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moongirlcleo · 22 days ago

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Masquerade Rendezvous

❤︎ tags and content: masquerade ball, hidden identities, oral, rough sex, wall sex, ferality, f!reader, feral xavier ❤︎ author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @cafekitsune Fic: @moongirlcleo

The Hunter’s Association masquerade was meant for indulgence, for secrecy, for one night where masks and titles didn’t matter. But when you accept a dance from a man draped in white and gold going by Lumiere, you don’t realize what you’ve started. He’s magnetic, controlled, dangerous—leading you through waltzes, through whispered challenges, through a slow-burning game of tension that neither of you are willing to lose.

But when you whisper his name in the dark, the game ends. And Xavier? Xavier doesn’t like to lose.

The ballroom gleamed under the flickering glow of chandeliers, their golden light refracting against the cascading crystal strands that hung like frozen rain from the vaulted ceiling. The Hunter’s Association had spared no expense for tonight’s masquerade—gilded arches, velvet-draped tables, and an endless sea of masks concealing sharp eyes and sharper intentions.

The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and warm candle wax, mingling with the distant notes of a string quartet that played something slow, something indulgent. A place built for spectacle, for indulgence, for the careful dance of pretense.

You had expected formality—stoic conversations over expensive champagne, the subtle weight of duty pressing into your spine as you navigated the political undercurrents beneath every greeting. But this… this felt different.

The Association’s best and brightest moved like ghosts through the room, their identities swallowed by the night’s elaborate disguises. Rich silks, dark brocades, the glint of gold threading through the sea of bodies. It was intoxicating in a way you hadn’t anticipated—the anonymity, the blurred lines between colleague and stranger, the way the night whispered promises of something reckless, something dangerous.

Your gown was regal, woven from deep midnight blue that shimmered with every step, the fitted bodice dipping scandalously low before spilling into layers of flowing silk. A crown—delicate but commanding—sat atop your masked visage, the final touch to your carefully curated disguise. A queen, untouchable.

Or so you thought.

Because then you saw him.

Across the room, dressed in the ridiculous, theatrical splendor of Lumière himself—white and gold embroidery cascading down his tailored coat, gloved hands moving with effortless grace as he accepted a glass of wine from a passing server. He was tall, poised, his silver hair falling in soft, deliberate waves over the high collar of his costume. The mask obscured his face, but the sharp line of his jaw, the composed stillness of his posture… something about him sent a shiver down your spine.

And when his gaze lifted—cool, assessing, burning even through the layers of decorum—you felt it. The inevitable pull.

The masquerade was meant for secrecy. For pretending.

The night spun around you in a blur of gilded masks and whispered laughter, the symphony swelling as bodies moved in perfect time. You had taken the hand of a stranger—a man whose name you hadn’t asked, whose face was obscured beneath a mask of silver filigree—and let him pull you into the slow, intoxicating rhythm of the waltz.

It was easy to get lost in the music, to let the careful choreography lull you into a false sense of security. Your partner’s grip was firm but not possessive, guiding you through each measured step as you swayed beneath the grand chandeliers.

Still, something felt… off.

Like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air thickens, charged with something unseen.

You felt it before you saw it—an unmistakable presence at the edge of your periphery, someone watching, waiting.

And then, just as your partner spun you in a graceful turn, your gaze lifted—straight into the piercing blue of a masked man dressed in white and gold.

Lumière.

He stood just beyond the reach of the dancers, one gloved hand resting lightly against the gilded railing, the other holding an untouched glass of wine. His presence was undeniable, though he hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He didn’t need to.

Something about the way he watched you—calculating, amused, intrigued—made the room feel smaller, the air warmer.

Your partner murmured something polite, something about how well you danced, but you barely heard him. Because Lumière had moved.

He placed his glass down with meticulous precision, then stepped forward, cutting through the swirling figures with effortless grace. His stride was slow, deliberate, like a man who already knew how this would end.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t look at your partner. Didn’t acknowledge him at all.

