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yieldtotemptation · 2 months ago

Text

CRASH ft. Wonyoung

wonyoung x male reader smut

11k words

When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.

If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.

And yet, that doesn’t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.

You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.

But of course, you don’t. (You never do).

“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”

There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.

Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.

It’s a view, that’s for sure.

It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’

Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.

You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.

It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.

That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.

Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.

It’s Wonyoung.

Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.

It doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.

You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.

You know exactly how much it’s worth.

After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.

You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.

You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.

“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.��

No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.

To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.

Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.

“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”

You glare at her. The gall on this woman.

“What are you waiting for? Drive.”

Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).

You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”

Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”

It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.

Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.

Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.

To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.

“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting. It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.

“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”

“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.

As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.

It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.

Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”

There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)

You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”

“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.

As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.

She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.

“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.

"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”

You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.

She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.

Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.

You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.

It doesn’t smell bad at all.

In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.

“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”

You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.

“Let it go, Wonyoung.”

She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”

Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”

“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”

You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…

Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).

(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)

“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.

Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.

It’s probably why you do it.

“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”

Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”

“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”

Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”

“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.

No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”

You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”

“I never said that.”

“Wony—”

“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”

But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.

“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”

“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).

The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.

“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”

Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.

“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”

Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”

She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.

“Was she even good?”

You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?

And you know the answer: How could anyone be?

But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.”

Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.

And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.

The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.

And then she does it again.

And again.

You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.

You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.

That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.

What drives you fucking wild.

And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.

The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.

You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”

Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.

You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”

There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. She’s so wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.

You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.

But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.

Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.

If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.

So you drive faster.

You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets. You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.

It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye, she’s still watching you. She’s enjoying this, loving every second of it.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.”

Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.

“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”

Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.

“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”

“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.

“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”

“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”

To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.

It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat and snaps open the buttons of her shirt, nonchalantly revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.

No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.

She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.

She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.

Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.

The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.

And maybe she should be.

“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”

“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.

Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”

Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”

But she doesn’t listen (she never does).

She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.

“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”

You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”

Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.

Fuck.

“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants. “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”

She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”

“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”

She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”

“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”

That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”

“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”

"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”

“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”

“Now who’s a bad liar.”

“Go fuck your—”

You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.

She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.

Turns out, she’s right.

You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.

You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.

“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.

And it makes her smile around your cock.

You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).

You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.

Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.

It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.

You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.

Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.

You swerve again.

Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.

Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.

It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.

You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.

You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.

And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.

Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.

The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.

And she takes it, takes all of it.

Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.

Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.

It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.

Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.

She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.

“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.

She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.

You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.

“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.

She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”

You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.

A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).

But it’s hard. So fucking hard.

You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.

Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.

You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.

You’re not going to last much longer.

Neither is she.

So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.

“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.

You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.

You’re almost there.

You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.

You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.

“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”

The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.

You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.

It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.

“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.

You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.

“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you manage to get out, your chest heaving, your hand finally loosening its grip on the steering wheel.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you in place. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.

Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.

Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.

The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.

But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.

Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.

You can’t.

“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”

Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.

Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.

“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”

And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.

“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”

The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.

Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.

She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.

Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.

Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—

But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.

Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.

Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.

It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.

Wonyoung laughs.

“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.

There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.

She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.

“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.

It’s just the way she is.

You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.

“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”

“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”

“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

“What makes you think you have a choice?”

A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).

She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.

“Wait, wait—fuck—”

And then you slam into her.

“Daddy!”

That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.

You’d do anything to hear it again.

You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.

“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.

“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.

“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”

“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”

“Then say it.”

“Fuck you, daddy.”

“That’s fucking right.”

Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, her nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s what she wants from you, that’s what she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.

You wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, and whisper in her ear, “This is all you’re good for, you know that?”

Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.

And fuck, she’s tight.

Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.

Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.

“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.

You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”

She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.

You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.

Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.

It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’

But you’ll try.

Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.

Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.

(It’s never that simple.)

“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.

“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.

Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”

And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.

You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.

It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).

If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.

They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.

And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.

This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.

You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.

And then you get an idea.

It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.

You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.

You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.

Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”

But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.

“Smile for the camera, Wony.”

Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.

Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.

Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.

Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.

You’ve got her, and she knows it.

You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.

“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”

You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”

And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.

You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”

Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.

She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.

Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.

A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.

“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.

“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”

“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.

But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.

You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.

“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”

“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”

She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”

There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.

And then waking up and doing it all again.

There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”

Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”

“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”

That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.

You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.

"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”

It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.

But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.

One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.

“I fucking hate you—”

“Hate you too—”

“Hate how good your cunt feels—”

“Hate how big your cock is—”

“Hate how perfect you are—”

“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”

“Fucking slut—"

“Daddy—”

“I’m going to—"

"Please!"

And that’s it.

It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.

Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.

You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.

And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.

And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.

Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.

To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.

“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.

Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.

Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.

You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.

You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.

“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.

You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.

But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?

You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.

You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.

“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.

With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.

It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.

Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.

(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:

“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:

“I know.”)

Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.

And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.

#kpop smut #wonyoung smut #ive smut #male reader

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yanderenightmare · 4 months ago

Text

TW: yandere, domestic violence, abuse, suicidal ideations, suicide attempts, accidental murder, death

gn reader

You should have never fallen in love with someone so brash, but you like seeing the good in people much to the abuse of your own. Still, rough around the edges as he was, you’d never thought he’d become such a monster.

The first time he slapped you, you were so shocked you’d ended up the one who apologized—all the way convinced you must have deserved it. And ever since then, you’ve only accumulated more bruises in areas you can’t explain.

You’re in the bathroom now. The door’s locked, but you don’t think it’ll keep him out for long.

“Open the door, babe—I didn’t mean it.”

You don’t even know if he has himself convinced of that or if he’s just saying it to soothe you. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that your wrist and rib are broken. You’re so terrified you think you might end up dying from the fear alone, sitting in the bathtub just waiting for the inevitable.

You don’t have a phone—it was taken when an old boyfriend had texted. You’d share his from then on, he said—better that way so he can keep track of you. It’s strange, but somehow, you believed it was rather romantic.

You were going to leave this time. It would be so simple. He was at work, and you’d just leave everything and walk right out the door. But there was an incident at the office which made him come home early only to catch you red-handed heading out the door you know you’re not supposed to open without him.

You’d been so panicked you’d tried running—but there was really no chance. His arms caught you hard, and the floor he threw you back on met you even harder—hence the snapped bones.

Still, you’d managed to scramble to the bathroom with just enough time to lock it behind you.

And now you were left all out of options.

“Open the door, we’ll talk. Maybe I misunderstood.” His voice had calmed down now. He’d been at it for a while—he sounded more airy, teetering on frantic, and it only served to scare you even more. “I know it can get pretty cramped in ‘ere all alone. Maybe you were just getting some fresh air, is all?” He left the question a couple of seconds worth of breath before sending his fist into the door. “Come on, answer me!”

You were sobbing. He might actually kill you this time. God knows you’ve thought he would other times with both his hands wrapped tight around your throat, stringing you up, making you lose voice for days.

You thought about it—the razor blades in the drawer. It seemed like the only option left. Better you than him, right? He’d make it painful. Or worse, he might not go through with it at all, and you’d be stuck living with him forever.

That really did seem worse than death, you thought, sitting on the floor while holding the shiny metal piece to your wrist. Which way was best to cut again? Right. It’ll be quick, and then it’ll be over.

You don’t even hear the door breaking down before he’s on you. You don’t even realize you’ve cut before you see the red. You don’t even know whose blood it is before he gags on it—before it splutters from his mouth upon your face and the slice on his neck splits upon and gushes out like a waterfall all over your clothes.

He drops to the floor with a heavy thud a moment later.

The blood is so warm you don’t even understand how he’s dead.

You even think about stopping the bleeding for a moment, but then it suddenly settles. And then along, shortly after, the understanding that you’d killed him.

The razor hits the bloody tiles with no sound—it’s all so thick it splats before sinking, disappearing slowly. You swallow once, but you’re throat is all but dry. Even the tears had stopped in the shock.

You spot the phone on the floor, having slid from his pocket—moments away from drowning in the blood that seems to just continue seeping and spreading forever. Something within you grabs it before it can.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“Hi! Uhm… I’ve just killed my boyfriend.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Enji, Aizawa ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Toji ♡ DS – Akaza, Inosuke, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

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signedkoko · 10 months ago

Note

Could I get a Mammon, Vox and Husk with a S/O who gets harassed on the street and their reaction? You can have full creative control over what type of harassment!

I love your fics- if this isn’t getting the creative juices flowing just let me know and I’ll request something different <3

🦷 anon

Husk | Mammon | Vox [Romantic]

In which some loathsome idiot thinks they'll get away with harassing their beloved s/o.

One of your favourite date nights is spent bar hopping

Pop a drink or two in each one, sometimes sharing one cocktail, his wing draped around you, your head leant on his shoulder, humming to the music surrounding you

Both of you had a preference for the less popular spots, the kinds of places you got the weirdest combinations, where he could be inspired and you could give him thoughts

The plus side of the smaller joints was that the music was never too loud, drinks were cheaper, and there was always a few spots free at the bar

Downside was that most places had their regulars, the kind of people who couldn't get in anywhere else

The kind of desperation that builds and spreads like mold in the corner of a dark room next to a leaky pipe

On a few occasions, someone would harmlessly ask to buy you a drink and would turn tail when Husk gave them his usually 'fuck off' look

But this time, the guy would just not get the hint

" What? Already claimed dibs on the bitch? "

Yeah- no, that attitude towards you is not going to fly

Not even three seconds and there's a bottle smashed on the drunk demons head, and three cards flying back into Husk's hand

That's when the bleeding starts

You slap a 20 down for your bill and jump straight up, already being dragged by Husk out the door

Insists if he stayed there you would have both gotten banned anyways, and he likes that spot

You guys don't really go out so casually without a good reason, or just for old times sake

A sin and his spouse on a city street in greed was just asking for bad things to happen

But still, if you asked and he had nothing that day, Mammon would always rather get quality time with you and people watch

Thats most of your conversation, pointing out demons and joking about what you think they are like, what the do, how they speak

It's always a fun game, until some newcomer saw you laughing at him and marched right up, clearly on something and clearly ready to have a go at someone

The moment he reaches for your wrist, his thumb falls to the floor, a messy and jagged cut the only sign of attack besides one of Mammons spider legs now revealed

Before he can even realize the pain or what's happened, Mammon lets out a menacing laugh

" Every extra inch towards my broad is another finger. "

That demon was already screaming and running away, most the crowd on the street that was watching now hurrying in any direction opposite of you and Mammon

" I'm only worth one finger? "

" Nah. Just being generous for once. "

Not really a street guy, but unfortunately some press conferences and events require mingling and interacting with others, which he never liked

Thankfully, with you he has an excuse to stay away from others, or show you off

He usually goes for the latter

He's all 'Have you met my wife?' 'My wife loves x and y!' 'Isn't my wife absolutely gorgeous?'

You are the first topic he speaks of after his company; you'd be the first if he didn't have to waste so much time being a salesman, but that is how the cookie crumbles

Sometimes when there's specific press releases, he has to send you off for a moment, where you usually go and mingle with some of the others in his industry you befriended

During one such interview, he couldn't help but spot out the corner of his eye, some lousy business woman drape her arm around your waist and grab at your hip

" Sorry yeah, this interview is over. "

Literally shoves his way over, sparks and electricity flying, to rip you out of her arms

" Baaabe, is this a friend? Whatever the case, we really gotta get going! "

Jealousy 3000

He's glad he stepped in after he overhears that lady had a habit of harassing other attendees

New clause in every interview; they have to include you or provide security over you while he is busy

Author's Note - Tooth anon comes in for another PIPIN HOT request!! I actually feel so bad because every time I take a break form writing is on yoru request and that really makes it look bad I am so sorry 😩

#koko writez #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #hazbin hotel x reader #helluva boss x reader #reader insert #x reader #mammon #mammon x reader #vox #vox x reader #husk #husk x reader

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yuwuta · 8 months ago

Text

YUUTA OKKOTSU’S DECLASSIFIED JUJUTSU TECH SURVIVAL GUIDE (AN APPETITE HAUNTING THE HEART)

❝i know this tastes too good to be healthy. the more it melts, the sweeter it gets, so take my heart out because i need all of you.

*this is yuuta okkotsu’s fool-reviewed plan for navigating all things curses, sorcery, and love.

pairings. okkotsu/reader

content, warnings. canon-adjacent, reader has a cursed technique, friends to lovers, smut (uhh... no triggers i think? other than implied virginity loss on yuuta’s part), mentions of violence/curses, possessive/intrusive thoughts... he starts of kinda sweet and weird and then just gets... weirder and worse lol, so mostly yuuta being... yuuta <2

notes. jujustu tech is a college not a highschool, yes i brought naruto in this, i believe in sasuke slander only from a place of pure love, real sasuke ridicule will not be accepted xoxo

word count. 12k i told you i could yap about him all day

playing. candy/baekhyun, untouched/the veronicas, cream soda/exo, lacy/olivia rodrigo, pure honey/beyoncé

#1 — Do NOT touch Maki Zenin’s tools (but if you do, the cute girl who hangs around Inumaki might help to patch you up).

Yuuta hadn’t meant to piss off Maki. He was trying to be helpful, but Yuuta learned the hard way today: do not touch Maki’s cursed tools, at all, for any reason whatsoever. He intended to hand it back to her, but she was prompt in assuming that was part of an attack, snatching it from under his grasp and giving him a jab on the wrist with the dull end of the stick. If the beatdown he’d endured during training put Yuuta on his deathbed, then that hit was the final nail in the coffin.

The crack! sound of his bones made everyone pause their sparring, and Gojo winced the loudest, “Ouch! That one had to hurt, kid!” It was also Gojo who gathered everyone to stand around and look down at him clutching his wrist in pain, before making the executive decision to appoint you as Yuuta’s caretaker.

“This is definitely something you can handle!” he cheered, patting the top of your head, “Take our dearest Yuuta to the infirmary and patch him up, please and thank you! With the way Maki’s been kicking him into the ground, those cuts are sure to get infected sooner rather than later. The two of you can join us for dinner when you’re finished!”

Yuuta tried to refute, on the grounds of “No—no! I—ouch—this really isn’t worth using any kind of cursed energy over!” Which was quickly met with a mischievous raised eyebrow from his teacher, “Oh? Are you insinuating that my precious student doesn’t have the skill to fix a simple fracture?” That prompted Yuuta to spill a flurry of apologies, none of which were coherent, and ended up with him trailing behind you sheepishly to the infirmary with a broken wrist, several bleeding wounds, and probably early heart failure.

Now, Yuuta sits with his feet dangling off of the edge of the examination chair, shivering from the chilliness of the room, and all of his nerve endings rattling at the realization that this is the first time that he’s been alone in a room with you since you’ve met. He winces, first at the sting of disinfectant into his wound, and then internally—mostly out of embarrassment—because his outward reaction made you pause your actions to question if he’s okay.

Okay is relative, he thinks. In the grand scheme of things, he’s okay. Concerning his current injuries, he’ll be okay eventually. Concerning this… whatever this is he feels for you… maybe not so okay.

“Sorry,” he stutters, too loud for the atmosphere and proximity of your bodies to each other, and, so, he winces again, cheeks staining red to match his embarrassment, as if he or you needed any confirmation of it. He doesn’t mean to be a difficult patient, but he has an adversity surrounding hospitals and medical care, and that alcohol really does burn, and you’re really close to his face, and—and you giggle a little, but Yuuta hears a chorus, instead; warm, spring-like, with violins and a piano and cellos strumming in perfect harmony, and the buzz of bees and butterfly wings flapping the melody.

“You apologize a lot,” you tell him, a kind smile on your lips. You step forward, just a bit, as you peel off the band-aid adhesive and gently press it over the bridge of Yuuta’s nose. It’s Hello Kitty themed. It makes him want to scream.

“Yeah, uh—sorry about that!” Yuuta apologizes, once again too loudly. He scratches at the back of his neck with his left hand, and his eyes go wide after a few beats, “No, wait—I didn’t mean to apologize again. I just... I, uh... thank you. That’s what I wanted to say. For helping me, you have my sincerest thank you.”

Yuuta dips his head to bow, and when he raises it again, you’re blinking at him owlishly, and he thinks he’s really done it now. You must think he’s a freak, if you didn’t already. He thinks you’re gonna tell him off for being pathetic and a weakling, but instead you laugh again—that precious sound that pauses Yuuta’s world for the better.

“You’re awfully formal. There’s no need for that, or to thank me. We’re friends, afterall,” you reassure him, “Even if Gojo did force you to be my practice dummy.”

It’s his turn to reassure you, his uninjured hand moving from his neck to shake frantically in front of him, “It’s completely okay,” he does his best to give you a smile as warm as the one you give him. It probably doesn’t work, but he tries anyway—he’s always been an awkward smiler, too wide-mouthed and toothy, “You can do whatever you want to me, I trust you.”

Your face seems almost solemn at his declaration, and the panic instantly kicks in again. Yuuta scrambles when his words play back in his head, “I’m sorry, was that weird? I meant that I trust your judgment. You can, uh, fix me up however you best see fit—or just leave it! I’m sure it’ll heal on—”

“You’re awfully self-sacrificing, too,” you cut him off with a laugh, your usual warm nature clicking back. Yuuta shrugs, feeble; you smile wider, “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. I keep staring, and I’m sorry to have made you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all! You don’t... make me uncomfortable, I mean. You could never,” Yuuta rushes, curling back into himself after his outburst, “You... it always feels really nice when you’re around. I can’t explain it, but everything is calmer.”

Your eyes flutter across his face, before you turn away from him, “I can tell it makes you nervous—I can hear the changes in your heartbeat,” you tell him, opening the cabinet to return the alcohol to its rightful place. You must also be able to hear his thoughts, chiming in just as Yuuta continues to wonder if his heartbeat is really that loud, “It’s part of my technique. I don’t mean to intrude on your heart.”

Is it an intrusion if Yuuta left room for you? If he wanted you to be there? Was it crazy to think that he’d give you his heart to hold and trust you to take care of it, even though you’d only met a few months ago? Maybe it would be easier if he let you squeeze tight enough to put him out of his misery already.

Luckily, you keep talking before he can say something stupid like that out-loud again.

“It’s just that... you remind me of somebody that I used to know. You’re kind like him, and you both share a well-intentioned recklessness, too. I see so much of him in you that it’s hard not to stare sometimes,” you admit, turning back to face him, and gingerly taking his wrist between your hands. When your hands start to glow, Yuuta can feel it—your reversed cursed technique is warm on the surface, but chilly underneath, like a heated blanket on top of perfectly cool sheets.

