kept circling against your clit, your legs beginning to shake when you realized that the pressure was just enough to make you feel it, but not enough to bring you relief.

Kate went on like that for an hour. She never gave you any reprieve. The moment she felt your legs began to close, she used her own to open them back up and resume her teasing. Tears had stained your cheeks a while ago, salty tracks of wetness against splotchy cheeks made Kate smile as her mouth went back to the curve of your neck. She already sucked several bruising marks into your skin, the skin sensitive and raw with every pass of her tongue. They were deeper and darker than the ones that she left on your chest earlier today, and they ached in the same way that your pussy ached. The pain and the pleasure swirled around each other, a delicate dance of sensation that had you on the verge of leaning forward to end the call if that meant that you would get some relief right now.

Kate’s lap was an utter mess. You couldn’t tell if the fluid oozing out of you was come from orgasms you weren’t sure you were having, or if it was continuous arousal from Kate’s copious amounts of teasing. The line blurred forever ago, and based on the way your body was teetering on a precarious edge, you were inclined to believe the latter. An orgasm from this toy was going to make or break you, and you weren’t sure which would happen until it did.

“So, are we in agreement then?” Kate confirmed while another wet and sinful pass of her fingers against your bundle of nerves weakly filled the air.

She was kissing your tears away, her lips whispering words of encouragement and praise to you that only you could hear. And that was generous considering the loud rush of blood in your ears.

You squeezed her hand as you sucked on her fingers, the wet sensation between your legs increasing the more you leaked all over your wife. Your throat was covered in spit and marks. Your core shined and glimmered under the layer of arousal that clung to you like a second skin.

“Yes,” Walker answered begrudgingly.

Kate explained the situation to her mother. She told her how exactly Walker overstepped, and how his day almost ended with bankruptcy and a company about to go under. Once Eleanor learned of the specifics, she praised Kate for a job well done, a rare moment of congratulations for how Kate handled things, and told Walker that maybe he should watch his mouth before disrespecting the person that held him literally by the balls. It was what led to this phone call, John Walker’s version of a PR clean up.

If she had to be honest, Kate truly didn’t care for this. She easily could have rescheduled it for another day, but she didn’t want to pass up a chance at getting even with you. You were soaking her. Even without thrusting, she could feel how hard you were clenching around her. Your clit was engorged, the organ a pulsing red by now. The fact that you lasted this long was nothing short of spectacular. If the roles were reversed, she would have started fucking you with Walker on the line. Absolutely no fucks given. Kate held you closer, reassuring you as more tears of ache and want spilled down your cheeks.

“Excellent. As always, I do enjoy our little chats.” No, she didn’t. If you weren’t in this predicament, you would have scoffed at her blatant lie. “I’ll talk to you at the next conference.”

Kate didn’t let him answer. She reached passed you, your bodies shifting as she leaned forward. It forced the silicone to press against your upper wall, the muscles already tense with mounting energy that begged to be released. It forced you to squeeze your eyes closed, before she pressed on the button that ended the call. The moment there was silence, you sniffled, some of the tension bleeding from your body as you inhaled a shaky breath.

“Katie,” you began, your voice raw and your throat thick from swallowing down your sobs. “Please, baby. Please! Please!”

“It’s okay,” she cooed, genuinely wanting to soothe the ache within you.

She eased you up and moved you forward, your body still facing away from her and towards her desk. It became clear what she was about to do, and you let her bend you over the mahogany. The cool press of wood was a blessing against your scorching skin, but it wasn’t the relief that you were looking for. Salvation of that kind came from the woman behind you, the one that held your hips with strong hands.

“I have you, baby girl. Let me do the rest.”

You nodded, your lip worrying between your teeth. Kate didn’t ease you into things. She pulled out, simple as that, the pass of silicone against your sensitive walls making you hiss at the sensation. Without warning, she slammed back in, her hips pressing flush against yours as she buried the toy deep into you. You gasped, your back arching when an orgasm immediately ripped through you. There was no build up, no warning. Just the sudden feeling of falling over the edge as a broken moan filled the office. Kate didn’t stop. She wasn’t going to stop. She fucked you through your first orgasm of the night, the filthy wet sounds of your sopping pussy filling her office with sin and sex. Though it was sudden, your climax was intense. Your hand shot out to grab at Kate’s desk, and in doing so, knocked something off that clattered loudly on the floor. Every second that Kate edged you lit up your nerves like a 4th of July parade. A mixture of grunts and moans filled the air while another gush of your wetness spilled from between your legs. Kate’s hands caressed every inch of you, her skin grounding against yours.