Instead, he extended a gloved hand toward you, tilting his head just slightly.

“May I have this dance?”

It wasn’t really a request.

Your partner hesitated, torn between politeness and the unshakable sense that he had already lost.

You inhaled, pulse thrumming against the delicate line of your throat. And then—without a word—you placed your hand in Lumière’s. His fingers curled around yours, warm even through the silk of his gloves.

The masquerade swallowed you both whole.

<hr>

Lumière pulled you into the dance with the kind of effortless confidence that suggested he’d done this before—many times. His grip was sure, guiding, not forceful, but leaving no doubt as to who was leading.

And yet, the moment your palm settled against his shoulder, the very moment your bodies aligned in the measured closeness of the waltz, something shifted.

The masquerade blurred.

Your world shrank to the point of contact, to the warmth seeping through his gloves, the slow, calculated press of his palm against your waist.

He moved like someone who had memorized the language of motion, each step a silent command, each turn a quiet conversation. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—not when the air between you felt charged, thick with something neither of you had named yet.

“You dance well,” you murmured, voice low enough that only he could hear.

Lumière’s lips curled into something close to amusement. “You sound surprised.”

You tilted your head, gaze flicking over his mask, searching for something beneath the disguise. “I expected someone in a costume like yours to be a little less…” You trailed off, letting the thought hang between you like a thread waiting to be pulled.

His grip on your waist tightened, just slightly. “Less what?”

“Disciplined.”

The faintest chuckle—low, rich, indulgent. “I assure you, discipline has its benefits.”

Heat licked up your spine before you could stop it.

The waltz continued, but the dance was no longer just about the music. It was about the way his thumb skimmed the fabric of your gown in a barely-there stroke. The way his breath fanned against your temple when he dipped you, holding you suspended for just a second too long. The way your body responded, leaning into the moment before sense could catch up to instinct.

The first song ended and neither of you moved to step away.

The strings swelled again, and without a word, Lumière adjusted his grip, seamlessly carrying you into the next dance as if the thought of parting hadn’t even occurred to him.

You should have hesitated. Should have stepped back, should have broken the spell before it tightened its hold.

But you didn’t.

You let him keep you close, let the slow, deliberate motion of the dance unravel something inside you.

“You’re not asking my name,” you said after a moment, studying him from beneath the edge of your mask.

He hummed, thoughtful. “Would you give it to me if I did?”

A slow smile curved your lips. “Would you?”

Lumière’s head tilted just slightly, considering. “Names are dangerous things at a masquerade.”

“So is this,” you countered, shifting just a fraction closer, your bodies nearly brushing with every measured step.

The air between you crackled.

He exhaled, slow and controlled, as if keeping something at bay. Then, after a pause, he murmured, “Then perhaps we shouldn’t name it.”

The dance continued.

You had forgotten the world outside this moment, outside the way his fingers pressed against the small of your back with each turn, outside the almost imperceptible way his chest rose and fell just a little too sharply when you exhaled against his throat.

Two strangers in the dark, playing a game neither of you wanted to end.

But the music was winding down. And as the final note lingered in the air, a question hung between you—unspoken, heavy. Would you leave this dance behind? Or would you follow wherever it led?

Lumière’s hand slid from your waist. His fingers traced the edge of your wrist, featherlight, as if testing the weight of a decision.

<hr>

You weren’t prepared for the moment he let go.

The music had barely finished settling into silence when his fingers slipped from yours, the warmth of his touch evaporating as though it had never been there at all. No parting words, no lingering glance, no indication that the last two dances had meant anything beyond the rhythm of the waltz. With careful precision, he stepped away, retreating into the crowd with the kind of quiet grace that made it seem as though he had never existed in the first place.

The ballroom didn’t falter in his absence, didn’t still or quiet or even acknowledge that something—someone—had been lost to the sea of masked figures and gilded artifice. The string quartet continued, seamlessly weaving the next melody into the fabric of the night, and around you, dancers reassembled, switching partners, reforming lines, their conversations uninterrupted by the ghost of a man who had been there only moments before.