“I don’t mean to say that you’re just a replacement,” you continue, slowly rotating your hands over his injury. It stings a little, then soothes, “I’m just still in awe of how nice it feels being around you. It feels strangely—”

“Familiar,” Yuuta interjects, “I understand. You feel that way, too. I think... that’s what I meant before.” He understands your words perfectly because you remind him of someone precious to him, too; someone he used to and still loves alot. “You—it makes me happy, that’s why I seem so nervous.”

It seems as though you understand him, too. His heart sings, and you can probably hear it, but Yuuta doesn’t quite mind so much now. What he feels for you is consuming, maybe concerning, but knowing that you know what it’s like to love like him brings him an odd sense of comfort. Maybe he should be jealous that you’ve had someone to love that much before, but he’s not exactly in a position to talk. What matters is that you can hear him and feel him—his heart and his love and his sad and his happy, and it doesn’t push you away.

It makes him want to burst. He owes you a thank you for putting something so precious in his life. He owes you an apology, for ever doubting that you couldn’t handle his symptoms. He should have realized that you can handle his love.

“You feel really warm, too,” he blushes, scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand, “And, uh, not just because you’re holding my hand.”

The twinkle in your eyes turns into confusion, then surprise when you look down to see that the hand below his wrist had moved to rest underneath his palm instead. His wrist was well healed by now, and you’d been, effectively, massaging his skin and muscles with your technique for the latter duration of your conversation without realizing it.

Yuuta couldn’t tell when it went from healing to hand holding, but he’s not complaining—and he doesn’t think he could have stopped it either. Another quality to your technique that he couldn’t understand was how your energy felt sticky, flowed like honey; how it managed to run into broken crevices and bruised dents with a mind of its own. Even if he’d wanted to pull his hand away—and he didn’t, he absolutely did not—he wouldn’t have gotten far from you. He never wanted to be.

“You already have calluses on your palm,” you note, dispelling your healing energy, holding onto Yuuta’s hand only by want now, “You train hard. You’ll catch up to Maki and Toge, quickly, but not if you don’t take care of yourself.”

Yuuta almost chokes when you rotate your wrist so that your fingers are aligned. Your hand is so much softer than his, warmer than his, and maybe he’s idealistic, but your fingers seem to slot perfectly between his when you curl them.

“I’m not always going to be around to fix you up,” you warn him, “So don’t go around pissing Maki off too much, alright?”

Yuuta can feel the heat from your body flow through him. From his palm, up his arm, down into his chest, and everywhere else. It doesn’t feel real. You’re holding his hand, you’re smiling at him, you’re right there and you’re so bright and beautiful, so Yuuta doesn’t know why his thoughts are so gray and dangerous; you wouldn’t hurt him, and he doesn’t want to hurt you, so why can’t he stop thinking about keeping you like this—of stitching your hands together forever to keep you by his side, or letting this heat consume and burn you both.

Yuuta shakes his head to wiggle those thoughts away, but to you it seems like he’s saying no to staying off of Maki’s radar. When he realizes it, he nods too reverently to make up for it; surely looking like an idiot, and then to top it off, he squeaks, “I—yes, ma’am!”

Another foolish outburst on his end, perhaps, but it makes you giggle, fills the room with springtime for a moment, so to Yuuta, it was worth it. “Good,” you nod, release his hand and beckon him off of the chair, “Come on, we should go eat before Panda takes all the good sides for himself.”

Yuuta follows you back to the dorms with his stomach already full of love, love, love. He loves you, and you can hear, and see, and feel exactly what you do to him, and you don’t run. Yuuta thinks maybe you should, even though he doesn’t want you to. Surely you know what he did to Rika when he loved her.

Rika seems to like you, actually, if the humming of her voice in his head as he takes his seat at the table next to you is any indication. He can vaguely make out some of her words as you pass him the dumplings—warm, kind, loyal. He agrees. Pretty, too. No disagreement there.

In such a short amount of time, you’ve shifted Yuuta’s ethos for life. He wanted to die to be with the person he loved before, and never quite understood why Rika would stop him, why she would want him to suffer in this life alone; but maybe this is what Rika was always trying to tell him; that his love was not lost and buried with her, but flowing towards you, his heart, a beacon for you to locate.

You’d mentioned that he reminded you of someone you knew before, that you couldn’t see anymore. Yuuta doesn’t know what happened to your person before he came along; he can only hope that you’ll allow him and his heart to be a vessel for your love someday, too. He won’t disappoint you. He won’t let you let go of him.

It shouldn’t be hard. You already have his heart in your hands.

#2 — Gojo is more than a teacher. He is also the school event planner, once ranked Diamond in Overwatch, and is the only person blacklisted from any and all kitchens on campus. He also gives pretty good (sometimes questionable?) advice. His eyes are kind of scary.

You’re there when he and Toge are nearly decimated by the Grade 1 curse in the abandoned market. He still doesn’t understand much about sorcery at this point, so seeing people like you and Toge in action is awe-inspiring to say the least. Yuuta knows that Toge is nothing short of amazing, but he can’t help but to be drawn into you, you, you—your energy, your fighting style, the seemingly never-ending applications of your technique. Cursed energy in and of itself is still a foreign concept to him, so perhaps it’s that seeing you use the reverse of it so effortlessly is even more novel to him.

He can hear Rika strumming in the back of his mind, an indistinct itch and hum that sounds vaguely like laughter at his self-justification. He chooses to ignore her.

After, while he’s still buzzing with the tingly warm sensation of your technique after you’d patched him up, Gojo finds him, and Yuuta, unable to keep up a façade, pours all his anxious, worried, inquisitive feelings about his mission on the table.

“The way that (_____) can heal wounds... is that something I can learn?” Yuuta questions his teacher, eyes tired but genuine and earnest.

And Gojo, all knowing and absolutely singing at the implications, smiles so wide he’s certain his newest student could see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, even through the dark tint of his glasses. “Maybe.”

He goes on, leaning back into the old loveseat, one leg crossed over his other knee, “You’ll probably be able to learn to heal yourself with reversed cursed technique, but using it to heal others is difficult and rare. Shoko and (_____) are the only people I know who can do it.”

“Is… did she get to learn it because she’s a Grade 1?” He remembers Maki explaining the ranking system for Jujutsu sorcerers. You and Toge were ranked the highest in the class, and amongst the other Kyoto students; it would make sense that you two have learned more applications of your techniques due to your higher placements.

Gojo chuckles, much to Yuuta’s confusion. “That’s not quite how it works—and if it were, then you’d already know because you’re a Special Grade. You don’t unlock new lessons as you move up, you move up because of how well you’ve learned to control and apply your own cursed technique.”

Right. That makes sense. Except Yuuta knows that his classification of Special Grade is a bit of a cheat because he can’t control or apply his cursed energy half as well as any of his classmates. He has Rika to thank for his immediate promotion, not himself or his own skills.

“In any case, if you do learn it, you’ll never be able to execute it like her, that’s for certain. Reversed cursed technique is complicated to learn and nearly impossible to teach. It’s one of those things you truly have to figure out for yourself when the timing is right—I only got it when I was on the brink of death. It’s 100% effective on the person doing it, but only 50% effective when applied to other people by the user,” Gojo says, “Except for (_____). She was born with reversed cursed energy, which is why she has an almost 100% output on herself and others, so she’s extra special. ”

Yuuta frowns. He never expected to do anything half as well as you, but knowing there’s only half a chance that he could, literally, only ever meet you half-way is frustrating. You can save him time and time and time again, as you already have, and all he can do is be a wound for you to stitch back together.

It must be difficult for you. A similar thought had crossed his mind when he first met Shoko-san, feeling bad for her having to carry the burden of healing others, knowing that she could never receive the same treatment in return. It’s worse for you, though, to be an angel amongst the men on this Earth—it’s not fair that you can give so much to help, and nobody can do the same for you. Yuuta wants to give something to you, he wants to devote himself to you, so at the very least, you have that. If he can’t give you anything else, he can give you himself.

Gojo laughs at Yuuta’s silence, kicking his legs up on the coffee table. “That’s hard for you to hear, huh? Ha! You truly are a lover, not a fighter, Yuuta.”

Yuuta blinks at him. “I, uh... thank you?” He says, even though he’s not so certain that those two things are discernable.

“Right now, the best thing for you to do is focus on controlling Rika and your cursed energy. That way, (_____) can also focus on fighting, and not healing, when you’re on missions together. The stronger you are, the less she’ll have to clean up after you,” Gojo advises.

He puts his feet back on the floor and uses the leverage to lean over, a bit too close for Yuuta’s comfort. “The only thing you can do for her is to learn to help yourself.”

Yuuta’s eyes go wide. He wants to—he wants to help you, wants to help himself, wants to help others, too. There’s a selfish twang for a moment, the thought of not needing you anymore tugging at his heart, but Rika reminds him that he’ll still want you.

Then an even scarier thought crosses his mind. “What happens if I don’t learn to control this? What happens if I curse her instead?”

Yuuta trembles at the thought, breathing and heartbeat erratic, his sensei moving back a bit. Rika is there again, reassuring him that he never hurt her, that his love never hurts, that the only person he’s ever truly harmed is himself by isolation of his own feelings. Trust her, Rika demands, she can handle this.

You can. Can you? You have, so far. You don’t run, you don’t push, you give, and give, and give to him; Rika was kind and playful and took and took and took Yuuta’s loneliness and sickness in stride and he still cursed her, seemingly for all eternity. He wants to love and be loved, but not if it means hurting you—isn’t it bad enough that he’s already inept at healing your wounds? Why should he risk giving you more?

“Yuuta,” Gojo calls him out of his thoughts, “I’m disappointed.”

That truly breaks Yuuta’s cyclical monologue. “I—disappointed?”

Gojo ticks his tongue, shakes his head and points a finger in accusation, “You should know your fellow classmates better by now. (_____) is not that weak or scared,” he chastises, “You’re so worried about cursing her that you haven’t realized that she is the only person so far to have effectively used her curse on you.”

Yuuta pauses, eyes wet with the awful realization that Gojo was right. You have already cursed him; your technique has already gotten past the barrier of his curse. You’ve cursed him. He never stopped to think that it was possible, worried only about himself. How selfish—he shares Gojo’s disappointment in himself.

He’s spent so much time loathing his jealous mind and decaying heart that he hasn’t opened his eyes to see you that you’ve found him. You can poison anything he does, and make the antidote with equal ease; how stupidly naive of Yuuta to think that he could be the one to diagnose or treat you better than you could him, or yourself.

“I’m sorry, sensei,” Yuuta dips his head, and also spares you an internal apology, “I understand better, now.”

“Is that so?” Gojo muses, leaning back into the sofa. His eyes scan Yuuta’s when his head is raised again, that knowing grin creeping back up on his lips. “Well, if you still want to know more about reversed curse technique, or want help learning it, it’s not an entirely lost cause. I’m definitely not the person for this lesson, but, you know who is?”

Yuuta feels a sense of whiplash from the change in Gojo’s demeanor. Confusion clouds his mind again, and he shrugs, “Um... Shoko-sensei?”

Gojo makes a loud buzzer noise, complete with crossing his arms in front of his chest in a big ‘X.’ Yuuta frowns again. Is that where Toge learned to do that?

“Wrong! I’m talking about (_____), obviously!” Gojo claps his hands together, before lowering his glasses to wiggle his eyebrows, “Tutoring is a textbook way to get some alone time, kiddo. You want to spend more time with her outside of class and missions, right?”

“I want to spend all my time with her,” Yuuta confesses, mindlessly. And foolishly, he soon realizes, when he sees that Gojo’s grin has tripled; and he’s quick to flash his hands to correct himself, “No—not like that—not in a creepy way! I just... I want to get to know her better, like you said.”

Yuuta’s awkward chuckles fill the space, and he can feel his insides burning from his cheeks all the way down to his hands. Would he ever be able to think coherently or tactfully when it came to you?

“So, uh... I... it’s okay if I ask her about this stuff, too?”

“Some sorcerers don’t like talking about their cursed techniques. But (_____) might not mind. You won’t know until you try.”

Yuuta nods shallowly. Try. He can do that—if not for himself, then for you; he can try for you. All you need from him is to accept your course of treatment; to love you is to let you curse him, completely.

“I’m a firm believer that all’s fair in love and war,” Gojo stands, stretching into Yuuta’s space to ruffle his hair. He leans down further, giving him a glimpse of his glowing eyes before sparing him a wink, “So, be a little greedy, and give it your best shot.”

#3 — Social media is the most twisted curse out there. It makes you feel so close, yet is a stark reminder of just how far you are from the person on the other end of the screen.

Yuuta has never considered himself good with technology. Even before Rika’s incident, he often felt ostracized by his peers because he didn’t have the same interest in or experience with games and cartoons. He had no reason to have a computer or a phone until enrolling at Jujutsu Tech, and there was an evident learning curve in navigating the devices. Toge often snickered watching Yuuta use his smartphone with the dexterity of a senior citizen.

He only barely set up Instagram and TikTok accounts with Toge’s help, but he doesn’t really get the idea of followers—why would people who don’t know him want to follow him? Why would he follow them? He doesn’t know many memes or jokes and even after seeing them, he doesn’t think many are all that funny, but he laughs anyway.

He doesn’t have much time to perfect his social media and meme skills, anyway. He’s dedicated to training and gaining mission experience—which pays off when Geto declares war on the school by the end of the year. Yuuta remembers how you returned his phone to him the next day, a few cracks and black, dark spots on the screen, giggling that you’d found it in the rubble, but that even your reverse cursed technique couldn’t fix its scars.

He thinks he gets the hang of it in the end—the basics of communication and the appeal behind connection with others through it—even going so far as to trade selfies with Gojo sometimes, who always seemed happy to receive them, no matter how much post-exorcism curse gunk Yuuta was covered in.

He also frequently exchanges texts with you. He much prefers to see you in person, but when you’re stuck for long hours in the ER, or away from campus on your own missions, Yuuta has grown fond of receiving your messages. He always attempts to read them in your voice and imagine your facial expressions to match those of the emojis you send. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of those yet, doesn’t understand what Toge means when he says that not all smiley faces are created equally, so to save himself the trouble, and potential embarrassment, he’s opted to use emoticons instead. Which, if you asked him, has been working out in his favor, seeing as you call them cute.

Yuuta also uses the safety of his phone screen to implement some of Gojo’s advice; picking your brain about curses, sorcery, and healing via text message for just long enough for you to say it’s easier to explain in person to come to him and teach him in your spare time. Soon these study sessions turn into texts asking to hang out outside of class and missions and work, and Yuuta couldn’t be more elated. The screen he once scorned at seemed to be his one-way ticket to being able to talk to his favorite person constantly.

But Yuuta never thought it would become his only means of communication with you. He’s devastated when you break the news to him, over half-finished oolong tea and nervous finger-twiddling.

“You’re leaving?” He echoes, hoping he doesn’t sound too much like a heartbroken child, even though that’s exactly how he feels.

It’s quiet outside of the tea shop where you two sit, nearing seven in the evening; only the soft sounds of other customers conversing behind you two inside, distant cars on the main street, and the sound of Yuuta’s heart beating frantically.

“Not leaving leaving,” you clarify, pausing your finger twirling to place one of your hands over Yuuta’s on the table, “I’m still studying, but I’m being sent abroad for a bit.”

He should be focused on the fact that you’re touching his hand—Yuuta should be happy! Rika still cheers for you in his mind, but her voice is quieter now—but Yuuta can’t. He’s focused on everything else, spiraling about the implications of your words. You’re leaving... going away from him when things are going so well.

Yuuta was so happy when you taught him the reversed curse technique, even happier when he realized he did have the ability to heal others, knowing it also meant having the ability to help you relieve some of your burdens. That didn’t mean that he didn’t still want to give himself to you, he would if you’d have him—but now he wouldn’t have the chance.

“I haven’t told anyone else yet—Gojo only told me this morning,” you mumble, “I’m going to miss you all a lot, but we can still text every day! I don’t know how long the time difference will be, but we can FaceTime.”

It’s not lost on Yuuta that he is the first person that you’ve told about this. It’s another thing to be happy about, another little victory he never thought he’d achieve, but it’s still overpowered by the dread of you leaving him.

He blinks, placing his other hand atop yours, sandwiching them between his, “How long?” Yuuta can’t read the expression on your face, but you don’t pull your hand away. He’s glad. He didn’t think when he’d done it, but the lack of rejection feels good—your touch always feels good, reverse cursed energy or not.

“I’m… not sure—a few months at least, maybe until the end of the year,” you admit, squeezing his hand, “There are some cursed objects and scrolls they want me to help recover, and Gojo says I get to work with another Special Grade sorcerer, too.”

His hands feel so good, so warm, but everything else about Yuuta feels cold, icy with dread and fear. You’re going away for a long time, and he won’t get to see you or hear you laugh or feel your warmth while you’re gone. His sunny days are going away, and Yuuta honestly doesn’t know how many more overcast skies and rain clouds he can take.

And it’s selfish, he knows. He should be happy for you—you were chosen for this mission, for this training; you’re getting the chance to use your skills to help others, and train even further. So, why couldn’t he be happy for you? Why could he only feel a pit in his stomach about the thought of you leaving and meeting some other Special Grade who’s rightfully deserving of their title? Not only had he lost the thing that brought him to you in the first place, but you’re about to find another replacement. Sure, with or without Rika’s curse, Yuuta had become so much stronger, but what’s it worth if he couldn’t keep you by his side?

“Tsukumo is supposed to be really cool, but you’ll always be my favorite Special Grade, Yuuta,” you taunt with a smile.

Yuuta’s eyes go wide and watery with wobbly lips and flushed cheeked and sweaty palms to match. Favorite. Favorite, favorite, favorite. The word spoken in your voice rings in his head like a beautiful chime, the tones washing over him and erasing all his fear and doubt and insecurity.

You had called Yuuta your favorite. Sure, he’s still upset when he and the other first-years drop you off at the airport too weeks later, he still cries the first night you’re gone, still nearly breaks his knee trying to jump for his phone the first time that you call; but it’s okay because Yuuta is living off of the temporary high of being your favorite.

And also, because, in the end, your separation seems to have been inevitable. Not a month after everyone bids you farewell from Jujutsu Tech, Gojo tells him that he’s next on the docket to be sent abroad. He’s happy for a split second, thinking that he might get sent off to Europe where you’re still working with Tsukumo, but then Yuuta learns his true fate: studying under the tutelage of Miguel in Kenya; equal parts away from his classmates in Tokyo, and from you in Barcelona.