“Fuck, gorgeous. That’s it,” Kate groaned. “You’re so beautiful when you come on my cock.”

The energy threatened to drown you alive, the texture of the dildo rubbing everything with such intensity that you couldn’t make a sound. Despite your lack of noise, the evidence of your pleasure was painted between the space you shared with Kate. You made a mess of her, your juices soaking into the harness. Wet slaps of skin against skin filled the air, every press of hips against yours smudging your gooey slick between your bodies.

Kate reveled in the absolute mess she made of you. Every time she pulled out, sticky strings of come connected you to her. Your flesh was red and puffy, the smell of your arousal filling her senses to the brim. Kate was drunk on it all. She was drunk on you. She swiped her fingers through your core, gathering your desire on her fingertips. Warm. Slick. All of it was you. Kate popped those fingers into her mouth, her eyes fluttering as she savored your taste.

Below her, you were gasping, your body liquified in a way you hadn’t felt before.

“Oh my god,” you whimpered as you tried to sit up.

Kate chuckled, the sound just dark enough to make you tense. “You didn’t think that I’d let you off that easy, did you?”

It was your only warning before you felt hands and sure strength flip you over. Instead of being on your stomach and faced away from Kate, you were now on your back while making eye contact with her. Her desk was in utter disarray. Not only did you knock things off the surface, but Kate’s rough fucking ensured that anything not secured to the top was now lying haphazardly on the ground. That included the computer monitor and the keyboard. The wood was wet with sweat and more, your juices smudging across the glossy mahogany. If Eleanor found out, not only would she be so viscerally disgusted, but she would be horrified to know what you and Kate put this desk through. It was expensive, worth more than any money you’d see in your own paycheck.

The speed in which you found yourself lying face up made you blink dazedly, and by the time your surroundings caught up with you, Kate was already sinking herself back into you. She watched, enraptured, as your center parted for her. Soft, soaked flesh wrapped around her strap, and for a moment, Kate wished that it was real. She wished that she could feel you wrapping around her, clenching around her, choking her cock with the strength of a vice. You moaned, your eyes immediately shutting while Kate held your legs open. She wouldn’t let you close them. Your muscles fluttered beneath her palms, the skin flushed and sweaty. She sank in deep, so deep that you weren’t sure that you’d survive it. Your other hand shot out to grab her hip. It was instinctive, a reaction to being overstimulated, and it kept her from sinking into you any further. Nope. Kate did not like that.

“Move.”

Kate took that hand and laced her fingers through yours, her hold heaven and hell at the same time. Then, she pinned it down to the desk beside you.

“You’re going to take all of it,” she promised, her hips pressing against yours.

You don’t know why, but in this angle, you could truly feel the texture and the girth. Never mind already orgasming on this thing once. This truly felt like you were being split in half. Even in your own ears, the squelch of your desire around her was so loud and filthy. The smell of sex and sweat permeated the air, but you could hardly focus on any of that when you felt Kate press into you until she couldn’t anymore. That’s when you felt it in full force. The satisfying ache. The feeling of being so full without Kate being too deep within you. Your legs shook as whimpers tumbled from your kiss swollen lips.

“Katie,” you sobbed, fresh tears gathering in your eyes. “I can’t!”

“You can,” she answered simply, her voice leaving no room for discussion. “You can take it. Isn’t that right?”

Your breath stuttered, a rush of heat washing over your body. She didn’t give you a chance to answer. Kate was already moving, starting off slower this time to ease you into it. You were dripping now. With every thrust, more and more desire ran down between your legs. Kate had you spread so wide, to accommodate both her muscular body and her cock, that you could feel the sensation of wetness trailing down below. Kate was slow, attentive, a wide smile spread across her lips as she rolled her hips into yours. She leaned down, the tip of her nose brushing against heated skin as she breathed you in.

“You’re so cute, baby, do you know that? You’re so lovely when you’re like this. Shining brighter than a star. Even when you’re crying. Even when you’re making such a fucking mess, you are so perfect.”