But you felt it. The absence of him. The space he had left behind.

Your hands, still curled slightly as if expecting to find the shape of his gloved fingers lingering in your palm, felt empty in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Your breath was uneven, your body still attuned to the careful way he had held you, the deliberate way his grip had tightened just slightly when you leaned too close, the way his voice had curled around you with quiet, unmistakable intent. Walk with me, he had said, as if the outcome of this night had already been decided.

And yet, he was gone.

Not in some dramatic, attention-drawing departure, but in the way a shadow dissolves beneath shifting light—there one moment, blurred the next, retreating into the edges of the world as though he had never truly been part of it at all.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That this had been nothing more than a dance, a fleeting moment of indulgence in a night designed for such things, that you had no reason to feel the slow, curling frustration creeping up your spine, no reason to scan the room as if searching for something you had no business searching for.

But no matter how many times you reminded yourself of these things, you couldn’t stop the way your pulse betrayed you.

It was ridiculous, really. You didn’t even know his name.

And yet, despite your best efforts, despite the way you forced your expression into something composed and unbothered, despite the way you accepted the next hand extended toward you with the same easy grace as before, you couldn’t stop your gaze from flickering back to where he had once stood.

You were a queen tonight, untouchable, regal, above the game of masks and fleeting glances.

And yet, for the briefest of moments, you had felt hunted.

The night moved on without him. Another song played, another glass of wine was placed in your hand, another masked figure leaned close with idle conversation you could barely register, and yet the sensation of searching for something just beyond your reach refused to loosen its grip.

You wouldn’t chase him. That much you knew.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that you weren’t the only one searching.

Somewhere in the depths of the masquerade, obscured but not lost, the man in white and gold was still watching. Still waiting. Still allowing the tension to stretch and simmer, to settle just beneath your skin, to become something that would not fade so easily.

Because this was not over. Not yet.

The masquerade moved around you, swirling in gilded opulence, but the haze of music and conversation felt distant, dulled beneath the lingering pull of something unseen. You had let another dance slip through your fingers, had let another conversation pass without truly hearing it, had let another glass of wine be placed in your palm without tasting it. It was becoming absurd—this sensation, this restless hum beneath your skin, as though something had unsettled the very balance of the evening and left you reaching for something just out of sight.

You needed a moment. A breath. A distraction.

The refreshment table stood along the edge of the ballroom, a long, lavish spread of imported wines and crystalline glasses arranged beneath the warm glow of candlelight. It wasn’t the wine you truly wanted—wasn’t even the moment of respite you claimed to be seeking—but it was something tangible, something to occupy your hands and your mind while you exorcised the ghost of a man you had no business thinking about.

Your fingers trailed absently along the stem of an untouched glass as you approached, reaching for the deep, velvety red of something dark and rich, something that might chase away the warmth that had settled in your bones during that last dance.

And that’s when you felt it. Not a touch, but the weight of attention.

It was instant, visceral, the kind of awareness that struck without warning, creeping down your spine with a slow, deliberate certainty. You didn’t need to look to know—to feel—that someone was watching you. Not in the way one might steal a passing glance at an intriguing stranger, but in the way a hunter watches its prey, waiting, unhurried, assured in the knowledge that there would be no escape.

You lifted the glass, bringing it to your lips in a practiced motion, slow, unbothered, unwilling to betray the way your pulse had shifted into something uneven, something entirely too aware.

But curiosity had already won.

You turned your head just slightly, just enough to let your gaze flicker over the gathered tables along the ballroom’s edge, scanning past costumed figures and polite conversation, past the blur of faces you had no reason to linger on—

Until you found him seated at one of the smaller tables, half-shrouded in shadow but unmistakable beneath the flickering candlelight, was Lumière. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t so much as lifted his own glass in greeting. He was simply watching.