Whoever said distance makes the heart grow fonder was a liar and a bitch, because the favorite boy honeymoon comes to an end when Yuuta settles into his new room and makes his first call to you from Nairobi. The feeling and reality of being alone, and even further away from you finally hits him. Still, he relishes in the sound of your voice; fantasizes that when you reach for your phone to show him your new things, it’s you reaching for his hand; dreams of you laying next to him when you fall asleep on the call, and desperately wishes that he could touch you, hold you, kiss you.

He really wants to kiss you. He thinks he’s probably always wanted to kiss you, from the very moment his feelings for you started to grow; even if he couldn’t discern them at first, he knows now—Yuuta knows that he misses you like he’s never missed anyone before. The grief of losing part of Rika, and then losing his proximity to you merely weeks apart is finally catching up to him, and it’s morphing into a yearning that tugs on his heartstrings and rattles his brain.

He knows that the rate of growth of his feelings for you hasn’t been steady, but he blames you for that. You’re the reason he loves you so much, the reason he can’t sleep at night, the reason he learns how to bring Rika back—because he thinks of you, you, you, and how he lost Rika once, and he’d be a fool to lose you twice.

Yuuta thinks it’s no coincidence that your cursed technique has the ability to alter him in mind and body. You have so much ownership over him and you probably don’t even know that Yuuta has spent every single moment of his life living and breathing for you since you’ve met.

And you take his breath away yet again, when he gets to see you in Germany. Miguel is taking him to Switzerland on a classified mission, and you and Tsukumo are on your way to Austria, and by some great miracle, your layovers align. When he sees you waving to him down the long corridor in the airport, it feels like a scene straight out of his dreams. Yuuta spares no time trying to look cool or nonchalant; making a beeline to you, desperate to feel your touch after so long.

He’s breathless in those ten minutes that you’re reunited. Everything is too short, but he does his best to live in it all. He speaks a mile a minute, cramming in anything he hadn’t already revealed to you in your many late-night FaceTimes, and swallowing everything you tell him. He wants to believe that he’d made the best of what little time he had with you, but the truth is he didn’t. Because while you were smiling and hugging and telling him that you missed him, all Yuuta really wanted to do was kiss you—and if he were a smarter man, a better man, he would have.

He thinks, for a split second, that you might have wanted to kiss him too—when you rock back on your heels after saying good-bye, hesitating for just a moment, almost expectantly, before your eyes flutter away. He’ll never know, because he never asked, he never tried, he never said—only whispered, pathetically, to himself as he watches the silhouette of you and Tsukomo before you disappear for boarding, that he loves you.

He almost believes that you hear it when you turn over your shoulder after his quiet confession. Would it have been better that way—if he kissed you, or confessed in the heat of the moment—or would it be taking advantage of an otherwise beautiful moment? Yuuta will never know, and the what if tantalizes him.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and opens the thread of your messages. He starts typing, then stops. Backspace. Start typing. Pause. Read, re-read. Delete. Groan.

What’s the point? He can’t kiss you through the screen, and he’ll be damned if the first time he tells you that he’s in love with you is via phone call. He slumps his shoulders, and Miguel gives him a pity pat on the back. Yuuta goes to lock his phone when he sees the gray thought bubbles pop up below your last message and his entire body goes rigid in anticipation.

[received] 03:27 PM — [attachment: 1 image] — you should keep a closer eye on your things yuuta — i miss you already (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤

Yuuta’s heart stops when he sees the picture of you in your seat, wearing his white uniform jacket. He doesn’t know when you snuck it away from him, but that doesn’t matter—like anything else, he would have willingly given it to you, and then some. It looks much better on you anyway, and Yuuta pinches his eyes shut for a brief moment, to swallow down the thoughts threatening to swarm his mind of you in his arms, in other clothes, in his bed.

He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets the warm, gooey feeling settle into his veins, and moves his fingers to type.

[sent] 03:38 PM — keep it, you can have anything of mine you want — i miss you more (๑′ ᴗ ‵๑)♥

You heart his messages and let him know you’re taking off soon, and putting your phone on airplane mode until you land. He’s not so confident to send a picture in return, unless you ask for it. Maybe you will, when you’re in Austria. He’ll have to work on his selfies.

He takes another once over the picture you sent, committing the idea of you in his clothes to memory. He knows the messages won’t delete themselves, but he takes a screenshot for safekeeping anyway. Maybe phones aren’t so bad, afterall.

#4 — Do not kill Itadori Yuuji. Under any circumstances. Even if some days you really feel like it. Also, sign up for a Crunchyroll subscription.

Yuuta can confidently say that his training abroad was both the most difficult and fulfilling thing he’s ever experienced. He believes that the change he’s endured is mostly good—he’s physically stronger, emotionally wiser, and overall more confident in himself and his cursed technique. One year ago, he would have been content with dying, but now he has more than enough reasons to keep living. He has people who care about him, and who would miss him if he were gone; and he’s got someone he would miss a whole bunch, too, should anything happen to them.

By miss Yuuta means that he might burn down a small town, might level a city, might flip the entire world on its axis if something were to happen to you. In his defense, he’d go to extremes for most of his friends—but for you, there’s truly nothing he wouldn’t risk.

He figured that out in his time abroad, too; came to terms with the fact that he’s selfish with his love. He loves too much, too hard, too close, and he isn’t very willing to share. He doesn’t see it as a bad thing, anymore, either—Yuuta knows now that the way he loves makes him who he is, and right now, he has the confidence to say that he likes that person, and that he loves you, undoubtedly.

So, forgive him if there’s a cloud of negative energy the size of a coach bus looming over him at the moment, because since you’ve returned to campus, Itadori Yuuji has been slobbering over you like a lovesick puppy.

Because apparently, you happen to know Itadori Yuuji—as in, since you were four and he was three, all the way up until your senior year of highschool, when you were scouted by Gojo, who, believes that you coming home from your study abroad trip would be the perfect time to reunite two best friends who hadn’t seen or heard from each other for the better part of two years—all while keeping this little reunion a secret from everybody, including you and Itadori.

A surprise, it certainly is, when the first time that Yuuta and the other second-years see you in months is on the dingy couch in the common room, under a cuddle pile of the first-years. Nobara’s arms wrapped around your left arm, body slumped against your side, Megumi’s long limbs stretching over Itadori’s torso, leaving the palm of his hand resting on your thigh. Far too close for Yuuta’s comfort. The only saving grace is that the jacket he loaned you is also spread across your lap, offering another layer between your body and his palm. And then there’s Itadori Yuuji, squished right between you and Megumi, with his head on your shoulder, his arms around your waist, and your free arm slung around his neck.

Yuuta should have been relishing in the fact that you were finally home, but all his focus is drawn to the way your position allows Itadori to cuddle right into you, to the way your arm is around his shoulder and your cheek pressed against the top of his head. You two might as well have been in your own little world, and Yuuta hates it. And, as if that’s not enough, the realization that he was not the first person to hug you or welcome you home clicks, and his anger bubbles deeper.

Next comes dread, that creeps in slowly when you and the first-years wake up, and you and Itadori go on and on and on about how surprised you were to see each other at the airport, how Itadori just assumed that when Gojo said he’d assigned them to “pick up something super special,” that he was messing with them, how you couldn’t seem to take your eyes off of your precious, precious kouhai that you’d missed so dearly.

Childhood best friends brought back together through sorcery. Yuuta’s seen that one before, and he didn’t like the ending.

You and Itadori mend the gap in your friendship like two years of no contact was nothing, falling into a pattern that’s so easy and familiar, that it’s painful for Yuuta to watch. The assumption that you’d died, and the knowledge that Yuuji had actually died only served to strengthen your vows to protect each other in the name of your friendship from here on out.

Yuuta considers putting his own sword through his chest if it means you’ll swear your devotion to him. If he died, would you cry for him? Would you pray over his grave and beg for him to come back to you?—or would you find comfort in those who kept living, find solace in a friend who came back for you and can still hold you in his arms?

“Tsuna tsuna,” he hears from his left, followed by a mischievous giggle. Toge’s taunting is hardly enough to pull Yuuta out of his cloud of rage, but the blunt end of Maki’s staff is.

“Will you stop pining so damn hard?” she sneers, whipping the staff back to her side and placing a hand on her hip, “Not only is it pathetic, it’s gonna attract curses like flies to honey.”

“Why am I the only one getting hit?” He turns to his right to motion to Megumi, who seems to be brooding just as hard. Megumi respects you, but it was easy to see that he was reaching his limit on sharing his recently revived lover with someone else. Maki huffs, “Because he doesn’t have a literal cloud of darkness looming around him.”

Yuuta sighs, doing his best to reign in his feelings, but it’s pointless once he hears your laughter across the field—light and airy and sunshiney and all because of Itadori Yuuji.

What were you two talking about? If Itadori were out of the way, would you pledge yourself to Yuuta? Did he ever hold a space comparable to Itadori in your heart—would you let him?

A broken chord strikes Yuuta’s heart when he realizes that Itadori is the person you told him about last year; the person you missed so much, and you never thought you’d be able to see again; the person that Yuuta reminded you of; the person he was happy and eager to be for you. And now, in knowing Itadori, Yuuta thinks that his willingness was beautifully naive—to think that he could compare to someone like this. Itadori is light, where Yuuta is dark; he sees the best in people, where Yuuta manages to come off on the wrong foot always; he perseveres in faith and determination, where Yuuta is fueled by an anxious desire to prove, prove, prove himself to be worth something to anybody.

He can see how easy it is to love Itadori. It’s easy to cling to faith, to believe in something higher than yourself, to know that someone above can pull you up. Yuuta cannot compete where he cannot compare; he’s a shadow that engulfs you, takes you away from light, a dream that’s hard to wake up from. He could never be bright to you; his best attempt would probably drive you and him too close to the sun, martyred for love in burning flames.

Still, even in all his jealousy, Yuuta comes to the even more sobering realization that making Itadori disappear wouldn’t fix his problems. You told him he wasn’t Itadori’s replacement, but maybe that’s because he could never be him; maybe he doesn’t have to be. Yuuji could never be him, and he could never be Yuuji, but whether Yuuta likes it or not, he and Itadori are two sides of the same coin; and as such, Yuuta has, begrudgingly, grown to feel the same sense of responsibility over the younger boy that you do.

So, even though he never expected that they would both be at the mercy of your hand at the same time in this lifetime, he absolutely cannot kill Itadori Yuuji. Not only would it make you sad, but it would probably make Yuuta even sadder in the end, somehow. What a bother.

He’s about to get up—to leave, maybe go over there, he doesn’t know yet—but he stops when he hears a calm buzzing by his ear. Yuuta blinks, slowly, shoulders relaxing unconsciously, allowing the larger than normal honey-bee to land on him. He recognizes it as one of your shikigami—and even if he hadn’t, that familiar, cooling sensation that washes over him would have let him know—so, gently, he lifts a hand across his torso, allowing it to crawl onto his finger, and strum its tune.

Yuuta can feel a few more, hear them humming around him, and he closes his eyes, lets the small group of bees flutter around him and all that looming jealousy dissipates from his body.

Faintly, past the calm hum of the small swarm, Yuuta can hear the call of Yuuji’s voice, petulant, “Aw, no fair. Fushiguro, I want calming shikigami, too! Can you bring out the bunnies? Please.”

Beside him, Toge and Maki seem bemused by his newly calmed state, then amused when Megumi sighs, stands, and reluctantly pulls his hands together before a couple dozen white rabbits flood the field and hop onto Yuuji.

The buzzing grows softer, and then quiet. Briefly, Yuuta feels a bee land on his cheek, before it flies away, leaving the smell of fresh pollen in his wake, and when he blinks his eyes open again, you’re there, in front of him with a smile sweeter than anything he’s ever known.

“Hope they didn’t scare you,” you muse, waving a finger before the last bee hovering around you disappears, “You seemed upset, everything alright?”

He’s about to open his mouth to say something, anything, when he’s cut off by Itadori Yuuji once again, with one bunny on either shoulder, and three more cradled in his arms. “Hey, doesn’t (_____) totally remind you guys of Sakura!” 

Maki scoffs, albeit with amusement, as she points her staff at Yuuji’s hair. “If anyone bears resemblance to Sakura, it’s you, Itadori.” 

Yuuji actually makes an attempt to look at his own hair before chuckling. Yuuta flashes a look to Megumi, who looks equal parts exasperated and enchanted. Yuuta doesn’t get the reference, and when Inumaki starts making gestures about how Yuuji is like some Naruto guy and Yuuji screams about how Megumi resembles a Shikamaru, he becomes too afraid to ask. 

You seemed charmed at the end of the discussion, when everybody fundamentally agrees that you’re the Sakura of the group. Yuuta is far less charmed by these comparisons (and it has nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t get one). He doubts that this Sakura person can do what you can do, doubts that Sakura is even worthy enough to be compared to you, whoever she may be. 

And maybe Yuuta goes back to his room to watch several compilation videos about ships in Naruto later that day, but nobody has to know that. From what he’s gathered, Sakura is pretty cool, and even though Yuuji bears the most physical resemblance to her, he can see why everyone agrees that your healing abilities compare well to hers. Yuuta thinks you’re better, and he’s still holding out hope that there’s some other character equivalent for you that Itadori didn’t think of, that Yuuta can, just to prove that he knows you better. He doesn’t fight any comparisons between Gojo and Kakashi, though. That one honestly freaked him out a little.

If it turns out that you’re Sakura, then he should hope to be Sasuke, but Yuuta thinks this dude is kind of a dick. From the 47 minutes of scattered Naruto content that he’s consumed, he actually much prefers the dynamic between Sakura and Naruto, even if that does equate to Itadori Yuuji having a crush on you, at least you’re out of his league and chasing after somebody else.

Still, he thinks Sakura would be upset if Naruto actually died, or worse, if Sasuke actually killed him—never mind the fact that apparently he tried to kill her? Yuuta would never do that, but Sakura still seems to like Sasuke after all of that... in any case, Itadori Yuuji must live, and Yuuta must accept his fate as Sasuke reborn.

Though, to Yuuta’s understanding so far, Sasuke and Naruto are destined to duke it out and if only one of them has to survive, then maybe it’s not so bad to be this guy. Yuuta doesn’t know how it ends between them, but he thinks he could take on Itadori Yuuji if he had to. He won’t because he’s your friend, and Yuuta’s friend now, too, but if Itadori or the curse inside of him acts up, then Yuuta can at least rest assured he can put a stop to it. That’s not something he could have guaranteed a year ago, but now, he can.

Yuuta sighs, finally locking his phone and shoving his head under his blanket. He’s been knee deep in analyses about Sakura ships for the past two and a half hours now, and he’ll admit Sasuke is growing on him, but not much. His only saving grace seems to be that Sakura is madly, unconditionally in love with him; Yuuta wouldn’t mind having that kind of devotion from you. He turns to lay on his back, staring up at the blank ceiling and wonders: if it came down to saving only one of them, would Sakura pick Naruto or Sasuke... would you choose the boy who’s loved and looked up to you since you were kids, or the boy who sacrificed everything in hopes of gaining enough strength so that what happened to him never happens to anyone else.

Maybe they answer that in the series, Yuuta reasons. 720 episodes, at 20 minutes per episode... if he devotes about half-a-day to watching Naruto, then he can breeze through it in a little over two weeks, maybe sooner if he uses his weekends efficiently. That’s plausible, and by the end of it, Yuuta is certain that he’ll have the answers he needs—and even if it doesn’t, then at least, he’ll have one more thing to talk to you about.

In the end, Sakura picks Sasuke, Naruto marries somebody else, and Yuuta understands that the two were never opposites, but complements, and that Itadori Yuuji-shaped pit in his stomach dissipates. Still, about three weeks later at breakfast he makes the argument that if anything you’re more akin to Tsunade, minus the gambling addiction, and that gets him rave reactions from everyone, including you, who is more than happy to show him your new slug shikigami as a means of commemorating your new Naruto kin.

Believe that, Itadori.

#5 — None of this matters if you don’t kiss her. You have to kiss the girl—or she’ll get mad enough to the point where she’ll kiss you.

The following month comes your indictment into the Semi-Special Grade hall of responsibility. Yuuta vaguely recalls Gojo’s lecture on how people don’t really get promoted to Special Grade—it’s classification you’re born or cursed with, like himself, or Yuuji, or Tsukumo—but, you, of course, defy all odds and expand everything Yuuta knows. Nobody is surprised—Yuuta thinks everyone was among the similar thought that you were undoubtedly unique amongst your classmates, in a way that was different from him or Yuuji. Being born with a body that generates reversed cursed energy instead of cursed energy is deserving of Special Grade status if you asked him; he doesn’t know what pushed the higher-ups into finally acknowledging your skill, but he knows it’s well-past due. And while he’s happy you’re getting recognition for your efforts, Yuuta would never wish to saddle you with half of the shit the higher-ups put him through.

They better hope that Yuuta doesn’t find out that they’re plotting anything with you, lest they meet the end of his sword.

Part of your promotion entails a dual-degree program that will have you starting medical school next fall. Yuuta almost cries at the thought of you being sent away again, until you tell him that Gojo managed to pull a few strings this time—to fund everything and keep you in Tokyo.

And even though you’re not licensed to treat civilians yet, you’re already more than experienced with taking care of and healing your fellow sorcerers, which lends Shoko’s promotional gift to be a shiny new office, right across from hers. Yuuta is the first person you invite inside, and he brings you a photo of you, him, Maki, and Toge from last year—honestly, probably the only photo the four of you have together—to christen your desk, and a plaque with your name on it for the door, that he may or may not have fantasized about it reading with your first name and his last name on it instead.

To no surprise, your office becomes a safe haven of sorts. Yuuta would define any time or place with you as a safe haven, but there’s something special about this place. Maybe Yuuta is still leaping from this being the second time you’ve chosen him. He’s the first person to see your office, the first person to sit at your chair, your first official patient when he stubs his toe against the corner of your desk (where he left the first decorative object). Maybe it’s a little far to say that this place has him all over it as much as it does you, but Yuuta likes the sound of that.

When he comes back from gruesome missions, he’s invited to let himself in, no matter how much blood he’s covered in, and you’ll be there to take care of him. It’s not different than before—not different than even last year when he’d waddled in your shadow to the room across the hall and sat down with heart palpitations while you fixed his wrist—but something about this feels special. It holds a different weight than hanging out in your dorm or cooking together in the kitchen; this office is yours, the things you say and do to him here are confidential, the yearning for and almost-kisses you almost have are for you and him alone; within these four walls, you’re free to curse him completely.