Kate began to pick up speed, her hips becoming a blur of movement. Slaps filled the air, and you sobbed from the intensity of it all. She was fucking into that perfect spot, the one that made it feel like your heart was about to beat out of your chest. Kate maneuvered your legs over her shoulders, her hands releasing you to grab your hips and hold you in place. That’s when she began to use the momentum of your bodies to fuck into you. She was rough, the desk slightly scuffing across the floor with every solid stroke of her hips. Already, another orgasm was beginning to grow. You could feel it from the tips of your toes and to the roots of your hair. Your body clenched around the strap, forcing Kate to grab you tighter and move your body around her.

“Fuck!” you cried, your voice raw and broken. Kate smirked, loving the way that you were succumbing to the pleasure she was giving you.

She didn’t show any signs of slowing down. Not when your voice pitched. Not when she leaned over you again and your hands clawed at her back. Not when you begged for her to... stop? Speed up? You didn’t know anymore. You knew that you were making noise, suddenly glad that the building was empty, but even you couldn’t decipher what you were trying to say. Kate Bishop managed to fuck you stupid, your brain a mush of broken thoughts, and your body not doing too much better.

“Are you about to come, sweetheart?” Kate asked, her voice gentle with no traces of teasing to be heard.

You nodded furiously, too far gone for words. Kate worked you back up to the peak, to the point where it felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff. It was all collecting within you. The heat. The energy. The pleasure. You were going to orgasm, the constant stimulation to your g-spot driving you wild. This one felt different though. It felt deeper, like it was coming from a place hidden within you that you’ve never accessed before.

Kate watched you lovingly, her eyes reflecting the passion that she felt for you. She meant what she said. You were utterly beautiful like this, and the best part? Only she got to see you like this. You only fell apart like this just for her. Only you allowed her to see you past the fear, past the sorrow, past the very things that shaped you into who you were. It was in this moment that she truly realized just how much she loved you. Kate had to touch you. She needed a reminder that you, and this moment, were both real. Very real.

Kate reached out and rested her hand on your lower stomach. That’s when she felt it. The bulge from her strap. She couldn’t see it beyond watching it sink into you, and it wasn’t like Kate wanted to see it protrude from within your body. But feeling it was a different religious experience. She could feel the way her cock bullied itself deep, the way it pushed into you. She didn’t press down, not yet, but her hand stayed there as she savored the way it felt against her palm.

Your eyes fluttered open, the dwindling and residual sunlight that filtered through slitted blinds, blurry and fuzzy to you. You tried to call out to her, to warn her that something was happening to you. It wasn’t a question of whether you were going to come, because you were. There was no turning back. With every thrust, Kate was burying her cock to the hilt, the smack of her hips adding fuel to the fire that ran amok within you. It was a question of whether you were going to survive it, because if you were being truthful, it didn’t feel like you were going to. You were pulled tight, your nerves stretched like a rubber band under tension.

“Look at me, babe,” Kate encouraged, her hand cupping your cheek when she could see the slight panic on your face. You did just that, the action easy when she guided you to her gaze. “I’m right here, okay? Just let it happen. Let me see it.”

Her free hand slipped between your joined bodies and began to rub your clit again with sure, steady strokes. Her actions sealed your fate, and your body lurched in response. The equivalent of a bomb detonated inside of you, your orgasm imploding to wash you in a pleasure so profound that your breath froze in your lungs. Kate felt it the moment your body swallowed her strap and clenched. You went rigid entirely as you came. It was exquisite. Explosive. Charged. Passionate. The line between pain and pleasure eroded even more, and you could feel yourself untethering.

Something else was happening to you. It was like a dam bursting under pressure. A sudden tension and a cooling release. A sense of relief washed over you, your legs shaking more. Kate’s hand was still on your lower stomach, unmoving until now. She pressed down, her strokes still thorough and deep. That’s when another burst of hot fluid sprayed from you, soaking both you and her. You could feel it and Kate swore, her blue eyes deep and reverent at the fact that she just made you squirt. She moaned, her strokes devolving into tiny thrusts. Each one forced more and more fluid out of you. The sounds of small splatters gushing onto the desk filled the office. They mixed in with the sounds of your whimpers and Kate’s heavy breathing.

Colors exploded behind closed eyelids. You couldn’t scream. You couldn’t moan. You didn’t have the breath for it. Instead, you whimpered one word. It was who you needed in the moment, the one person that would keep you from floating away.