Elbow resting against the arm of his chair, fingers curled beneath his jaw in a position of casual, effortless ease, his mask concealing all but the sharp line of his jaw and the faintest curve of his lips. He didn’t beckon, didn’t tilt his head in invitation, didn’t offer any indication that he had been waiting for you—

But you knew. You could tell he had. And worse than that, worse than the realization that he had anticipated this moment, that he had known you would seek respite here, was the quiet, undeniable truth creeping into your chest.

You had been waiting for him, too.

You set your glass down with careful precision, the delicate clink of crystal against marble swallowed by the hum of conversation around you. He hadn’t looked away—not once—hadn’t so much as feigned the courtesy of glancing elsewhere, and that alone sent a slow, simmering warmth curling beneath your skin.

If he was waiting for you to pretend not to notice, he was about to be sorely disappointed.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to let the light catch the edges of your mask, gold filigree gleaming beneath the chandelier’s glow. It wasn’t a question, wasn’t some breathless observation of a woman caught off guard—it was a challenge, a deliberate acknowledgment of the pull neither of you had chosen to ignore.

Lumière—if that was even his real name, which you doubted—didn’t startle, didn’t shift, didn’t so much as blink in feigned innocence. He only smiled, slow and knowing, as if pleased that you had finally decided to call him on it.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, as if that alone explained everything.

A lesser woman might have flushed at the shamelessness of it, at the way his voice dipped low, smooth as velvet and just as dangerous. But you were not a lesser woman. You only lifted your glass once more, taking a slow sip of wine before setting it down again, gaze steady.

“Many here are beautiful,” you pointed out, the edge of a smirk curling at your lips. “And yet, you’re still looking at me.”

He exhaled softly through his nose, a quiet sound of amusement, but he didn’t deny it. “I am.”

“Why?”

His fingers tapped idly against the table, a single measured beat, before his voice dipped just a little lower, the weight of his attention pressing against you in ways that had nothing to do with physical proximity.

“I enjoyed the way you danced.”

It was simple, almost benign, but the way he said it—slow, deliberate, the words rolling over his tongue with something bordering on indulgence—made it clear he wasn’t speaking only of waltzes and carefully choreographed steps.

A warmth settled in your chest, creeping downward, curling around your spine like something electric. You should have left it there, let the words hang, let him keep waiting, let the anticipation stretch just a little longer.

But you were feeling bold. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbow against the table, fingers ghosting over the stem of your glass. Your voice, when it came, was soft but certain, each syllable laced with quiet intent.

“I can move in other ways.”

The flicker in his gaze was immediate—sharp and assessing, as if measuring the weight of what had just been offered, deciding whether to take the bait or let it drift.

He took it.

“I have no doubt,” he murmured, his head tilting just slightly, as if imagining it already, as if mapping the possibilities in the space between words.

The warmth beneath your skin deepened, pooling low, dangerous in the way a drawn bowstring thrummed with tension before release.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The ballroom spun on around you—music, laughter, the clinking of glasses—but it might as well have been another world entirely.

Lumière’s gaze flickered, something dark and unreadable shifting behind the polished ease of his expression, his fingers still idly tapping against the table in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. He was considering something, weighing it carefully, as though calculating the exact moment to strike.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he stood.

The movement was fluid, effortless, like everything he did, his gloved hand extending toward you with the same quiet command as before. There was no question of whether you would accept.

“Dance with me,” he murmured, the words barely louder than the hum of music behind him, but they sank into you like a whisper against bare skin.

Your fingers slid into his without hesitation, and the moment his grip tightened around yours, your fate was sealed.

He pulled you onto the floor with practiced ease, guiding you back into his arms as though you belonged there, as though every other dance before this had been nothing more than a rehearsal for this moment. The world narrowed once again, reduced to the slow, intoxicating rhythm of movement, of the subtle press of his palm against your back, the gloved fingers curling just slightly around yours as he led you through the sweeping turns.