So, he’s understandably upset when your office becomes a cozy corner for the other students as well. Maki likes to take refuge inside to study alone, Panda and Toge have been caught on more than one occasion attempting to wrap gauze around each other like zombies, Megumi uses your supplies and basic first-aid lessons to prepare small kits for him and the other first-years, hell, even Gojo has been found asleep in your office on more than one occasion. He gets why people are drawn to you like a magnet, why you’re comforting, and welcoming, and a source of warmth for them, but that doesn’t mean that Yuuta likes to share you. It’s much harder to almost-kiss you this way.

He must have pouted loud enough about it, because shortly after, instead of inviting Yuuta to your office for lunch, you ask him to meet you on the field. Not one to question you, he obeys, and soon, instead he’s met with an entirely new safe haven, sitting criss-cross inside your domain with all your shikigami slithering and fluttering and buzzing about him. A butterfly lands on his nose, and Yuuta’s nose crinkles. You lean in to let it crawl on your finger instead, and don’t lean too far back when you slowly begin to explain to him the intricacies of your domain and how it all comes together.

It’s amazing, surely. Yuuta listens as best he can, but it’s hard when there’s a halo of butterflies around you, and a symphony of bees buzzing in his ear, and a slug kissing at his hand, and a snake coiling around his body and gently massaging his muscles, and your voice sound so soft and warm, and you look so pretty and, and, and he wants to kiss you again.

He wants to kiss you really badly. He wonders if that’s part of your domain—honestly, he’d wondered if that magnetic, honey-like attraction he has to you is in any part influenced by your healing nature—wonders if the confines of your space exacerbates the flow of blood to his heart and his cheeks and his—

“Are you listening?” you question, that glowing, addictive smile on your face, “You know I can make the snake bite, the bees sting.”

God, Yuuta wants to kiss you. He wants to live in the spring garden of your love forever, and ever, and roll around in the grass and drink honey with you, and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you. You could keep him here forever, he’d be perfectly content with living his days wrapped up in your curse.

Yuuta shakes his head to snap out of his daydream, disrupting a few butterflies in the process. “I—sorry,” he apologies, “I’m listening now.”

You hum, folding your legs underneath your knees and sitting before him. Yuuta’s certain he looks slightly ridiculous, covered head to toe in animals and small insects and burning underneath your gaze—wasn’t this domain supposed to help people feel better? Is there no cure for lovesickness that you can use on him—or, at the very least, embarrassment?

“I asked you why you won’t kiss me.”

Yuuta knows that if he weren’t in your domain right now, he would have fallen to a sudden death. “I—I, um,” words, Yuuta, words; a bee lands on his cheek, he takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry.”

That doesn’t seem like the right answer, judging by the twist of your lips. Of course it’s not—because it’s a lie, and you know it, and you know he knows that you know it. How could he be sorry for wanting you, for spending every last waking moment breathing for you, hoping that you’ll end his laborious breaths and pour air into him yourself?

“You know, I brought you in here to make sure that you wouldn’t run or pass out on me,” you confess, reaching out your hand towards him; the tip of your finger barely grazes his cheek as you allow the bee to crawl onto you, “I worry about your heart more than I should.”

You flick your finger gently, allowing the bee to flutter freely and your eyes to focus back on Yuuta’s, “Right now, in this domain, it’s mine to control. To stop, to beat.” It’s yours outside of here, too; to fix, to break. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. “Why won’t you let me have it, Yuuta?”

Yuuta gasps, and despite his surprise, despite his extreme lovesickness, despite his dark desires, his heartbeat remains steady, his body remains perfectly tempered and cool, his voice resonates clearly—all because of you.

“You’ve always had it,” he confesses, “Always. From the moment I met you.”

He can’t read your expression. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the power struggle here; domain aside, you can hear everything about him, sense the slightest physiological change in him, alter any one of his bodily functions at your whim and Yuuta doesn’t know what goes on in you. Would it be wrong to confess that he likes it; that this feels like you having him, that he likes knowing you can take him?

“I thought so, maybe,” you enlighten him, “Last year with all the calls and texts,” you lean over and set free a butterfly from his shoulder, “And then in the airport,” then guiding the snake to coil around your arm and around your torso, “And then I thought maybe you’d have said something when you were jealous of Yuuji,” this time your hand touches him, a feather-light touch to his elbow, “But you didn’t, and I was beginning to wonder if I was hearing your heart beat for someone else, instead.”

Yuuta grabs at your hand erratically, “No—no. Never.”

He’s senselessly in love with you, and if it weren’t for your healing hands, Yuuta’s certain his ribs would have cracked from the pressure of his happy heart by now; but then again, maybe he should ask you to let it break—let that fracture serve as an entry point for you and yours, to prove to you that it beats for you and you alone.

“So then what is with you? You have a habit of giving girls your heart and not kissing them, or asking them out—is it always straight to marriage with you?”

It’s torture hearing that word fall from your lips. He doesn’t have time to even begin to process it. Yuuta’s eyes flicker to the smile on your lips, the slight tilt of your head. He says something he shouldn’t, “Would you be opposed to that?”

“I’d like a kiss first,” you tease, “Would you give me one?”

And how could he ever deny you anything. There, with a harmony of beautiful insects and warm sunlight, Yuuta finally, finally, takes the last move forward to kiss you. It’s everything he wants and exactly as he’d imagined—he can feel the rush in his bones, the want in his stomach, the love against his skin when you fall into him.

It’s one kiss, and another, and then Yuuta can feel your tongue against his, greedily falling into the rush of you. He’s everywhere, hands on your neck, lips on yours, body stradling yours when he carefully leans you backwards; Yuuta has you, and you have him, and he won’t let this moment go to waste. He pulls away for a moment, only a moment, to take in your kiss-swollen lips and commit this vision to memory. He’ll have to take another visual photograph outside of your domain, when your bodies are free to breathe erratically and equilibrium is broken so you and truly, truly, feel all of Yuuta’s love in earnest.

He wonders if it’s the effect of your domain that prevents his nerves from running haywire when you take off his shirt, when you let him take off your pants, when you have your hands on his chest and his on your hips. It must be. Yuuta knows for certain that otherwise, he’d be a blushing mess of fumbling limbs and stuttering words.

Still, Yuuta thinks, domain or no domain, he wouldn’t let this moment pass him. It’s not nerves when his hand brushes over your clothed clit and he hears you moan—even if it had been, that would have been the antidote to his poison. Lust, pressure, possession wash over him in excruciating waves. He wants more. He wants you.

Impatience when he adds pressure with his hand, bliss when you buck your hips to add more of your own, greedily grinding against his fingers. Yuuta kisses you again, swallows your moans and feeds you his own when slips his hand past the barrier of your underwear, and he feels your warm, wet cunt against his fingertips for the first time, and when he pushes two fingers into your heat, he thinks he could cum right then and there, from this alone.

“Yu—Yuuta, more,” you plead. Your hand on his neck, fingernails scraping into his skin that should leave a mark. They probably won’t. He’ll be sure that next time they stick.

And Yuuta, unable to deny you anything, obeys. He curls his fingers inside of you, thrusting gently at first, and then with more confidence—and warning, when he hears you snarl about not teasing. Ironic, he thinks, as he watches your lips fall open, since you’ve had him strung along since day one.

“I wanna—wanna cum with you inside,” you moan, a sound that Yuuta promises to commit to memory. Later, when his brain is working better, and the coil in his stomach isn’t so tight, and you’re not clenching around his fingers.

You’re greedy, and Yuuta’s never realized it. You suck him in and still want more, and you must know that he’ll give it to you. It should serve as a warning, you have the high-ground to take him any which way you want—for a fool, for granted, for yourself, for nobody else; so what does it say about him that it only spurs his arousal, that it makes him impossibly hard and he can feel himself leaking from the thought of it.

“I want that, too,” he reassures you, leaning down to press his forehead against yours, because you’re perfect for him, “But I want this first. Give me this first, please. Please.”

He thinks you might cry. The rational part of him knows you can regulate it, that you probably won’t; the sick part of him wants to see it, wants to know what it takes to make you lose control.

You call his name like a prayer, once, twice, and on the third time, Yuuta can feel it as much as he can hear it. He can feel the moment that your walls clench, and your eyes screw shut, and your body convulses around him. You’re beautiful, irreverent, and Yuuta thinks that being responsible for this is the greatest achievement of his life.

He wears your orgasm with pride, raking over you as you blink your eyes open to him again. You’re lucid too quickly, he really is going to have to take the time to enjoy this somewhere less controlled later, eagerly wrapping your hand around his wrist and forcing them to his mouth. Yuuta groans when he tastes you on his tongue, nothing short of euphoric, and he’s sure to taste every last drop.

You smile, and then laugh—an almost inaudibly giggle that has Yuuta smiling back reflexively. Like always, he follows your every move and succumbs to all your whims when you lean up to kiss him, and then coax off his pants and underwear, and line the tip of his dick up with your slit and pull him in, again, by the neck to bite at his ear, “Come on, Yuuta. Give it to me.”

An order, a promise, a plea—Yuuta vows to fulfill them all, determined and spell-bound when he sinks into you. He can only imagine what it feels like for you, but for him it’s warm, wet, soft, snug, sticky—like honey, like a bee drawn to sweetness. It’s good, too good, Yuuta doesn’t know how to last when you feel this good.

He can feel you everywhere, around his dick, your hands on his back, your breath on his cheek, your skin against his. He feels stuck to you, stuck in you, mind, body, and soul as one, unable to differentiate him from you, from you, from you.

“Fuck,” Yuuta stares, carefully swiping a thumb over your browbone, conscious but not in command on how deep he’s thrusting into you, “You’re so—fuck, I love you.” He wants to hear you say it back, he needs to, he has to. He can feel it again, stomach in knots, and nerves on fire, and skin sticky, and Yuuta has to know—“Please, please. Do you love me, too?”

You stutter, only from the rock of his hips into yours, reaching for his face and cradling it between healing hands, “Of course I love you, Yuuta.” His mouth opens, wobbly, and tears flow over his eyes—briefly, Yuuta thinks that it’s cruel that you’d let him cry; that you have command over every function in his body and that you’d let him cry, but he can’t bring himself to be upset. He’d probably have cried regardless, because hearing you say that you love him is a rush comparable only to burning tightness in his gut right now.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling his lips to yours when you finally let go together. Yuuta can feel you tight around him, when he cums; and an unfiltered harmony of moans and skin on skin when he lays on top of you, sinks into you. Your hands don’t leave his hair, and Yuuta finds bliss in your affection, in being in your arms, in being yours.

He doesn’t know how long you two stay like that, he doesn’t know if physical time passes in your domain, but it doesn’t matter. He’d stay here forever with you, let you use the full extent of your prowess to eat his heart out as sustenance, bleed for you to quench your thirst. He’d be everything you need and more; he’ll make sure that he’s all you want when it’s done and over.

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thegnomelord · 6 months ago

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I have had a thought.

What if dragons purr when you rub their horns..

Dragon!Price x Gaz and/or Nikolai,,,

Hehdhehehe

Hmmm, I don't usually write character x character but i'll give it a try so tell me if this sucks lol

CW: SFW, Price x Gaz, horn rubbing, purring, monster cod au, soft short and sweet. 1224 words. Cross posted to Ao3

Kyle is a good soldier. Strong. Competent. Reliable. Though the fears of losing him on every mission still linger, they're eased by the fact that Price never has to worry that his sergeant will stumble in those crucial moments when a second of hesitation can be the difference between life and death. Never has to worry that his Gaz will think of himself as expendable and rush into the hailstorm of bullets. . .

Kyle is also a menace.

Especially when he's perched on his desk and giving John the most pathetic puppy dog eyes he's ever seen. "Please, captain, just one time?" The imp of a harpy even has the gall to flutter his eyes, looking at him through his lashes because he knows how the light of the setting sun hits his eyes juuuust right to make the brown glitter like gold and amber jewels.

"Kyle." Price stresses. This really isn't the time to indulge his sergeant's need for mischief when he's got a week's worth of backlogged paperwork to go through.

"Sir." Kyle throws his tone back at him, but the way the word rolls off his tongue and he adds the smallest chirp to the end of it makes something inside him stir. "Come on mate, I promise it'll only take five minutes." Kyle's wings spread out so he can display the shininess of his feathers - peacocking transcends species it seems - the mundane dark color turned to that of rich obsidian by the sun.

"It never takes just 'five minutes'." He tries to argue, but the usual commanding rumble in his voice is gone. Price knows he's fighting a losing battle from the way his fingers itch for him to burry them into the smooth feathers and preen Kyle's wings until his treasure croons.

Kyle knows this. He's unable to hide the arrogant look in his eyes when he bites his bottom lip and leans back, muscles tensing, because he knows how such a display of his body will make John's eyes automatically roam across his hard earned muscles. "Pretty please." Kyle says, tail feathers gently twitching side to side.

Both of them know Price never stood a chance.

"That was dirty." John sighs, dejected by his own weakness. The distance between them is small, but Price purposely takes slow steps. Kyle eagerly scoots back on the desk and spreads his legs for John to fit between, hands raising to hold his biceps as Price braces his palms against the desk next to Kyle's hips.

Kyle snorts. "As if you've never stooped lower cap." He spreads his wings to wrap around Price, soft feathered wing wrists bumping against his back.

John just growls lowly in response. He doesn't resist his body's natural desire to reciprocate, to reaffirm the claim over his hoard. The atrophied muscles on his right side still ache with phantom pain after all this time, but that doesn't stop him from wrapping his one remaining wing around Kyle. The combination of their wings acts as a shroud from the rest of the world, soft feathers brushing against his green scales and their scents mixing together.

Price treasures these little moments.

The peace only lasts for a few seconds before Kyle ruins it with a grin. "Now come on, give me your horns." He says, not even bothering for Price to tilt his head before Kyle's clever fingers rise up his arms to cup his face, inching closer to where his horns grow out of his skull.

Price promises to himself to hunt down and shoot whichever wanker posted the '101 ways to make a dragon purr like a kitty' on the internet. Ever since Kyle found that blasted instruction manual he's been trying to go through the entire list to verify the information. Price had seen the article in question and had nearly choked when he'd read that the author thought pulling on a dragon's tail could get them any other reaction than an immediate bisection—

Kyle's impatient fingers still just enough to gently scratch the bumpy base of his scalp around the horns. It tingles, and Price isn't able to tell if the tingling sensation is of the good kind or a bad. A small sound rolls from his throat, but that doesn't satisfy Kyle.

"Come on John, sing for me." Kyle repeats the words Price tells him when he's preening him, voice light and just at the edge of taunting. Keeping one hand around his base, Kyle slides the palm of his other hand up the hard bone until he reaches the natural curve of Price's horn. He squeezes gently and moves his hand like he's jerking him off.

"O-oh." Price is grateful he's bracing against the desk because his legs go weak. The sensation of his palm and the pressure of his hand is neither good nor bad, just unfiltered feeling that his brain can't even begin to handle, so it shoots it down his spine like lightning. The buzz of sensation catches on every vertebra and makes his wing quiver, forces his tail to wag like he's some lost puppy.

"Not what I was expecting." Kyle confesses. Price can't see the surprise and wonder on his face as John's eyes close automatically. His head tips forward to rest his forehead on Gaz's chest, brawny biceps tensing to just support his weight and claws digging into the desk with enough force to tear through the wood.

Kyle moves his hands so he's holding Price's horns in both hands. The pale green horns are smooth under his palms besides the occasional scratch or chip in them. Kyle moves his hands with slowly and methodically, changing the pressure he uses on every stroke and paying special attention to the sharp tips of his horns.

That's all it takes to turn John's chest into an geriatric engine. Price manages to groan and mumble a curse under his breath before the only sound leaving his lips is the deep baritone purr. There's no way of stopping it; If Price was in a better mind he would question why the gentle stroking of his horns has him feeling like a puddle of goo but his brain is completely fried from the sensation.

Kyle has heard him purr before but this is different. All the other times his purrs would always be throaty and quiet. Now it feels like the sound is coming straight from the bottom of his chest and, fuck, Kyle can feel it, feel the rumble shake his ribs and the desk beneath him. The sound is loud and unpolished and so raw Gaz feels naked just hearing it.

Kyle can feel his heard beating a mile a minute, his surprise making his hands still just long enough for Price to look up at him. Kyle could die happy after seeing how fucked out Price looks — pupils dilated to the size of plates, panting, red faced, so open and unguarded. Comfortable. With him.

"You've been holding out on me John." Kyle smiles softly, starting to stroke his horns again.

Price purrs even louder, his tail curling around Kyle's leg, managing to pull the claws of one hand from the desk to grip Kyle's thigh and pull him closer, draconic hind-brain desperately seeking to get more of that gluttonous pleasure from Kyle's hands.

Safe to say they take longer than five minutes.

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momotorin · 10 months ago

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heya @idlesana i have news to say

gp! professor!sana is the sweetest, most responsive professor you've ever had. it's so crazy that she's patient with everyone, especially you. she knows that you've been having difficulty with her class, and makes sure that you're understanding and passing everything.

she's been too patient with you and you just can't help but to adore this absolute glory of a woman— kind, beautiful, and fuck does she know how to make you sit.

well, it wasn't your fault to miss her class. it was your best friend's party, and she's your first class, so you went to her class, half-awake, half-sober.

that was the only day you saw miss minatozaki mad. (and fuck, she's hot.)

after the class, she makes you sit, stares at you with her glasses resting on the bridge of her nose and looks through it with literally the angriest (hottest) version you've seen her.

"you're late, y/n," she stood up, hands on table, still looking at you. "it's your first class of the first semester yet you're here like some drunk fuck."

"so what?" you sighed. "miss sana i do appreciate the comcern but you can't j-"

"what do you mean by i can't just?" she inches closer to you, sitting just on top of the table with her eyebrows creasing in the middle, in anger with what you just said.

"you've said it before to me," she lowly chuckles. "you," she points at your chest. "cannot," she does it again, a little more forcefully. "pass," you try to make her stop, but you just froze at her reaction. "this," she looks at you. "fucking class," she presses, a little more to make you feel a certain pain. "without me."

"i mean it's just a reaction since you've been really helpf-"

"did you think i'm just supposed to be helpful to you all the time? dumb bitch." her hands are now on both sides of your chair, looking down on you. "not even trying to listen to me, just busy with her shitfaced hangover."