“Katie.”

Your voice. It was so soft that if Kate wasn’t close to you, she wouldn’t have heard it. But she did, and she was there, pressing a kiss so deep and profound onto your lips that you drowned even more. You clung onto her like she was a life raft. Meanwhile, Kate’s rhythm was unraveling at the seams. She was at her own peak, the pleasure of watching you fall apart for her was too much. She was trying to keep going, to make everything last just a little while longer, but the moment you came, so did she just a few moments later. Kate groaned, her thrusts stuttering to a stop when she sank deep into you and faltered. The insert inside of her had functioned beautifully, pressing and massaging and stimulating all those spots inside of her that turned her legs into jelly. Her desire mixed into yours, the exchange filthy enough to make Kate want more. More pleasure. More sex. More of this. More of you.

“Breathe for me, honey.”

Through it all, you hadn’t even realized that you were holding your breath, but you could feel the burn of oxygen deprivation in your lungs. You gasped, a sudden inhale tearing through your open mouth while Kate held you close. Your orgasm ravaged your body until the energy slowly fizzled out, until there was nothing more that it could take. With a weak sob, you collapsed onto the desk, completely spent and utterly ruined. Kate was a mess. Her skin shined with sweat, her hair curling under the weight of it. Her skin was flushed, her cheeks and neck a deep pink from both exertion and fatigue. She was soaked in you, trails of your come painting a path of evidence down her body. It was sloppy and beautiful.

It took a long while to feel your body again. You’d come dangerously close to passing out. If it weren’t for Kate holding you close, you would have slipped away entirely under the weight of thundering blood and fading vision. Now, she was cuddled into you. Her movements stopped a while ago, her hips still pressed against yours, the strap still buried deep, but her body unmoving. Her cheek rested on top of your chest while she listened to the slowing beat of your heart. Everything was a mess. You were a mess. You were still on Kate’s desk, your legs off her shoulders but still supported by her body with her nestled against you. Both you and Kate were slick with sweat and come. Little aftershocks and post coital bliss had you feeling high and floaty. All you could do was lie there, breathe, and hold on to your wife. Eventually, you wiped your cheeks with shaking hands, wiping your skin free of tears, and laughed as you ran your fingers through Kate’s hair. She was smiling, looking simultaneously dopey and silly. Little beads of sweat trickled down the sides of her head. She was just as spent as you were. She was exhausted, but importantly, sated.

“I’m never edging you again,” you said, chuckling weakly.

Kate smirked, her fingers tenderly tracing the curve of your jaw. “Good. A lesson well learned.”

It was a few minutes later when Kate slowly and gently removed the strap. You could hear it more than feel it leaving you, your juices clinging to the silicone before it left you with a wet pop. Kate stood back and smirked, admiring the little bit of desire that trickled out of you to pool on the desk. That’s when you watched her walk away, grab her phone, and snap a picture of the mess in between your legs.

“Fuck, baby,” she breathed, admiring the picture and you.

You sat up, your arms wobbling while feeling just the slightest bit faint. Cleaning up was about to be fun. Kate was going to have to hunt down the janitor’s closet to find the strongest disinfectant that they had. Until then, she helped you up, her steady hands fussing over you when your legs threatened to buckle. Kate removed the strap, placing it on an empty plastic bag that she happened to have, before she helped you get dressed. She kissed you and admired you, helping you clean yourself to the best of your ability until you both got home. You did the same for her, though admittedly, you were slower, your body still a mess of jumbled nerves and crossed wires.

Kate looked at you as she tried to fight a laugh, but she failed horribly. “Do I need to find you a wheelchair???”

“Don’t think that I’m not going to get you back for this, Bishop.”

You were being silly but maybe taking it easy right now was for the best. Kate, though happy and on cloud nine, fussed over you, making sure that you were okay even after she fucked you like her life depended on it. You clung onto her and let her dote on you, smiling and kissing and loving her all the same. Even when she stopped and got food, even when she got you home and you showered together, and even when you fell asleep in her arms with her lips pressed against her forehead, you remember this as the night Kate made you feel so loved and so beautiful, like you were worthy of this kind of devotion all along.

And you were going to pay her back by waking her up with your mouth first thing in the morning.