This dance was different from the others.

Slower. Heavier.

Less about technique and more about the way your bodies moved together, the way the air between you felt charged, the way his fingertips traced the smallest of patterns against your spine with every step.

His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips so close to your skin that you swore you could feel the phantom press of them, the teasing suggestion of something withheld, something just out of reach.

“You make it difficult to look anywhere else,” he murmured, so quietly that only you could hear.

A slow, deliberate shiver worked its way down your spine, but you didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate in your response, tilting your head just enough to let your lips nearly brush the edge of his jaw.

“Then don’t.”

He exhaled, something low and pleased vibrating deep in his chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swore he was going to kiss you right there, consequences be damned.

His hand at your back slid just a fraction lower, the hold just a fraction tighter, his head dipping just slightly as though drawn forward by something beyond reason, beyond choice, beyond even himself.

And then he stopped.

Close. So damn close that his lips hovered just above yours, his breath warm and steady, but he held there, lingering at the precipice, waiting.

For you. For permission. For a request, an invitation, a demand.

The space between you felt razor-thin, your pulse a betraying drumbeat against your ribs, the warmth of him sinking into your skin, unraveling you bit by bit until there was only one possible outcome.

“Take me somewhere else,” you whispered, the words slipping past your lips before you could think better of them, before you could remember why you shouldn’t.

Something flickered in his eyes—satisfaction, hunger, a silent finality—before his grip tightened ever so slightly.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask if you were sure. He simply took your hand, and without another word, led you away from the dance floor, away from the crowd, away from the golden light and into the shadows where no one could see.

<hr>

The world beyond the ballroom faded into insignificance the moment he led you past the grand arches and into the dimly lit corridors that stretched beyond the golden glow of the masquerade. The murmur of voices and music softened into a distant hum, swallowed by the quiet hush of the hallway, where the air was cooler, thicker, charged with something far heavier than the weight of candlelight and whispered laughter.

You had barely registered how far he had taken you before he moved.

In one fluid motion, he turned, pressing you back against the cool marble wall, his body closing in, surrounding you, his gloved hands bracketing either side of your waist. It wasn’t rushed—wasn’t careless or impatient—but deliberate, controlled, a slow, measured inevitability that made the anticipation coil low in your stomach, winding tighter with every second he held back.

And he was holding back.

You could see it in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly before settling at your hip, in the way his gaze flickered between your lips and your eyes as if committing every detail to memory.

For a man who had spent the evening watching you, who had danced with you like he already knew the shape of you, who had drawn you away from the crowd without hesitation—he was giving you a chance to stop this.

You weren’t going to take it.

With a slow inhale, you reached up, gliding your fingers along the edge of his mask, just enough to feel the warm skin beneath, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, to savor the way his breath hitched at the contact.

He made a sound—low, almost a growl—and then his restraint snapped.

His mouth was on yours before you had a chance to exhale, crushing, demanding, his body pressing flush against yours as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him. The warmth of him sank through the layers of fabric between you, the heat of his breath, the press of his chest, the firm grip of his hand tilting your chin just enough to deepen the kiss.

You melted into him, letting the urgency of his touch unravel you, your hands sliding beneath the lapels of his coat, fingers curling into the fine embroidery like you needed to anchor yourself before you lost all sense of where you were. He tasted of wine and something darker, something intoxicating, something that made your knees weaken just as his hand slid down your waist, pulling you closer, as though any remaining space between you was unacceptable.

He kissed you like he had been waiting all night.

And you kissed him like you had, too.

But even with the way his mouth claimed yours, even with the way his hands traced the curve of your body in slow, possessive strokes, even with the way your breaths tangled between desperate, heated kisses, you could feel it—the hard press of him against your thigh, undeniable, insistent, aching.

You smiled against his lips, a slow, wicked curve, and then—without breaking the kiss—you let your hands slide lower, skimming over the smooth brocade of his coat, down to his belt, down to where he was already straining against the confines of his clothing.