"miss min-"

she puts a finger on your lips to shut you up. "don't even try to reason it out. where were you last night? out being fucked by some girl, drunk, on the streets? you look like you'd be the type to."

"no, for fucks sake that was my best friend's party," i chuckled at her. "just got really drunk and it must happens th-"

"another worth from your filthy mouth or i'm going to punish you."

you just nodded, feeling her backing away from you.

"let's make a compromise," she sighs, leaning against her table once more. "let me fuck you like little bitch you are, and i'm going to help you pass. hell, i'd even retell the whole lesson when you're fully sober. deal?"

you couldn't stop yourself, so you stood up to take her into a kiss, deep, passionate, as your tongues clash with each other.

"oh, um," you pulled away, seeing sana display a smirk. "uh.. sorry i-"

"don't be," she chuckles as she held your cheek. she comes close to your ear, whispering, "bend your ass over for me on the table like the little slut you are."

you did, as told, and she pulls down your pants, leaving you in your red, lace panties.

"pretty," she chuckles, tracing her hands on the pattern that drew along your ass. "who's got you dressing up like this, hm?"

"i just didn't have anything lef-"

"i told you, dumb slut," she faces you again, now removing her tie from her neck, pulling it to tie on your wrists. "no talking until i say so. got it, baby?"

you just nodded, complying with her condition. she unbuttons her white dress shirt, slow, teasing as you just watch her get undressed infront of you.

she humms, finally removing her shirt, unclasping her bra. she then moves on to her skirt, revealing a skintight compression boxer underneath.

"fuck," she grunts, hurrying to move the boxers to free her 10 inch cock. "hmm," she sighs, finally removing the length, so hard and ready that you heard it slap to her stomach.

"open up," she held you by the cheek, making you look up at her. "be a good girl and suck mommy's cock." she says, tapping the head on your mouth, forcing you to open. you opened your mouth for her, the length and girth consuming until the tip of your throat, choking you. she puts your hair in a makeshift ponytail as she ruts her hips, not even letting you room to breathe.

"fuck, so tight," she grunts once more, fucking into your mouth faster, making you gag on her cock. "can't take it all, hm?" she teases, making her thrusts slow but forceful.

"take it," she sighs, cumming in your mouth, pulling out to let herself see you receive her cum. "swallow, baby," she said, putting a hand on your cheek. "be a good girl."

you swallow, looking into her eyes like pleading to remove the itch between your thighs.

she then moves, going to your ass, spanking it hard enough to make you yelp.

she pulls your panties down, seeing a trail of wetness that had formed. she kneels and spreads your ass cheeks apart, letting herself see your wetness, so ready and inviting.

she licks a stripe from your clit, to your slit, making her tongue taste your arousal and need for her.

you whined, and received another spank, removing her tongue away fron you.

"so desperate," she lowly chuckles as she stood up, lining her length to your wet, needy little pussy. "i bet you're going to be so tight and warm for me, huh."

she inserts herself in an instant, her full length and girth stretching you whole. "fuck!" you screamed in shock.

she giggled as she leaned to whisper on you. "bet it's your first time to be fucked like this, huh."

you just nodded as she thrusted, slow, getting used to the tightness of your cunt.

"fuck, maybe it's your first time," she says. "is it?"

"yeah, ah," you moaned, tearing up as the stretch was really painful, but her being so deep inside you brings you some kind of pleasure you couldn't explain. she lets you hold onto her hand, as she thrusts in and out of your wetness, slow, gentle, trying to get you to be a little loose. "more."

"yeah, more?" she says, now her hands are placed on both sides of your waist as she builds up her speed. "if you're going to behave, and be my little cocksleeve, i'll give you the most, hm?" she whispered, letting herself succumb into your tightness.

safe to say her best was to let you go down the hallways limping.

#twice #twice smut #twice imagines #sana imagines #sana smut #sana

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d6volution · 11 months ago

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Something, something, nipple play. Headcanons for Caine, Jax, and Kinger to the reader’s pierced nipples?

ohhh, very much, yes, i love this idea 😌

the men of the digital circus finally play with your newly pierced nipples. How will each of them react?

tags: nipple play / light sexual themes.

minors dni.

Kinger.

He'd been staring at your chest for a while now, and you were leaning against your elbows, amused by his bewildered reaction.

"Is it really that strange?" You finally spoke up, causing him to tear his eyes from your chest. "Ah, well.. it certainly looks.. painful." He chuckles nervously.

"You can touch em you know."

"I.. I can? It won't hurt you..?" He asked, but his hands were already moving in to curiously play with the jewelry attatched to your nipples. He unknowingly tugged on one causing a moan to slip from your lips.

"M.. My apologies, y/n!" He quickly drew back his hands but you gripped his wrist and placed them back onto your chest.

"Kinger, it's.. fine.." You sighed, cheeks flushed your eyes were burning with hidden lust. Kinger recognized this expression of yours.. the same one you made when he was buried deep inside of you.

"Ah... oh."

With more vigor this time, his hands groped at your chest and fiddled with your stiffened nipples. Your moans were music to his ears. His hands shook with anticipation , and every 'accidental' tug and harsh pinch sent you reeling.

"I.. think I I've come to really enjoy your piercing.. y/n..."

Caine.

You've been avoiding the ring master lately. It wasn't an easy task. But, you had a feeling if he found out Zooble pierced your nipples for you, he'd.. freak out or something. After all he was obsessed with keeping things PG here.

"Ah, there you are, you slippery little snake!"

Annnddd he was behind you.

Before you could turn around to face him, your shirt was lifted by an unseen force, exposing your chest you immediately tried to cover yourself but he was floated in front of you and whipped his baton left and right forcing your arms to stay pinned at your side.

He tutted, "Just as I thought. You have been avoiding me for a reason! You know, as well as anyone here, just how inappropriate this dear,"

Your face was completely flushed, even though Caine seemed so nonchalant he wouldn't look you in the eye. His eyes were glued to your chest.

He hummed before lowering his floating form to your height. He tucked his baton under his arm and pulled at your left nipples jewelery.

You whimpered, "Ah— s-sorry Caine just.. d.. don't tug so hard..!" You struggled, but his 'magic' kept you in place.

"Oh? I think a bit of pain is most appropriate, wouldn't you agree?" He said , clearly enjoying this more than he should be. Those expressions.. the way you squirmed under his touch was making something unravel inside of him.

"I do hope you'll be able to get rid of these soon, perhaps... before our next adventure!" He leaned in and ran his long tongue against your chest, causing your eyes to widen. What the hell was he doing...!? This was epitome of inappropriate!

He sucked and played with the piercing with his tongue, leaving you absolutely melting in place.

Then, all of a sudden, your body was released, and you collapsed to the floor. The same unseen force yanked your shirt down. Someone was coming.

"Ah, Zooble! Just the person I was looking for!"

Caine glanced back at you, "I suspect we won't have any more issues y/n?" He said, but it almost sounded like.. an invitation? How strange.

"O.. Of course, Caine.." Beneath your shirt, your chest was still tingling.

Jax.

"No freakin' way," Two hands groped you from behind, and you jumped.

"J.. Jax, it was supposed to be a surprise!" You huffed but didn't make the effort to remove his hands. It felt nice, even though he was being a tad bit rough. Maybe out of excitement.

"Caine's gonna kill ya, babe." He laughed, and his hands slid down your waist towards the hem of your shirt. "Worth it, though." He muttered against your ear and finally slid his hands up your shirt to feel your chest. He shuffled you both towards the hallways wall, so he was pressed up against it and you against him.

You could feel him stiffening in his pants against your ass. "You're such a pervert.. you haven't seen them yet, and you're already hard?" You teased.

"Don't need to see em' to make ya do this." He pulled at your nipple, tweaking it gently before tugging at the jewlery itself.

You whined and pushed back against him, making his hidden size throb against you.

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any hotter babe, you go and do this.~" He grins, and you can feel it behind your head. That shit eating grin. "J.. Just shut up and keep touching me.."

"Don't have to tell me twice.. how about we take this in my room before someone ends up gettin' a show.. or maybe ya want that..?" Both of his hands were all over your chest. Thumb and index finger harassing your senstive nipples.

"N.. No, let's go to the room, please.." You were already falling apart, and Jax could tell.

"Lead the way.~"

#the amazing digital circus #ask #jax tadc #jax x reader #tadc caine #the amazing digital circus caine #caine x reader #jaxsmut #caine x reader smut #kinger x reader #kinger smut #minors dni

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bl00dlight · 3 months ago

Text

SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 8 LEAKS. DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU WANT MAJOR HELAEMOND SPOILERS.

I just wanna say. Once again the Helaegons prove their media illiteracy if they think that Aemond literally going to make amends with his sister, with TEARS IN HIS EYES... reaching for her ARM.... and him speaking so... softly.... when he says "come with me." AND HE SAYS IT LIKE THAT? PLEADING SOFTLY? AND HE ABOUT TO CRY? AND HE IS SO ANGRY AND VUNERABLE AND GUILT RIDDEN BUT IS SO HURT BY HER VISION THAT HE RESORTS TO WHAT HE ALWAYS DOES. AND THIS IS THE FIRST TIME WE'VE SEEN AEMOND ACT THIS WAY TO ANYONE. YALL SAYING HELAEGON WON?

When he reaches for her and GRAZES HER WRIST AND THEN STOPS HIMSELF AND PUTS HIS HEAD DOWN. BECAUSE HE CLEARLY FEELS SOME LEVEL OF GUILT FOR HIS ACTIONS???

Helaemond got the complicated tension simmering arc of misunderstanding helaegons wanted. If this was a Helaegon scene they'd be over the moon. Its only because mfs lack the understanding that Helaemond was never about soft squishy love and was always about yearning. And look at AEMOND YALL CANT SAY THEY DIDNT DO IT FOR HELAEMOND!!!! THE YEARNING!!! And I'm living for it. There is clearly context missing in those scenes, possibly that we might get Aemond and Helaena sort of teaming up in a scene or him pursuing her dreams/taking comfort in her like leaks said. Because when he comes into her room she sort of looks up at him softly and she doesn't seem angry or uncomfortable until he asks her to ride. + There is an established idea that Aemond requires her service again. And then in the balcony scene when she tells him the prophecy, it seems like he already knows about her dreams. So I suspect it's established earlier in the episode that Aemond and Hel have been having some sort of interaction about them.

Which I think is what makes the balcony scene so heartbreaking. We can see there is a connection that Aemond has, that when Helaena assumes he will hurt her, he visibly gets upset and goes into that defence mode again. He comes to her... with tears in his eyes... saying they SHARE THE SAME BLOOD AND THEIR MOTHER CAN'T UNDERSTAND AND... AND... THAT THEY SHARE A TRUER CALL TOGETHER?????? And helaegons are claiming they've won... why because she tells him the ending of the war? Because she refuses to fight?

The way she speaks so softly and gently and despondently about him dying.... I think we've got it Helaemonds. It's heartbreaking. And the idea of Aemond wanting Hel to join him at Harrenhal???? To bring Daemon down together???

Again I'm hoping those aren't the only scenes we are getting cause that would legitmately not make fucking sense but you never know with HOTD.

But still the fact we got Aemond going up with tears in his eye... and his FACEEE and the way the tear goes away at the end when she walks away and instantly he goes back to hardening up. I'm SORRY BUT OHHHH GODDDD THE PAIN!! The way he begins to tear up exactly when he asks her for help too... when he asks her to come with him... I'M DYING....

And then HOW HIS FACE CHANGES WHEN HE GETS HURT BY WHAT SHE SAYS.

And HER FACE.... WHEN SHE TELLS HIM HE IS GOING TO DIE... and HE VOICE... HOW SHE SAYS IT SUPER SOFTLY AND HER VOICE BREAKS.

And then when she says that her death won't change anything...

And that's what Hel meant by was it worth the price? Yall notice how the entire scene is about Helaena telling him his pursuit of power is his downfall...

Notice how she didn't really care about Aegon nearly dying, it was the fact AEMOND did it. The fact AEMOND is losing himself, and she asks "will you do the same to me?"

And you can see how vunerable he is and hurt and how his defences are all the way down and all he can do is whisper out that she is speaking treason. And when he threatens her... he doesn't do it harshly or in the same way he did to Aegon. He says it as if it's hurting him. He's got a tear in his eye as he says he could have her killed.

Which he clearly would never do. But he says it. Why? Because he is struggling to maintain his defence around her. Struggling to cope with the fact he hurt her to the point of her rejecting HELPING HIM. OH MY GODDDD.

I don't know what else yall were expecting, but uh in my opinion we've won. We hit all the points

Yearning

Aemond being vulnerable

Begging

Misunderstanding

Targcest vibes with the whole Valryian supremacy lines

Helaena telling him about his own death

The hesitancy towards physical touch

#hotd #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #targaryen #got #aemond one eye #daemon targaryen #rhaneyra targaryen #daenerys targaryen #helaemond #helaena targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #helaegon #house of the dragon season 2 leaks

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poppy-metal · 3 months ago

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poppy!!! how do you feel about pat experiencing a dom drop? ugh i wanna help him so bad, make him feel okay

I think it's something he doesn't experience often - most of the times he's domming you, it's not really a scene it's more spur of the moment - but sometimes it gets really intense and he leaves marks on you. deep divots in your flesh that mottle purple and dark and look painful. he doesn't usually feel guilty, he trusts you to know what you can and can't take and most of the time you deliberately provoke him anyway. but sometimes he just wants to be mean - sometimes he has a shit day and he just kind of wants to take it out on you, and you let him, because you're perfect.

and he feels like shit after - because he should be a better boyfriend. he shouldn't have treated you like that, especially when he was in a foul mood, just to make himself feel better. you do so much for him, give so much of yourself, and he feels like he gives so little in return. he doesn't deserve you. he's not worth the kind of devotion you show him. he's not worth your submission. he's a piece of shit.

he's quiet. distant from you when he's a big cuddle bug after sex and that's how you know hes in his head. frown marring his face as he lights a cigarette and blows smoke out in plumes, looking lost in thought. you know they aren't good thoughts. so you work to stop them before they get too far along.

sliding closer to his warm body, and wrapping around him. you feel him flinch - like your touch isn't expected but you just hold him tighter and rest your head on his chest. "I love you," you tell him, soft and true. you hear his heart thump a little harder. he lets out a breath.

"I don't deserve you." he says and you feel the hand that's not holding the cigarette start to play with your hair. fingers gliding through the strands. they skim down your arm next, down to your wrists that have welts on them from where he'd ziptied them behind your back earlier. he thumbs over the angry mark there, it'll be purple tomorrow. "why do you let me do that shit to you?"

you move your hand - so that you're palm to palm with him and interlock your fingers. bring his hand up to your lips and kiss the back of his hand. press your cheek against it.

"because I like it." you say. "you think you're selfish and an asshole for using me - but I'm just as selfish. I like it when you take your anger out on me. I hope that you do. you know that I sometimes even piss you off on purpose so you'll hurt me. if you don't think less of me for all of that, I don't think less of you either."

you kiss his pec, nuzzle against the hair that makes him the perfect pillow. your body is sore and well fucked and you'll bruise in places tomorrow from how thoroughly he worked out his aggression on your body. and you couldn't be more content.

"tomorrow you can pamper me," you tell him, starting to yawn. "spoil me. in fact I expect it. full princess treatment, okay?"

you feel his lips brush the top of your head. he stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray near the bed and uses both arms now to wrap around you, drag you closer to him, tuck you under his chin, right where you fit him perfectly.

"yeah, I can do that."

#ask #him <3 #patrick zweig x reader

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chaos-in-deepspace · 5 months ago

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LNDS Zayne: Toy Panda (18+)

So I just bought pain relieving cream and two braces because I have managed to literally kill my wrists by writing all this smut. It's so worth it. This is just smut and fluff guys. Also really bad jokes. Like really bad. Those are my favorite.

Disclaimer: This is an original fan work for “Love and Deepspace”. Do not repost on other platforms or plagiarize. All characters shown in this fic is 18+. Warnings: Unsafe Sex, Panda Outfits, Fluff, Horrible Jokes, Fingering, Penis in vagina sex Pairing: Zayne x Reader Synopsis: You had beaten Zayne as kitty cards and, as a prize, got him in the viral panda outfit. The only issue is he wants to take it off, and you want to help him in those efforts. Word Count: 4.5k

Blog Information | Masterlist

Zayne

Toy Panda

You stared at the door, waiting patiently. Your panda overalls felt huge and a little warm; you played with the sleeves as you waited patiently for your favorite doctor. You were relaxed on his couch, your arms going over the edge as you stared. Any minute now and you could get to see the fruits of your labor finally paying off.

Your silent wishes were answered as you heard the click of the door opening, Zayne slowly coming out of his bedroom. A large panda outfit hung off him, the overalls being ridiculously big even on his hulking form. He didn’t bother with the hood as he adjusted his glasses. You could see the start of a blush on his cheeks as he was looking anywhere but at you.

“Oh my god you’re adorable for once!” You said, jumping off the couch to go run over to him. He really did look like a giant panda plushie and you wanted to just curl your arms around him and never let go. Zayne, however, seemed less amused by the situation as he looked over at you finally, seeing your eyes lighting up at his gaze.

The man let out a long, exasperated sigh, “Well, does this satisfy the conditions to your win?” He said, opening his arms a bit so you could see. When he looked at you this time he seemed almost amused with how giddy you were. You knew the man was a pushover when it came to concerns about you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Oh no, you lost fair and square at kitty cards the other day. You’re gonna be stuck like this for a bit, Doctor Panda.” You joked, your hand going over to his fluffy overalls as you played with the soft fabric.

“If I’m not mistaken you were the one who wanted to trade cards about three times during our round, which led to your victory.” He said and you huffed, crossing your arms.

“It’s not my fault you let me.” You had simply used an advantage you called ‘Zayne loves you way too much and will let you cheat at cards, even if it's against him’. It was a viable strategy when playing kitty cards.

“If this is supposed to be a punishment, then why are you wearing the outfit as well?” He asked, noticing how soft you looked at the moment. You pulled the hood up, tilting your head back and forth in a little shimmy shake.

“It’s cute and comfy, obviously. Besides, we never get to match!” You exclaimed as though you were stating the most obvious thing in the world. He looked somewhat amused at your declaration, his hand reaching out to pat the top of your head.

“You do look rather cute like this.” He said, leaning down to be eye level with you. You chuckle, hands going to cup his cheeks and give them a small pinch in response.

“We both look cute like this, mister.” You said, pressing a kiss on his nose, “Absolutely adorable. The cutest.” You claimed, pressing a kiss to his forehead this time, “I wouldn’t mind if you wore this every day, my dear panda.”