#marvel #marvel mcu #kate bishop #kate bishop x reader #marvel fanfic #smut #wlw smut #light angst #fem reader #x reader #female reader #reader insert #mcu

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thegnomelord · 2 years ago

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Missing You

CW: NSFW, sub bottom Soap, dom top Reader, phone sex, masturbation, dirty talk, edging, sex toy, dom/sub. Quick and rough but that's how the horny strikes.

Like always, asks/requests are open :Dd

You've been gone on a mission for nearly a month now, and Soap doesn't know what to do with himself. Even when you text him sporadically to tell him you're alive, sometimes he feels like a housewife, stuck awake late at night wondering if you'll return to him as a pair of dog tags.

And even later at night he can't help thinking of what you'll do to him when you come back, ravage him until he's drooling and his brain is leaking from his ears.

As days turn to weeks he finds himself trying and trying to jerk off to no avail. No matter how much he tries he can't seem to get himself off while you're away; he could fuck his cock into his fist until his skin's rubbed raw and his balls are so full they feel like they'll explode but nothing ever comes out. His body is just so used to having your body over his and your scent in his nose and just your presence near that it can't cum without it.

Pure need breeds desperation and has him finding himself at your door in the middle of the night. It's locked, but he has the key. He's quick to shimmy his way inside, a happy little sigh escaping him when he huddles underneath the covers and your scent invades his nose. A stuttered breath leaves him as he gropes his stiff cock underneath his shorts, burying his nose into your pillow and breathing in deep until his lungs are full of you and his brain is buzzing nicely.

He tries to get himself off like that, doesn't take him much to stroke himself to full mast but even surrounded by your scent he can't cum. It's like there's a blockage at the base of his cock that's not letting anything put pre-cum out while he humps his fist until tears prickle his eyes.

A thought pops into his mind and without even thinking he's fishing his phone from his pocket and dialing your number without thinking of what time of the day is on your end. Holding the phone in one hand and cock in the other he nibbles on his lip as he waits for you to pick up. Hopes you will pick up.

"Johnny?" Your voice is slurred with sleep, giving it a deep base rumble that sends a nice shiver down spine.

"Bonnie..." He breathes out and bites his lip to hold back a groan, cock twitching in reaction from just your voice. "Fuck, ah missed yea."

You hum, still half asleep. "Missed you too Johnny. How have you been?"

"Good." He breathes out, worrying his lip between his teeth as he strokes himself. "Just been mighty bored since you left lil' ol' me alone."

You can hair faint shuffling on the other end, but not his usual chatter. Normally when you call each other Soap will prattle on and on for as he can, but this time he is strangely silent save for his shuddered breath. "Soap... where are you?"

He freezes and sucks in a breath, "In yeh room."

"Johnny." The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine and he begins stroking himself again, pinching and squeezing the head of his poor cock in the same way you do. "Did you miss me this much?"

"No shite." A small sound escapes him, a mixture of a curse and something more animalistic. "Ah try 'an wank off but every time I try it's-" A familiar hellish feeling in his balls, like something close to pain but not quite, has him cutting his sentence short.

"Poor boy," You coo, "Can't cum without me there, can you? Got you so trained to cum with my cock up your ass you can't do it without something nice and big stretching you out, hmm?"

Your words have embarrassment flooding his system and a small stream of pre leaking from his red angry tip, "'S your fault, fockin' wanker." He curses, burying his head into your pillow while quickly stroking his cock. He'd be embarrassed about what your voice does to him if he wasn't so damn horny. "Fix yer mess."

"Want to cum so badly don't you?" You stall just for a second, your mind birthing a devious idea. "Alright sweetheart, check under the bed for me."

Your request confuses him. "What for?" Still, he's a good boy, he does as he's told no matter how much it hurts to let go of his dick. Even just the sheets rubbing against his poor dick has him whimpering from overstimulation, but he manages to reach beneath your bed and finds a small discrete box.

"Just a gift for you." Your smirk carries over the phone and you can just imagine his expression when when he opens the box.

Inside the box is a dildo. It's firm in his hand as he picks it up, heat pools in his stomach as he recognizes the tip he'd spend hours suckling on, as he traces each realistic vein with his fingers the same way he'd do with his tongue, as he rubs the silicone balls like he'd worship the actual ones; It's molded from your actual dick.

"Oh you sick fuck." He breathes out, but there's not a single hint of disgust in his breathless voice. "Did yea make it so's yea could fock yourself?"