He sucked in a sharp breath, breaking away just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils blown wide behind the mask, his lips parted, his body tense beneath your touch.

“Careful,” he warned, voice low, rough, frayed at the edges of restraint.

But you only smirked, sinking slowly—deliberately—lower, your hands already working at the fastenings of his belt.

“I thought you liked the way I moved,” you murmured, looking up at him through the dark lace of your mask, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers curled against the marble, the way his chest rose and fell in a sharp, uneven rhythm.

His jaw clenched, breath shuddering. “You’re going to—”

“Shh,” you soothed, pressing a kiss just below his navel as you freed him from the constraints of his costume, reveling in the way his muscles tensed beneath your hands, in the way he exhaled sharply, already fighting to keep himself steady.

The moment your lips ghosted over his skin, just beneath the fine embroidery of his coat, you felt the sharp intake of his breath, the way his fingers curled against the marble like he was already struggling to hold himself together.

Good.

He had spent the entire night watching you, guiding you, leading you into the palm of his hand with deliberate ease. Now, it was your turn to unravel him.

You sank lower, letting your nails trail over his hips, feeling the slow, delicious weight of his cock press against your palm, thick and hot and already aching. A sharp exhale escaped him, his head tilting back just slightly, exposing the taut line of his throat, the barely-there tremor in his breath.

You couldn’t stop the satisfied hum that curled in your throat, reveling in the way he twitched beneath your fingers, in the way his entire body coiled with restraint, in the way he was trying—desperately—to stay composed when you could already feel him slipping.

“I thought you were disciplined,” you murmured, tracing your tongue along the groove of his hipbone before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to his skin, your breath fanning warm against him.

His hand moved before he could stop it, fingers tangling into your hair, not forcing, not guiding—just holding you there, like he needed something to keep him grounded. “Don’t test me.”

But that was exactly what you planned to do.

You glanced up at him, taking in the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths that weren’t nearly as steady as he wanted them to be. He was barely holding on, teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and you wanted to push him over.

So you did.

Your lips brushed the head of his cock first, featherlight, just enough to make him suck in another breath, his fingers tightening in your hair. Then, without hesitation, you parted your lips and took him into the heat of your mouth, slow, deliberate, savoring the way his entire body shuddered the second he felt the wet, silken glide of your tongue.

“Fuck.” His voice was low, wrecked, a single, bitten-off curse that made arousal pool between your thighs, made you press your own legs together as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, letting him feel the slick drag, the deliberate tease of your tongue along the underside.

His control was slipping. You could feel it.

The way his hips jerked ever so slightly, as if fighting the urge to thrust deeper. The way his breath came shorter, uneven. The way his fingers flexed in your hair, torn between keeping himself steady and ruining you.

But you weren’t done with him yet.

You pulled back, slow and teasing, letting your lips drag against him before flicking your tongue over the head in a light, taunting stroke. His breath hitched, his grip tightening, his head tipping forward as if he couldn’t believe you had the audacity to tease him like this.

“You’re shaking,” you mused, voice sweet, lips brushing against him as you spoke.

His jaw clenched. “I swear—”

But whatever he was about to say cut off with a sharp inhale as you took him into your mouth again, this time deeper, your fingers tightening around his base as you let the slick heat of your throat pull him in.

That was it. That was the moment he broke. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat, his fingers curling hard in your hair, his hips pressing forward before he jerked himself back, as if forcing himself to stop, to regain control before he lost himself entirely. But it was already too late.

His free hand shot down, grabbing your arm, pulling you up before you could blink, before you could gloat—before you could even breathe.

His mouth was on yours in an instant, devouring, punishing, kissing you like he needed to claim you, like he had to remind you exactly who had been in control this entire night. His grip was tight, possessive, dragging you against him, letting you feel the heat, the frustration, the barely-contained desperation rolling off of him in waves.