Your hands slipped from his cheeks as he began standing up straight, “Well as fun as this is, I think I’d rather get changed now.” Oh no he didn’t.

Your hands found themselves in the thick plush of the overalls, tugging at him so he couldn’t get too far away, “You can’t change yet, you haven’t been in it long enough. Just showing up wearing it isn’t enough.” You whined out, giving the clothes another tug to show your displeasure.

Zayne looked down, his hands cupping your own, his body looming over you as he leaned forward, “You never stated the duration that I’d be in these.” He pointed out. Your lip jutted out in a mock pout as you tightened your grip on him.

“You need to wear them until I’m satisfied.” You declared.

“And when will that be? In an hour? Or perhaps in the morning?” His voice was coming out almost mocking. He had a point though, if he agreed to that then he might be in these well into the afternoon of tomorrow. It was something he would never agree to since he was a logical man at the end of the day.

“Okay fine…then how about a kiss? If you can satisfy me with a kiss then you can get changed.” You finally settled on, knowing those terms were more than acceptable.

“Just a kiss?” He seemed skeptical.

“A good kiss that leaves me in a puddle by the end.” You clarified, knowing he might tease you and give you a soft peck, then call it a day. He let out a small sigh, but the faint upturn of his lips gave away his emotions.

Zayne placed a hand on your chin, tilting your head up while the other hand was planted firmly on your hip. He leaned in, his lips pressing against your own. Your eyes fluttered closed as you relaxed into him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders.

He leaned down a bit to help you out, dragging you closer until your body was flush against his own. You felt his teeth nip gently at your lip and you happily sighed into the kiss, opening up enough for him to explore your mouth. He tasted like the mint ice cream you two had grabbed before heading back to his apartment earlier.

You let out a small moan as the hand on your hip gently rubbed at you; a shiver ran down the length of your spine. He finally parted from your lips, a small string of saliva that connected you two snapping. You looked up at him with your eyes half lidded, biting your lower lip. You always wanted more when it came to this man. Just one kiss, no matter how good it was, had never been enough.

“Are you satisfied now?” He whispered, his nose bumping against your own. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, then your eyes darted away.

“We might need to try again, just so I can be sure…” You murmured, looking back up at him. His eyes were already darkening from lust and you knew just a bit more would lead you to his room.

“Now, now, aren’t you being a bit greedy?” Zayne asked, raising his eyebrow in question. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that he clearly thought you were cute with the small pout on your lips. The glint in his eye was unmistakable, or at least it was to you at this point in your relationship.

Still, despite his teasing, he leaned his head back in and captured your lips once more. The hand on your chin slowly moved down to hold the other side of your waist as your body melded into his. Even through the thick fabrics you could still feel the slight warmth radiating off his body.

This kiss had been sweeter as Zayne took his time to savor the taste of your lips on his. It was serene how he made you feel so safe in his arms. The hands that were around his shoulders went to play with the soft, black hair. Zayne hummed into the kiss, appreciating the small gesture as your hands combed through them leisurely.

After a few moments, he finally parted from you again, although this time he placed a sweet kiss on your forehead, then to your cheeks, and finally on your nose. A giggle bubbled in your chest, escaping in an airy laugh. You looked up at him, a dopey grin spreading on your face.

“Now that you seem satisfied, I think I’ll go change into something more comfortable.” He said, making you remember exactly what you had been doing previously.

“Changing without me? You’re not gonna let me help?” You playfully jeered, your hands slowly coming down until they rested on Zayne’s broad chest. His own hands once again went to cup yours, bringing them both to his mouth as he gently kissed your knuckles.

“I think I’m fully capable of taking off my own clothes.” He said finally, your face falling for a moment at his statement. Despite your need for the man, you wouldn’t press him into anything. You gave a small smile and nodded.

“Alright, if you insist that you don’t need my help, I guess I can let you strip by yourself.” You said with a shrug and he let out a long breath, staring at you for a moment as though trying to decide what he wanted to do.

He seemed to finally settle on something when he spoke, “Although it would be a shame if we were no longer matching, now wouldn’t it?”

“We would still be matching if we were both naked.” You didn’t miss a beat.

He nodded his head as though that actually made sense. He always had that ability to play along with you as though you were spitting facts, despite the nonsense you often spewed. It made you feel…important.

You let out a small squeak of surprise as he cupped your ass, lifting you up. Your legs went to lock around his waist as he began carrying you to his bedroom, “I wouldn’t mind matching you in such a way, as long as you find it agreeable.” He finally settled on as he opened the bedroom door.

“Zayne, if I ever say no to that kind of question, just assume someone kidnapped me and replaced me with a doppelganger.” You said in an overly serious tone. Zayne exhaled through his nose in an attempt at laughing, because lord forbid he ever have a proper belly laugh once in a while.

Still you didn’t fight the fit of giggles, your stomach feeling like a million butterflies were fluttering around with your love for the man. You cupped his cheeks once more, placing feather light kisses all over his face as he carried you over to the bed. You felt more than you saw when he smiled, your lips kissing the corners of his mouth until you pecked them.

The comfortable mattress sank as he set you down gently, the bed creaked slightly under your weight. You decided to be nice and let go of his face, though you wished you wore lipstick as his face would’ve been absolutely littered in marks. Something to save for another day.

“Looking at you like this, I might mistake you for a plushie.” He said, noticing how your hood was still up. You were kicking your feet, smiling at him with a happy glint in your eyes that always seemed to put Zayne in a good mood.

“If I’m a plushie then will you promise to hold me tight and never let go?” You settled on, your tone was anything but seductive. A small blush was blooming on your cheeks with the way he looked down at you.

“I never had any intentions of letting you go in the first place.” His words seemed so final that your breath got caught in your throat.

Zayne began working off his clothes, easily shucking off the overalls and ripping the hoodie off in one quick motion. Normally he was more careful with how he treated clothes when taking them off, but you noted how he seemingly didn’t care about this particular outfit. Strange.

Once Zayne was left in nothing but his underwear; your tongue poking out as you licked your lips, “Damn panda daddy, I forgot how much you were hiding under all that fur.”

Zayne paused, looking over at you and you could see the disappointment in his eyes. It only fueled your amusement, snickering at the expression he made at you. He was always exasperated from your antics, but seeing the hope leaving him never ceased to make you giddy. It was just too beautiful to see the Doctor Zayne get caught off guard.

He didn’t even say anything in response, only changing where he looked when you made grabby hands, “You need to help your plushie.” You cooed happily.

Zayne walked over to you, unclipping the overalls and they fell around your hips. You were beaming the entire time as he made you raise your hips so he could fully pull it off you. You were left in the panda hoodie and your underwear when he placed both hands on either side of your thighs.

“You realize you are not some toy, correct?” He asked, finally lightening up with a smile of his own. You felt the need to crush it once more.

“I mean…I wouldn’t mind if I were your little fuck toy, Doctor Zayne.” You purred.

You watched Zayne’s eyes widen for a moment before he looked away. He took a moment to recover before looking back at you. “A study I read claims that shame can play an important role in social interactions, perhaps one day you should try it.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have let me become so comfortable in your presence then. It’s your fault I have no issue voicing my desires anymore.” You joked, although it did hold truth. Zayne had been very persistent in making sure you were clear with what you wanted from him so he wouldn’t have to second guess everything. You felt like you could tell him literally anything in your head at this point.

Zayne watched as you began lifting up the hoodie, ready to take it off and toss it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor, when his hands stopped you. He leaned down, whispering right in your ear, “Come now, a toy shouldn’t try to do things by themselves.”

You felt a small gasp escape your lips, your cheeks turning scarlet at his words. You had only been half joking about the fuck toy situation, but if he wanted to use your body for his own pleasure, you’d never stop him. You could feel your already wet underwear getting soaked as you squeezed your thighs together. A shiver went down your spine as you went to lay your hand on his chest.

He moved closer to press a kiss to your face before backing up just enough to hook his fingers under the elastic band of your panties. He began pulling them off, satisfied with the string of arousal that was very hard to miss. He threw them over to the pile then took a finger to run through your soaked folds.

Your breath hitched as his thick finger entered your cunt, pressing into your soft heat. You went to roll your hips into his touch, but he was quick to push your upper body down onto the bed. His large hands pushed your hoodie up just enough to expose the underside of your breasts. His eyes glazed over them for a moment before he put his free hand over your stomach, holding you down so you wouldn’t move.

“A good toy doesn’t try to squirm.” Zayne pointed out, making you huff as you tried holding still. Your hands went above your head as you grasped at the fluffy blankets underneath you, trying to do your best to obey him for the time being.

As a reward, he entered another finger into you as he began scissoring the digits to help open you up for the main event later. The lewd squelching sound of your pussy made you flush, your thighs twitching as your instinct was to close them. Still, with the slight curl of his finger hitting your sweet spot had you almost rolling your eyes back in ecstasy.

“Fuck, Zayne, can I move?” You asked, wanting to ride his fingers. He was so good at riling you up, getting you close to coming on his fingers alone.

“You’re the one who said you wanted to be a toy, did you not?” He asked and you whimpered in response, “Good toys just lay there.” Oh he was going to be the death of you. It hadn’t even been ten minutes and you almost regretted putting the offer on the table.

“I’m a new interactive toy.” You finally settled on, hoping he would play along with you.

“And when did toy companies begin producing such bratty models?” His fingers were now pistoning faster in your tight heat, making sure every thrust hit your sweet spot head on.

“Around the time they realized their user base had b-brat tamers.” You managed to say between a strangled moan.

You cried out as his thumb pressed harshly over your clit, “Then perhaps I just need to train this toy so they’re more well behaved.” his thumb rolled in circles over your clit and you were now biting your lip. A familiar warmth settled in your stomach, threatening to spill out at a moment’s notice.

“G-good luck.” You chuckled, trying to roll your hips but his hand made it impossible. It was clear that you were going to cum on his terms.

You were so close to becoming a whimpering mess, begging him when he pressed down on your clit again. That was enough for you to topple over the edge, your walls clenching tightly around his fingers. Your pulse was thrumming, the blood rushing all over your body and you could hear a faint ringing as Zayne worked you through your climax.

His motions got softer as you came back down to earth, staring over at his face with a fucked out gaze. He wore that smirk that never ceased to make you go crazy.

“What a good toy.” Zayne commented almost like an afterthought. You watched him bring his fingers to his lips, sucking off your release. You groaned, wanting him to properly fuck you already.

“Will you fuck me now?” You whispered, your voice soft from how relaxed and pliant your entire body felt right now.

“Since my little panda was so obedient, I guess I can give them a reward.” Zayne said as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to you. Your hands immediately found their way to his hair, wanting to tug him closer as his tongue laced with your own. The taste of your own climax was still fresh on him and you couldn’t help the low whine coming from your throat.

His lips left yours, but he was still close enough so when he spoke they grazed against you, “Do you promise to behave?”

“Yes, sir.” You said with a soft cry, wanting to feel his cock splitting you open already.

You watched him stand up, taking off his underwear. His erection stood proudly against his abs, the tip leaking pre and dripping down the shaft. You licked your lips in response, your mind already supplying you with several fantasies of what you want to do with his length

Zayne came over, lifting you up enough for him to slide a pillow under your hips to help you get comfortable. “Are you ready, my little panda?” He teased. You smiled bashfully, nodding your head as he opened up your legs, your glistening folds inviting the man to take whatever he wanted from you.

His cock slowly began sinking into your heat, careful not to go too fast or else he risked hurting you. Still, you were impatient and had to hold back your complaints as he continued driving his dick deeper into your pussy.

After a few short thrusts, his cock was almost completely in you. You felt the stinging stretch of his monstrous length as it filled you up to the point of almost breaking. You took a few sharp breaths, relaxing around his girth. You went to roll your hips once you had grown accustomed to him, but his hand pressed down on your stomach again to stop you.

“I thought you said you’d behave?” He said and you whined in response, glancing up at him. He had a concentrated look on his face, trying not to cum just from entering you. He always tried to coax an orgasm out of you, but sometimes the way you sucked him in made him want to burst in an instant.

“I will…” You finally say and he nodded, giving an experimental roll of his hips. You let out a breathy gasp, enjoying how his girth managed to hit every single spot in you without trying. It was like he was made for you.

He chuckled, repeating the motion before speaking, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a panda make a noise like this.”

You weren’t thinking when you spoke, already cock drunk. “You’re fucking other pandas?” It wasn’t until the words left you that you had to take a second and think over your inner dialogue options.

Zayne didn’t move and you chanced to look at him, seeing him shaking his head. “It’s not too late for me to pull out and go to bed, is it?” He murmured and you let out a cry at his words.

You locked your ankles around his back, hooking him into place inside of you. Your hands trailing over his biceps as you gave them a small squeeze, “Noooooo, don’t leave me like this. I’m sorry, I said it without thinking.”

Zayne let out a heavy, almost burdened sigh, “I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.” Despite his words, he did grind back into you, making you mewl in delight. The small giggle that was stuck in your throat turned into pants as he began rocking his hips to a steady tempo.

“Zayne…” You managed to rasp out. He hummed, letting you know he could hear you, “You’re holding back still.” You knew he wasn’t fully inside of you judging by how his hips never met your own.

“I simply don’t want to break my new toy, is that so wrong?” He grunted, never letting up the gentle pace he had set.

“It’s fine if you break me; you’re a doctor after all. You can put me back together.” You said.

“Doesn’t this little panda work tomorrow?” He said, hips stopping as he looked down at you, wanting you to confirm his suspicions.

“I’ll be fine…please?” You begged him, pouting as you looked at your loving boyfriend. He pondered for a moment if he’d regret his decision, then shook his head.

“If that’s what you wish.” He finally said. You were about to celebrate when a surprised squeal came out of your mouth. He had taken your legs that were locked behind him, pressing them so they laid against your chest. He had you in the perfect mating press as he looked down at you with hungry eyes.

His hips rutted into your tight hole, getting deeper with every rock until you could feel the head pressing against your cervix. You opened your mouth in a garbled whine, closing your eyes as you took in the feeling. You were already so damn close just from his dick being fully settled inside of you.

Then he set a brutal pace, jackhammering his cock into your cunt like a man running out of time. The noises escaping you couldn’t be distinguished, his name a slur on your lips as stars began entering your vision. It was just too damn good, your entire body spasming with twitches as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

You squeezed his arms, your nails digging into the flesh to help ground yourself. It didn’t help much as he helped you reach new peaks, his dick being the only thing on your mind as your eyes rolled back.

The delicious friction of his pelvis against your swollen bud was what set you off. Your body clenched around him as heat spread under your skin. The ringing in your ears came back ten fold and your vision blurred into white. Your entire body spasming with your release as your hoarse voice called his name like a prayer.

You could faintly hear Zayne’s voice over the ringing, “So good, doing such a good job for me, my angel.” He groaned, pressing open mouth kisses along the column of your neck. You were slowly coming back down when you felt his length leaving you.

Your eyes looked over, watching as Zayne’s hand engulfed his length, gliding over the shaft before his milky release began splattering on your stomach and right over your overstimulated pussy. You were trembling still as you felt the liquid hitting your overheated skin.

Once he was spent, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours, looking you in the eyes, “How are you?” His voice was like silk, gently pulling you back down to him. His clean hand moved some hair that had gotten into your face as he pressed a kiss to your nose, waiting patiently.

“Never been better.” You said, still in a bit of a daze.

“I wasn’t too rough, was I?” He asked, noticing how your aching legs began falling to his sides. You hummed in thought, a hand going to cup his cheek and you smiled.

“Not at all.” You said with a small laugh. Zayne smiled, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips before going to stand.

“I’ll be right back, you wait right here.” He said, looking you over once more before leaving the room.

He didn’t leave you for long, soon coming back in, this time with underwear on. He held a glass of water in one hand, and a warm, wet towel in the other. He approached you on the bedside, setting the glass down and moving in with the towel to clean up your combined spend.

You winced as the towel went to clean your folds and Zayne glanced up at you, “I did warn you about this outcome.” He scolded and you rolled your eyes.

“It’s worth it…it’s always worth it.” You fought back, not ever giving in that you might’ve made a slight miscalculation. How you’d be able to run around at work tomorrow was a mystery. You debated calling out, after all it was insanely easy for you to get a doctor’s note to explain your absence.

“You’re insatiable.” he said, finishing up between your legs. He handed you a glass of water, eyeing you as you took a small sip. Once you realized it was perfectly chilled you let the water run down your throat, enjoying how soothing it felt. You didn’t realize how scratched your throat had gotten until that moment.

Once you finished you handed him back the cup, “Thank you very much, Doctor Panda.” You teased.

“Doctor Panda?” He asked incredulously.

“Yes, sir.”

“Remind me to be more careful to not lose a bet with you.” He said as he went to lay in the bed, pulling you along with him. Your head rested on his chest as you looked up at him.

“I dunno, my ideas do tend to lead to fun outcomes.” You pointed out.

“I assure you, all you need to do is ask and you shall receive.” He informed you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“I’ll remember that for future reference…I love you, Zayne.” You said, letting the sap take over after your passionate tryst.

“Love you too, my little panda.”

#loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace #Zayne Love and Deepspace #Lnds #Lnds Zayne #lnds x reader #x reader #reader insert #zayne x reader #l&ds #l&ds zayne #l&ds zayne x reader #lads x reader #lads zayne #lads zayne x reader #rabid rabbit hours

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logansobsession · 25 days ago

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Anything But You Pt. 2

Ft. Logan Howlett x f! Reader- X-men, Marvel

(Logan's your ex husband, leaving you without any explanation on a Sunday morning. It's been 3 years since the divorce had been finalized)

Setting- 70's Logan Howlett ( Days of future past)

Contains: fluff, smut!!, talks of miscarriage, age gap, receiving oral and fingering, unprotected piv, alcohol and tobacco usage, blood, wounds, suicidal ideations

Word count: 8.8k

Authors note: I hope everyone enjoys this as much as I have! The ending is so worth reading everything. I love me a good slow burn story with Logan, it's worth the buildup. The ending is damn spicy * cries in triumph*, I promiseeeee it is worth the tension and buildup

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After what felt like hours, you've made it to your destination. A run down, well known spot for burglaries and criminals. Not the best spot for a woman who doesn't know the first thing about criminal activity. You walk up and down the aisles, looking for the section that held the vodka. You can spot a few stragglers in the store, looking at you with concern. Blood stained the sleeve of your jacket, but after the day you have had, you could care less.