"Funny." Your two share a small chuckle, "If you're not careful I'll make one of yours and lock the real thing away. Not like you use it much."

He never knows if you're serious or kidding but the subtle threat in your tone has his dick throbbing all the same. He manages an indignant "Oi!" before his voice pitters out when he finds your second surprise.

"Thought you'd want something to remember me by." You can't hide your amusement when he finds your underwear. After you'd caught him masturbating with his face shoved in a pair of your underwear he'd nicked, you'd gone out of your way to wear one pair each time you went to the gym and didn't wash it.

"Oh bile yer heid." He huffs but he's already rolling on his side with your underwear pressed close to his nose. He breathes in deep until he can taste the heavy tang of your musk on his tongue, arousal burning hot in his veins.

"I'll take it you like it." You chuckle, "Go on sweetheart, you know what to do."

"Aye." He shuffles until shimmy his shorts off, having not even bothered with wearing boxers. He shifts so his knees are close to his chest, the phone pressed between his ear and the pillow so he can use both hands. "C'mon, keep yappin'. Need tah hear yea." He feels so high-strung begging like this, but it just makes heat burn hotter in his cock when he brings the silicone dildo to his puckered hole that's already wet from when he'd tried to finger himself to an orgasm.

"Oh, sweetheart," With your voice ringing in his ear and your scent in his nose and the weight of your sheets over his half naked body he almost feels like you're right there. If he closes his eyes he imagine it's your cock poke against his hole and your body swallowing his. "Let me guess, you're already wet huh?"

"Know me so well." He breathes out and slowly pushes the dildo against his hole until the head finally slips past the ring of muscle. He's rougher than you'd be but his body is so desperate to feel you that the cock slips in easily, his walls clenching greedily around every familiar vein.

You croon praises in his ear as he sets a deep and fast pace, biting your underwear between his teeth to muffle his pathetic mewls while pounding his hole. But it's not enough, even with every single one of his senses full of you it's not enough. His arm's starting to cramp the longer he fucks himself, twisting and angling the dildo in a desperate attempt to catch his prostate, his hips twitching back to when he bottoms out so he can feel the fake balls slap against his own.

"Shit- It's not enough, fock, please." He shifts his head just enough to beg, huffing in your scent.

"What's wrong Soap, can't fuck yourself like I can?" He groans at your words, biting the wet fabric of your underwear again when he finally manages to graze his prostate. His cock's leaking like a faucet, easing the glide of his fingers when he grabs it to stroke himself until he's whining from the stimulation coming from both ends.

His balls ache and fire burns in his stomach every time he bottoms out, his thighs shaking with the need to cum. "Nae, you fock me so good-" He pants, pleas both in English and Gaelic falling from his lips until you can barely understand anything aside from pure need.

"Go on Johnny, you can cum."

Your permission is all it takes for him to tip over the edge, hole spasming around the dildo and cum spurting like a firehose from his cock and his sight going white. Weeks upon weeks of unresolved tension all escaping him as waves of euphoria pulse through him, leaving him shaking from his orgasm.

"There you go, good boy." Your voice brings him back from the peaks of heaven, his breathing heavy and uncoordinated. "How do you feel?"

"Fockin' perfect." He slurs and has just enough strength to slip the fake cock from his hole and toss it somewhere on the floor. "Felt like ah was ready ta blow." A loud yawn leaves him and his eyes feel heavy when he hears your voice again.

"Get some sleep Johnny, I'll be back by the time you wake up."

"I'll hold yea to it." A dumb little smile tugs on his lips and he nuzzles his head into your pillow, drifting off to sleep.

#cod mw2 #x reader #male reader #top male reader #centerpieces of the hoard #sub john soap mactavish #soap x male reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #cod mwii #cod x reader #cod x male reader #soap mw2 #soap mactavish

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netherfeildren · 2 years ago

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Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation.

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands.

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him.

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone.

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him.

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity.

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face.

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question.

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut.

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that.

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware.

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this.

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor.

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now.

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry.

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you.

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you.

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort.

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either.

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me.

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all.

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you.

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him.

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet.

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car.

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of.

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake.

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you.

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach.

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as.

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage.

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this.

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be.

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found.

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be.

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl.

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller.

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted.

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of.

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time.

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here.

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying.

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching.

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt.

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl.

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good.

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm?

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good.

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you. And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

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