Logan was getting close now, now being able to get a stronger sense of you on the other side. He still couldn't pinpoint exactly where you were, but he was getting there. He knew it. Logan was also starting to get a better idea of just how panicked you were, the feelings of anxiety and dread starting to get even stronger on his end. He let out a frustrated growl before speeding up a bit, continuing to drive through the city.

You carry six large bottles up to the man behind the register, " rough night?" he asks. Clearly concerned by the simple fact that there's enough blood on your sleeve from your cut that it would scare most people from even approaching you. You ignored the man's concern, pointing to the brand of cigarettes you smoke behind the man's back. He grabs them along with the bottles of alcohol and scans everything with no more words uttered between the two of you. You walk out of the liquor store, bag slung around your arm. Wounded hand packing the box of cigarettes. You open the box, laying one between the dryness of your lips to light.

It was only a matter of time now before he found you. Logan's head was pounding now, the headache and anxiety only getting worse and worse. He pushed through the pain though, knowing he was getting close now. He turned the corner, driving past a few buildings before noticing the liquor store up ahead. Feeling a bit hopeful, he quickly parked the motorcycle and got off of it, heading in the direction of the store.

After successfully lighting the cigarette, you look around before turning back the way you came.

Logan walked up to the front door of the store, stopping in front of them as he got that sense of deja vu again. He didn't understand why this place seemed so familiar to him, but he shook it off the moment he looked to his left. You.

Looking up from your cigarette, you see the last person on Earth that you would really want to deal with. Logan locked eyes with you, seeing you stand a few feet away. He noticed the bandage on your hand and immediately knew what you had done. He didn't say anything yet though, just walking closer and looking you over carefully.

You ignore his eyes wandering down to the hand holding the cigarette, stained with blood. You turn around and begin walking back to the apartment building. Logan wasn't in the mood to deal with you being a smartass and ignoring him right now, especially with how worried and panicked he had been earlier. So he wasn't going to let you get away that easily. He quickly stalked after you around the corner, grabbing your wrist and spinning you around to face him. " What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

You stare at him, cold and hard. You said nothing and took another drag from your cigarette. You blew the smoke in his face, vile grin creeping up on your face. " Shouldn't you be busy burying yourself in the woman from the bar?"

Logan's jaw clenched, feeling his irritation towards you slowly but surely take over. He snatched the cigarette from you, tossing it to the ground and stomping it before grabbing both of your wrist in a firm grip. " I'm too busy taking care of you instead of burying myself into anyone, which is the last thing I want to be doing right now, by the way."

" Yeah, okay. I'm sure Logan. And I'm too busy drowning my feelings with alcohol, something you can never do." You say, licking your lips in attempts from letting them crack due to the harsh wind beating against your face. You continue your fiery gaze, " I hate you Logan Howlett. I want you to leave me alone until the day I am six feet deep in the cold, hard ground. What I do now, is none of your concern."

His jaw clenched tighter, getting more irritated by the minute. He was a lot of things, sure. But concerned for you was right now at the top of that list. Despite everything you had said to him, his feelings for you were still there and just as strong. "I'm not going anywhere. Not when you've got a presumably large cut and you reek of alcohol."

"Yeah, because you care so much. Just like how much cared when you fucking left me. Real caring of you Logan. All you care about is your bike, cigars, and getting your dick wet by random women you sweep out of the bars." You spat, venom laced with your words. Wishing you had just been smarter and gone to bed instead of leaving the apartment for more vodka.

" I care about my bike, cigars, and woman? Really?" He asked, clearly pissed off now. "You don't think I care about you? You don't think I miss you? You don't think I've missed you for the past three years?" He hissed, his voice low but still with an angry undertone. His hold on your wrists tightened a bit for a brief moment.

" That's a fat ass lie Logan. You just want to piss me off and it's working." You say, slamming your hands into his gut and pulling them from his grip. You walk away from him, and begin walking back to the apartment building, praying that he doesn't follow. Last thing you needed was that little shit knowing where you lived.

When you slammed your hands into his stomach, he actually let out a gasp in surprise. That one actually hurt. But he couldn't let you get away that easily. The whole point of driving around the city searching for you was so he could make sure you didn't do anything stupid. So he wasn't going to let you just walk away. He followed after you, walking right up beside you and walking next to you. "You aren't really getting rid of me that easily."

You ignore Logan's words, knowing that pisses him off more than anything in the world. You think to yourself ' Guess we're both ending the night pissed off.' You lit up another cigarette, trying to calm the nerves on fire from the rage winding up inside of you, trying to break free.

Logan was walking beside you, quietly seething in anger. He wanted to push you up against a wall and grab you by your wrists. To get right in your face and yell at for being so careless and stupid. He clenched his jaw, hands shoved into his pockets. Damn you for making him care so much.....

At this point, you're halfway to the apartment. You stop in your tracks, deciding he is not following you home. " You need to leave and go back where you came from. You are not following me home. You are dead to me, do you not comprehend that? Or did the adamantium finally seep into your brain?"

Logan stopped walking when you stopped, turning to stare at you. He let out a low and frustrated hiss, looking up at the sky for a moment before looking back at you. "I understand that perfectly fine, thank you very much. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to follow you all the way to your apartment and make sure you're safe. So deal with it sweetheart."

You swear lowly under your breath, knowing he means it. You sit down on the sidewalk and pull out a fifth of vodka. " Guess we're staying the night right here, because I don't want you banging on my door when you damn well feel like torturing me with your presence. " You state while opening the bottle and taking a long and hearty swig from it.

Logan sat down beside you, letting out a long sigh. He knew you weren't going to listen to him anytime soon, so he would just have to wait until you were less of a hardass. He put his feet out in front of him, leaning back on his hands as he looked over at you. "You and your damn alcohol problem...."

You take another swig "This didn't happen until you left. Oh look! Another problem you so willingly bestowed upon me. Dead baby, divorce, alcoholism, and now you yourself."

" I didn't give you an alcohol problem." He said, his irritation starting to return and coming through his voice. He was starting to get tired of you trying to get a rise out of him like this. It wasn't going to work. "You gave yourself a damn alcohol problem. You're the one picking up bottles of vodka like your life depends on it. Stop trying to push that all on me."

"Says the one that spent most of his time chasing the feeling of being drunk instead of mourning with me over the loss of OUR baby" You said, extremely pissed off and over Logan's games. " What other way did I have to cope from the divorce? Go to the gym and listen to the ratty men there hit on me? I already deal with it enough at the bar."

He clenched his jaw tighter, that one really getting to him. He hated it even more when you brought up the child. " Oh, please. You did more than just mourn over the death of our child, and you damn well know it. You started pushing people away. You shut me and your family out. You were the one who spent all your time alone instead of letting anyone in." He let out a huff. " And by the way, I was right there with you too. I was going through that same loss too."

You slowly turn your head towards him, facing growing hot from the vodka and anger. You took in a deep breath before unloading the worst things to come to mind. Because at this point? You didn't care. " YOU didn't sit there covered in blood from the waist down. You didn't scream into your pillow at night while your spouse was spending his nights at the bars instead of holding you. You didn't have to hear the doctor say the baby was gone. You weren't the the one that had to not only feel the loss, but see the small clump of what was left of the pregnancy in the god damn toilet Logan. I shut down because I was ALONE!" You screamed in his face. Standing up, you gather your stuff and begin walking again, forcing the tears back into your eyes, avoiding them from spilling.

Logan remained sitting there for a moment, staring out into the street. He was trying desperately to calm down, but it wasn't really working. Your words were just pushing every....single....button that he had. He clenched his jaws even tighter, getting more irritated and angry with you. He pushed himself to his feet before walking a few steps after you. " And I did sit there while you pushed me away. I was there when those goddamn doctors told us the bad news. I tried to be there when you needed me the most. But you never let me in!"

You whipped around quickly "That is bullshit and we both know it. You are infamous for shutting down and disappearing, so don't you project your shit onto me." You turn back around, walking faster now, desperate to turn this last corner and get into the apartment.

"I'm infamous for disappearing?" he repeated, starting to walk faster to catch up to you. Within a few long strides, he was now walking right beside you. " Let's think back on all of that for second, sweetheart. Who was the one who never wanted to be vulnerable? Who was the one who didn't ever open up because they were too 'scared of being hurt?' Who was it who didn't trust a damn soul?!"

"YOU! You, you, you. Mother fucker!' You screamed at him, unaware of the tears now rushing down your cheeks. You make it to the apartment building and begin climbing the stairs. Logan followed you up the stairs, letting out a frustrated huff as he listened to you scream at him. He was getting fed up with you and your stubborn ass.

"No sweetheart. Wrong answer!" He slammed his hand against the stairwell landing on the second floor. He was losing patience with you, his voice getting more frustrated with every passing second. " Say it with me again, you hard headed moron. Who was too scared to be vulnerable?! Who doesn't let anyone in?!"

"JAMES LOGAN HOWLETT"

You hissed at him, avoiding any drama stirring up from the neighbors at this hour. You finally made it to the door of your apartment and begin to fumble with the keys.

Logan clenched his jaw tight once, his irritation turning into outright anger. Why did you have to be so difficult? Why could you never just see things his way for once? He grumbled under his breath as walked up behind you, grabbing the keys from your shaking hands and unlocking the door himself. Once it was unlocked, he pushed open the door and pushed you into the apartment, shutting the door behind him and practically slamming it shut.

You stumble and fall as Logan shoves you through the door of your apartment. Puffing and heaving from the anger roaring inside of you. " Get the fuck out." You whisper, knowing that if Logan didn't listen, you grab the closest thing within reach and throw it at him, triggering another rage filled outburst.

Logan just stood there silently, his hands planted on his hips as he stared down at you. He was pissed beyond belief and you weren't doing anything to help the situation. So he did the opposite of what you told him. "I'm not going anywhere," He said firmly, his eyes never leaving you. He could see the anger burning in your eyes, but he refused to back down for once in his life.

"GET OUT" You scream at him, pushing hair out your face from falling. You manage to get back on your feet, drunkenly walking to the bathroom and slamming the door, locking it behind you. He stared as you walked away, the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut echoed through the apartment. He just stood there for a few moments, trying to calm himself down and prevent himself from completely losing it on you. He clenched his jaw, walking over to the bathroom door and banging on the door. "Let me in, dammit!"

"Go fuck yourself with your hand" You said behind the closed door. You let out a breath, remembering your hand. You look down at the sad and dirty excuse of the bandage you had done earlier. You unwrap the bandage, staring at the clean cut gash in the palm of your hand.

Logan went silent, hearing your voice from behind the door. He could tell that your voice was different; it wasn't as angry and bitter as it was a few moments ago. "Dammit sweetheart," he mumbled to himself, his hands still planted on either side of the door. He went quiet again as he heard you unwrapping the bandage from your hand. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. " What are you doing in there?"

"Making sure I don't lose my fucking hand because you had to come back into my life and piss me off." You said calmly, more focused on cleaning the cut than arguing. Logan rolled his eyes. Leave it to you to get upset with him when he was just trying to look out for you. He couldn't deny the fact that you pissed him off by being so damn stubborn, but here he was, just wanting to make sure you're okay. "Damnit Y/N, just let me in."

With a dramatic sigh, you know at this point, if he hadn't given up, he wasn't planning to anytime soon. With your wounded hand over the sink to avoid dropping any blood, you used your other hand to unlock the door to the bathroom.

Logan practically stumbled into the bathroom, quickly finding you by the sink. He could now see your wounded hand under the bright light of the bathroom. He walked up beside you, gently grabbing your wounded hand and inspecting the cut. " Jesus Y/N.... why didn't you get stitches for this?"

You look around the destroyed bathroom and back at him. " I feel like the explanation of my ex husband pissed me off so I had a temper tantrum won't be believable to whatever doctor decided to stitch me up."

He let out a huff, reluctantly agreeing with you. He could probably count on his own two hands at how many times you've refused to get looked up by a medical professional. He didn't understand why you were so stubborn all the time. He went quiet for a few moments as he continued inspecting the cut in your hand. The cut was long and deep and looked like it would've needed a few stitches. "It's going to leave a scar doll..."

"Like you leaving me with no explanation didn't leave me with the biggest scar emotionally? I think one physical doesn't really matter this point" You say, voice ebbed with annoyance. You pull your hand softly from Logan's and finish wrapping it up, walking back to the bedroom. You stop short of the door and the blood drains from your face. 'The fucking box. The box , oh my god' you thought to yourself while staring at all the pictures and memories sprawled out on the bed.

Logan was about to say something as he walked up beside you, leaning against the doorframe, but stopped himself when he saw the look on your face. He followed your gaze to the bed, landing on the box and pictures spread out on the bed in an almost methodical manner. Pictures from your marriage, even when you two were still dating. He was quiet at first, staying a few steps away from you. "Did you always have those?"

"Shut up" you said, while not moving a muscle. How could you leave your entire past AND marriage out in the open and just so happen to have your ex-husband in your apartment at the same time? You scanned everything from the door as silence was thick enough to slice with a butter knife between the both of you. Eyes landing on the tiny ultrasound picture, that was carefully set next to a picture you and Logan on your wedding day.

Logan stayed silent as well for a long time, following your gaze to the pictures of your wedding day. He knew how much that picture had meant to you; it was one of your favorite memories from your entire relationship. But the ultrasound picture hit a little harder; the picture of the tiny bundle of joy you dreamed about having together, only for the dream to shatter in a few short weeks.

You stood still, feeling the burning of tears coming back up. 'Not again' you thought. How does a body produce this much in such a short amount of time? You shake your head, feeling the weight of your hair barely move with the movement. You walk past the bed, ignoring the memories, as you reach the window. Flinging it open, you open the drawer in the nightstand that you had conveniently placed on that side of the bed. Pulling out the small box of spare cigarettes, you placed one between your lips and light it before hanging halfway out of the window.

Logan stood there for a moment, watching you walk over to the window. He knew you always stashed a pack away in your nightstand, refusing to actually go outside during the cold months of the year; opting for hanging out of the window like you are now. He watched as you hung your entire upper body out of the window. " Jesus Christ, would you stop hanging out of the window like that?"

You took a long drag from the cigarette, before exhaling. Watching the smoke get carried off by the wind before closing your eyes. The wind beating against your face felt refreshing after being trapped in here with Logan. " This isn't the first I've done this, I'm not going to fall dipshit." you say before taking another hit off the cigarette.

He let out another frustrated huff, walking over to you by the open window. He looked at you as you sat there with cloud of smoke surrounding your face. He could never understand why anyone enjoy this as much as you did. " I swear Y/N... you're going to kill your damn self chain smoking."

"And those cigars killed what's left of your lung" you say annoyed that was mister do no wrong in that moment. "Why don't you make yourself useful and pack that shit up on the bed and go throw it in the dumpster downstairs?"

Logan rolled his eyes, slightly annoyed that you were giving him attitude again. But he knew at this point, the best thing he could do was listen to you. "Fine, I'll make myself useful." He took one last look at you, sitting on the windowsill before he stood up and started gathering up all the mementos from your relationship. Pictures from your wedding, the ultrasound, small trinkets from you two were dating.

You listen to the papers being collected, the clanging of what trinkets you had managed to swipe from the mansion before leaving forever. You let the tears threatening to show, fall from your eyes. Everything will be gone. I'll be leaving in a few days to mom's and I will never have to see him again, you thought as the wind bit at the wet skin on your cheeks.

Logan gathered the small collection of items, shoving them all into the box. He could tell you were still upset, but decided not to say anything about it. There was a part of him that wanted to comfort you so badly, but he knew his words would only fall on deaf ears. He looked at you again, staring at your back as you sat on the windowsill, letting him pack up the memories. He was silent when he spoke, his voice breaking through the silence, "How long are you going to sit by that window?"

"Until you leave I suppose. I'm not sure...Unless I fall asleep, then by the grace of god, I'll fall out and never have to carry this burden of pain any more." you say quietly, hoping he won't hear the last bit, biting the inside of your cheek before taking another and final hit from the cigarette.

His ears immediately perked up when he heard the last bit of what said. He immediately felt a pang of panic in his chest at the thought of you falling out of the window. he clenched his hands tight around the box, not realizing that his claws were starting to pop out slightly. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

You close your eyes, tasting the metallic tang of blood from biting your cheek too hard. Blood slowly slicking your tongue before you spoke. " I don't want to carry this pain anymore. I'm the only one carrying it. You moved on, clearly unfazed by everything. I have enough emotional damage to carry into the next lifetime "

Logan gritted his teeth as he listened to you, hand clenching the box tighter as now tried to keep the damn claws from popping out from his knuckles. "You think it was just a walk in the park for me, huh? You think I just got up one day and acted as if our marriage like it was nothing?"

"Yes..." you trailed off, hearing the sound of cardboard being penetrated. You remain halfway out of the window, knowing it's better this way than to look at Logan's face.

Logan was visibly frustrated now, gripping the box hard enough that it began to break under the pressure of his claws. The sound of cardboard being ripped didn't break your concentration, but his next words certainly did.

"Look at me right now."

You bite your cheek harder, blood flowing freely in your mouth now, mixing with the bitter tang of tobacco. You stay where you're at and turn your head enough to see Logan out of your peripheral vision. "What"

Logan stayed where he was, staring at you as you only half turned your head to look at him. The look on his face was somewhere between anger and hurt, it was hard to tell what he was feeling in the moment. "That wasn't a question doll. Turn around and look at me. Now."

" I'd rather not." You turn your head back to the face the city. Still lit up, as if people did not know what sleep was at this hour of the night. Watching the browning leaves tumble down the road. Closing your eyes, feeling the wind go through your hair.

Logan was getting even more frustrated now. You acting like such a defiant, bitter little brat, and he was tired of your damn attitude. But he also couldn't get the image out of his head of you hanging half of your body out the window. He clenched his jaw as spoke again. " If you don' t turn your ass around right now, I'm going to come over there and make you look at me myself."

"You touch me and I'm burning that sad excuse of a beard off of your face with my lighter." You say, holding your tongue over the bite mark inside of your mouth. Focusing on the metallic taste of the blood instead of the anger running through your system still.

Logan's jaw clenched at your defiance, whatever held him back had snapped. He tossed the box back onto the bed, stalking over to the window. Grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you over his shoulder in one smooth movement. His free hand shuts the window hard. He lets you down from his shoulder carefully, still holding your waist firmly. "Why can't you just listen to me for once in your life?"

"Why did you have to leave me Logan? Do you know I spent the first year we were separated staring out of the window, praying I would hear your bike? See you come back and apologize for leaving me." you state with tears welling up again without looking at him. Logan was once again stunned into silence. He wasn't sure how to respond at this point; caught in a loop of trying to find any reason to say. But there wasn't any reason he could come up with. He was no different than a damn coward for what he'd done. He had given you every right to be upset and angry with him.

You finally looked at Logan, eyes watery and bloodshot from the excessive amount of crying that had taken place today. You didn't say anything as you looked into his hazel eyes, searching for any answer that he might with holding from you. He tried not to look into those heartbroken eyes since he was well aware that staring back at those damn eyes would lead to him being a bumbling mess. But in spite of this, he still found himself staring at you. His eyes studied your face. He hadn't seen your face up close like this in three years now, and the sight of you staring back at him was damn near too much to handle.

" Are you going to keep acting like this the whole time or are you going to tell me what's going on in that brain of yours?" Logan asks, as one of his hand release its grip from your waist and gently poke your forehead. You continue staring at him and cross your arms, " What's going on in my mind is that I would like to get out of these dirty sweatpants and change into some pajamas, but I can't when my ex is standing right in front of me... in MY apartment."

Logan scowled at you as you continued to keep your guard up. He knew damn well that you were avoiding the issue, and that you were using your shitty humor to cope. But for some reason, even your smartass attitude was making him want to pull into him and let his hands roam across the curves hidden underneath the baggy clothing you wore; wanting nothing more than to have you close to him again.

"You and I both know that you're not going to start changing clothes while I'm still here. So you can stop with the bullshit already and talk to me." You look back at him, defiance radiating from your posture. " You wanna bet?" you say before adding on, " I mean if we're going to get technical, you didn't even recognize your own damn pants, which is quite pathetic."

Logan's eye twitched as you responded to him. he knew damn well you were right, but he didn't want to admit it. In an attempt to move the topic of conversation, he crossed his arms over his chest as well and met your gaze again, refusing to back down. " Quit being stubborn, you damn brat. Stop stalling and answer me."

You stared at him hard before turning your back to him. "Look at the tag in the sweatpants. Your stupid initials are on the tag dumbass." Logan looked down at your pants, debating whether or not to check your shitty claim. He huffed and walked up behind you, heat radiating off of him as he was close enough to lean against. You felt an electric shock shoot up your spine and you feel his fingers touch the skin at the bottom of your back, looping behind the elastic of the pants before pulling them far enough to visualize the tag. Sure enough, there was the "L.H" on the tag right there. He had thought he lost them somehow when he moved his belongings from the mansion.

Logan's head snapped back up to look at you, eyes widen slightly now as he continued staring at the back of your head. " How the hell did you manage to take these while I was leaving? Why the hell are you still wearing them is a better question to ask you?"

You shrugged while arms still crossed against your chest, " they don't have any holes and aren't falling apart at the seams, so I don't see any reason as to why I should stop wearing them. But if you're that pressed about me still having your pants, you can gladly have them back." While your back was still turned to Logan, you shimmied the sweatpants off your legs, letting them pool at your feet before you grab them and toss them over your shoulder at Logan.

As he caught the damn sweatpants, Logan had to resist the urge to breathe in a bit. They still carried the faint scent of your perfume that would have him weak in the knees from years ago. And damn himself for missing that scent so much. He watched as you dug through your dresser, and despite himself, his eyes roamed down your body before he could stop himself. He couldn't help it, not when you were standing there in nothing but your long sleeve and the pink lace panties he loved so much. He sure as hell wasn't going to stop himself from staring.

You look at Logan ogling at your legs and curves of your ass, rolling your eyes " Still a mangy ass dog I see" While settling on the oversized shirt you always settle on sleeping in. Logan's face flushed a bit when you called him a mangy ass dog, and to his shock, a bit of guilt also crept in as well. He knew damn well that he was blatantly checking you out when he shouldn't have. But he couldn't stop staring, especially when he was getting a view like this. He gritted his teeth as he resisted the urge to pull you close and make you his right there on the spot.

You continue to face away from Logan, peeling the long sleeve from your torso, all of your curves on display from behind. Tossing the shirt to the floor, you out of instinct, rub the skin from your hips up to your ribs. " How many people do you think accidentally look up and seen me changing' You said before pulling the sleep shirt over your head, shielding your curves from his gaze.

Logan growled gruffly as you had taken the long sleeve off, drinking up the sight of the curves that had gotten more prominent since he last seen your body. His jeans slowly growing tighter and tighter the longer he stared at your body, before you pulled the shirt on. He bit back an answer to the question you had said aloud. It pissed him off that he wasn't the only one seeing you like this. Part of him wanted to say that only he should have the privilege of seeing more of your body, but he knew better than to say that. "How many people do you think are looking at you change every damn night."

You shrug your shoulder and put your arms in a questioning gesture, " I don't know. Pretty girl with a nicely filled out body. Pretty enticing if I do say so." Logan's face darkened even more as you described yourself so casually like that , his hands subconsciously clenching into fists. He didn't want to consider the thought of any other man seeing and find you enticing like that. He couldn't stand the thought of you being with anyone else but him, even after the two of you divorced. Logan takes two steps, closing any distance between the two of you. Chest flush against yours as his hands grip your waist firmly. " Don't talk about yourself like that, you damn brat. You're mine and no one else's. Always have been and always will be.. Got it?"

Any emotion had dropped from your face as Logan's chest came into contact with yours. The warmth from his grip on your waist creeps up into your face quickly. "I'm not yours Logan. I haven't been for three years and will never be again." You slowly look away from his possessive gaze, "Besides you can go home tonight happy knowing that no one has touched me since we divorced. Last man to ever touch me was you" You say softly with shame creeping up in your voice.

Logan's expression immediately morphed into a scowl as you firmly stated you weren't his anymore, knowing damn well that wasn't the truth. To him, you were still his wife no matter how long it's been since the divorce. He wanted to protest, to tell you that you still damn well were his, but he held back when you said that no other man had touched you since the divorce, and you were last touched by him. A Part of him immediately felt some sense of satisfaction at hearing that, grip tightening on your waist. His gaze slowly drinking in the sight of you, your bare legs and ass on display for just him and only him.

"Logan" You began to protest, feeling hot in the face as his eyes dragged across your body. Trailing over every dip and curve that he could visibly see. His mind trying to fight off all the memories of the things he and you had used to do in your younger days. You rest your hands against his chest, feeling the rhythmic thumping of his heart. Logan's eyes finally break from your body and go to your face as you rest your hands on his chest. He pulled you closer by the hands gripped on your waist. He leaned down, lips only inches away from your ear, he spoke in a dangerously low voice, breath brushing against the side of your neck, causing a small shudder to run through your body. "How 'bout you let show you what it's like to be touched again?"

Nerves on fire, forgetting what the touch of a man, let alone Logan feels like after all these years of spending your time alone. He could see that you were enjoying this as much as he was, your heart rate slowly increasing and your body beginning to heat up as his grip on your waist tightens more, his fingers digging softly and gently in the bare skin that he had uncovered from lifting it when initially grabbing your waist. He leaned in further, lips now brushing against where your ear and neck met. "Mmhm...Is that okay with you?"

You close your eyes and sign, tilting your head enough to open up more skin for him to touch. "Yes, please Logan" You softly whine. Logan let out a small, almost feral growl at the sight of you exposing your neck to him, your hands pressed against his chest, and the sound of your whispered pleas, his mind being consumed with thoughts of just how much he longed to touch you again. This was how he always craved you, submissive and willing, and it took all of his power to keep himself from bending you over the dresser and fucking you right then and there.

"As you wish darlin'..."

Logan murmured in response as he pressed his lips against your skin, lips beginning to slowly and gently kiss your neck. A soft moan escapes from your lips, relishing the feeling of Logan's lips traveling down your neck. Tonight is the first night you felt as if you could truly breathe. The inhale you take is filled with the scent of leather and aged tobacco, a familiar and attractive scent Logan always carried. You slowly snake your hands from his chest, up to wrap around his neck. Fingers softly playing with the ends of his hair that rested against his neck.

Logan let out a low growl against your skin, his nose burying itself in your neck as he drank in your natural scent, a scent he had missed for long, and hadn't realized just how much until now. He could feel your hands slowly snake around his neck, nimble fingers playing with his hair, and he found himself missing the feeling of you running your hands through his hair. He continued to kiss your neck, his tongue slowly running over the skin between kisses, his fingers digging into your waist harder, dragging you into his body.

The warmth of his tongue dragging across your skin was sending warmth to your core, entire body on fire from the simple gesture of arousal. You moan again, pressing your body flush against his.

Logan could feel you pressing your body against his, your back arching slightly as he continued his assault on your neck, his lips trailing over the sensitive skin, as his tongue continued to lick wherever it could reach. He could feel his body getting heated as well, his pants suddenly feeling tighter as he continued to hold you close to him, his mind beginning to think of all the things he wanted to do to you right then and there. " So damn responsive, darlin'.... Just like you always were...."

You moan again at the appraisal coming from Logan's lips. The feeling vibrating your neck, panties quickly becoming wet from the desire coursing through your veins. As you're leaning against Logan's muscular frame, you feel the bulge of his hardening cock in his jeans. Knowing that he was enjoying this as much, or even more than you was a delightful feeling. It had been so long since your bodies have melted into one.

Logan's hips instinctively buck against you, his bulge pressing harder against you as you leaned against him, and another guttural growl escaped from his lips, the feeling of you pressed up against him causing his control to wane, the need to have himself buried in you growing stronger and stronger by the second. " Oh god, darlin'... I forgot how damn good it felt to have your body pressed up against mine..."

Your head tilts back completely, moans becoming more apparent and lust filled. "I forgot how big you were.." You said after feeling the outline of his cock when his hips bucked into your stomach. "Logan." You whine with nothing but lust laced in your words, looking up at him through your lashes, eyes filled with desire.

Logan's breath hitched at your comment about his size, the low rumble of another growl coming from his chest as he pressed against you again. The need for you overwhelming him. "Mm...say my name again, real pretty like you just did.." He demanded huskily.

Your fingers release the hair you had been playing with on his neck, slowly making their way over every valley of his muscular chest. Your fingers reach the buckle sitting above his hardened cock, slowly unbuckling it while looking at him, wanting nothing more in that moment for Logan to fuck you right there. " Logan....please" You beg.

Logan's body tensed as your hands trailed down his chest, his eyes watching slowly as your hands begin their nimble work of removing his belt. Mind filled with the desperate need to feel you around him. " Please what, darlin'? Use that pretty little mouth and tell me what you want me to do..." He murmured into your ear, body pressed against yours, his cock pressing hard against your stomach with each twitch and movement.

Your panties are completely ruined at this point, arousal pooling between your thighs, you whine at the feeling of his voice, his whisper removing any sense of logic you had left. " Please Logan. Please make me feel good again. Please fuck me..." You whined loudly, begging this man to show you physically how badly he wanted you.

Logan's control snaps entirely at the whiny, pleading tone in your voice, mind consumed by the need to have you, to hear more of these pretty lines whines and begs. He gripped your waist tighter, turning you around and bending you over the dresser. Mouth nipping and sucking against the sensitive skin of your neck once again as his hand begin to roam freely over your body. "Mmm.. god damn..you have no idea how much I've missed that pretty little mouth of your, begging for me.."

Logan's breath become heavier against your skin, as his hands grip and squeeze every curve you had, before resting them on your ass. A moan comes from your lips, hands resting flat against the dresser. You press your hips against his cock, unable to wait any longer. Logan gives your ass a squeeze before lifting a hand and bringing it back down. You cry out slightly in pleasure from the sting of his large hand. He takes a half step back, admiring how submissive you had become, bent over a dresser, just for him and ONLY him. He slowly dragged a hand down your ass, rubbing the soft skin of your thigh, feeling how wet you had become. " Damn doll.. she missed me bad didn't she?" he asks huskily.

You whine and nod your head quickly. Another slap came down on your ass from him. " Words doll..." Logan said, still rubbing the inside of your thigh. " Yes... yes she missed you bad" you say, with half a moan escaping. Logan hums in approval before crouching down, face met with the mess you had made of yourself. He slowly rubs a singular finger against the wet cloth of your panties, groaning at how wet you really were.

You buck your hips into Logan's touch, wanting, no needing more. He chuckles softly, using two fingers to rub between your clothed folds. Letting the tips of his fingers bump against your sensitive clit, you moan at the slightest touch. He continues teasing you before pulling away from it. You turn your head to look down at him and whine. "Calm down darlin'... just want to give her the proper attention she needs." he says as he slowly pulls your panties down your ass, watching them barely peel off of your wet core, before dragging them down to your ankles.

" Well ain't she a sight for sore eyes.." he lets out a whistle, admiring how wet your core was, glistening in the dim lighting of your room. The cold air hitting it causes goosebumps to erupt across your body, shivering at the change of temperature. Logan slowly begins his attack, rubbing your sensitive clit, small articulated circles that had you moaning and bucking your hips immediately.

"Fuuuckk... so wet for me, aren't you?" he groans before sliding his fingers down from your clit, playing with your opening momentarily, drinking in the sight of you falling apart in his hands so easily. You whine again, needing to feel more. Logan chuckles, before softly placing two fingers at your opening and sliding them in.

Your back arches, the feeling of just two fingers almost painful. Logan groans at the feeling " Darlin' you're a lot tighter than I remember... sure you're gonna be handle all of me?" He asks, while pawing at the rock hard cock needing to be freed from those tight ass jeans. You nod feverishly, biting back another moan.

He slowly begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. Lewd sounds of wetness filling the room, with the sounds coming from your mouth in pleasure. Pain had quickly turned into pleasure as his fingers expertly found their way to the spongy part you never could reach. The heat building fast in your stomach becomes a familiar feeling as he assaults the soft spot inside you. His other hand reaches up, thumb rubbing circles on your clit, as the other continues its nimble work inside of you.

"Logan.. I'm gonna-" You moan out as the energy and heat becomes too unbearable to handle. His hand leaves it place within you, replaced by his mouth. He still continues at the same speed on your bundle of nerves, tongue making up for the loss of touch within you.

Your legs begin to shake as the orgasm washes over you, nails scratching into the dresser. You cry out it pleasure as Logan lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. Logan moans against your opening, the sweet juices you released quickly painting his tongue. As you come down from the orgasm, he laps up your release, smiling against you. His tongue drags through your fold, teasing your overstimulated clit, causing your hips to buck against his tongue hard.

Logan takes one last look at your core, red and swollen, only for him. He hums at the sight before standing up. He grabs your hips and turns you to face him. He leans down and kisses you with intention. Dragging his tongue across your lower lip, silently asking for entry. You open your mouth, the taste of your release mixing with your saliva as Logan's tongue moves with a purpose. Teeth lightly tapping against each other, as if you two have never tasted each other.

He breaks from the kiss, lips just barely brushing yours " I'll be slow at first" he whispers as he lifts you onto the dresser. Your legs open up immediately, putting your slick and swollen core on full display for Logan. A guttural grown rumbles from his chest, pawing at the ever hardening cock trapped within his jeans. He swiftly unbuckles his belt, unzips the zipper, shimming the jeans down enough to free his cock from its entrapment. You watch as it springs from his boxers, the tip red and coated in pre cum. He closes the little distance between the two of you, gripping his cock hard. "You gon' handle it like a good girl?" He asks in a hushed tone. You nod feverishly, eyes still locked on his leaky cock.

" I need words" he states, grabbing your chin with his hand, pulling it up so you're forced to look him in the eyes. " Y-yes, I can handle it Logan" You say pleading.

"Good Girl"

He looks back down at your swollen core, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds. Pre cum mixing with your slick as he lines the head up with your entrance, eyes flicking up to yours before pushing himself in. You gasp, forgetting how fucking big he actually was, and it only was the head. Your hands fly up to his shoulders, pulling him into you as the stretch is painfully delicious. Logan's forehead rests against yours, grunting in your face as he slowly pushes his cock the rest of the way in. Hot tears burn your eyes, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to pierce the flesh. Logan moans deeply at the feeling of your nails piercing his skin.

He takes a few strokes slow, both of you needing to adjust at the sizes. He then looks you in the eyes, eyes something almost feral and glazed over with nothing but lust and darkness. He pulls his hips back enough for the head to be the only thing left inside of you before slamming back into you. You cry out in pleasure as the head of his cock kisses your cervix deliciously. Logan's rhythm is something animalistic, chasing his own high and release now. The plunging feeling creating that hot ball of energy in your stomach again.

Nails dragging up his back and he fucks you wordless on your dresser, bent in half with how hard he's fucking you. Nothing but whimpers and moans are coming from your mouth, making Logan's control slowly whittle down to nothing. His pace picking up, watching your face up close, contorting into expression of pleasure; for no one except him. He lets out a growl that you feel in your thighs, as he has them resting atop of forearms. Hands holding your waist steady, most definitely leaving dark bruises to be seen tomorrow.

His cock is hitting the spongy part inside of you at an all too fast rate, the heat building up, threatening to explode any second now. " Lo-Logan..." You moan out, not being able to formulate proper words, but Logan knows immediately. One hand reaches around your thigh, beginning those expert circles on your sensitive clit. His pace never faltering, he growls " Eyes on me..." as he throws you into the fire within your stomach. It comes crashing down harder than you've experienced in years.

Tears streaming down your face while there's stars surrounding Logan. Legs shaking in Logan's arms, he fucks the orgasm from you, as if he was sucking your very soul from his cock. The edges of your vision slowly begin to turn white as he overstimulates every nerve within your body. Lewd sounds of wetness and both of your groaning and whimpering, filling the entire house at this point.

Logan can see he's fucked you senseless, letting another groan rumble from his chest, now chasing his own. His speed picks up, beating your cervix until it will be bruised and sore tomorrow as well. The hand that was on your swollen clit, makes it way up your breasts, aggressive squeezes; giving them the attention they damn well deserve, before reaching the back of your neck. He holds it roughly, ensuring that you can't see nothing except him. This sudden grasp around your neck makes you moan against his lips, eyes locked on his. What self control he had left, snapped. His cock thrusting in and out of you at ungodly speed, the well known energy about to explode any second. Nothing but whimpers from the speed his hips were moving, left your lips. His hips begin to falter, groans and nails piercing the flesh on your hips, as hot ropes of his release coat you cervix. He plunges his cock deep, each twitch and movement you feel, as he unloads the rest of his cum into you. Logan's hot breath in your face as the two of you regain your senses. Ragged breaths from both of you, staring into the infinite planes of each other souls; your hand reaches up to touch Logan's cheek. He takes a deep breath before speaking.

"I'm never leaving your side ever again."

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