Then, suddenly—

He was shoving himself back into his pants and pulling you with him, backing you toward the nearest door, his steps quick, determined, his breath still ragged against your lips. You barely had time to register the cool wood against your back before he reached for the handle, shoving the door open, and pulling you inside.

The door slammed shut behind you. And now you were really alone trapped in the dark with the man you had just broken.

The second the door slammed shut, you barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you.

No more restraint. No more careful control. No more of the measured, deliberate touches he had kept himself confined to all night.

He snapped.

His mouth crashed against yours in something closer to a claim than a kiss, his hands already gripping, taking, roaming with a desperation that sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through you. His fingers dug into your hips, pinning you against the door as if he could brand himself into your skin, as if he needed to feel every inch of you beneath his hands before his mind fully unraveled.

And oh, was it unraveling.

Gone was the composed, mysterious stranger from the ballroom. Gone was the poised man who had watched you with quiet amusement from across the dance floor. In his place was something raw, something feral, something that had been straining against its leash all night and had finally been set loose.

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" His voice was low, wrecked, barely more than a growl against your lips, his breath hot and uneven as his hands yanked at the fabric of your gown, fingers curling in the delicate silk as if he had half a mind to tear it straight from your body.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t—because the moment your lips parted, his teeth grazed your jaw, his mouth dragging down the column of your throat, open-mouthed, hungry, sucking a deep, bruising mark against your skin that sent a sharp pulse of arousal straight to your core.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice rough, his grip tightening as he rolled his hips against you, letting you feel exactly how hard he still was, how much your little game had ruined him. "Tell me this is what you wanted."

"Yes," you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, your head already spinning from the sheer heat of him, from the way he pressed against you, overwhelming and all-consuming. "Yes—fuck, yes—"

That was all he needed.

His fingers ripped at the ties of your gown, pushing the fabric down over your shoulders, shoving it past your hips until it pooled at your feet in a shimmering heap, leaving you bare beneath him. His breath caught for a fraction of a second, like the sight of you had knocked the air from his lungs.

He spun you before you could process it, shoving you up against the door, your palms slamming against the wood, your body arching instinctively at the feel of his chest pressing flush against your back.

"Stay right there," he rasped, his hand sliding up your spine, fingers curling into the back of your neck, holding you in place, his lips grazing your ear, voice dark and dripping with satisfaction. "You want to tease me? Make me wait? Drag me to the edge just to watch me fall?" His teeth scraped against your throat, his hips grinding against you in a slow, devastating roll that had you whimpering. "Fine. Now it's your turn."

You barely had time to draw in a breath before his hand slid down, between your thighs, fingers pressing against your slick heat with a teasing, infuriating laziness.

"Fuck," he exhaled, voice wrecked, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a half-second as he felt how wet you were, how ready you were for him, how your body had been waiting for this just as much as his had.

You squirmed, pushing back against him, needing more, but he just laughed—low—before pulling his fingers away just as quickly as he had touched you.

"You don’t get to be impatient now, sweetheart," he murmured, dragging his mouth down your shoulder, sucking another bruise into your skin as his free hand pinned you against the door. "You started this."

Your hands curled into fists against the wood, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as he toyed with you, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against your inner thigh, everywhere but where you needed him most.

"Please," you gasped, arching back against him, begging, not even caring how desperate you sounded, not caring that he wanted you like this, that he was relishing the way you were starting to unravel beneath him.

"Please what?" His voice was taunting, amusement curling at the edges of it, but there was a strain beneath it, a barely-leashed hunger that told you he wasn’t far from breaking either. "Use your words, sweetheart."

You whined, pressing back against him, hips rolling, your body aching for relief. "Please, Xavier—"

He froze. For the first time since he had touched you, he stilled. A sharp inhale. A beat of silence.

"What did you just say?"

Shit.

Your heart stumbled, your entire body going rigid, your mind catching up far too late to the name that had just slipped past your lips.

Xavier.

Not Lumière.

Not some stranger.

Xavier.

As if confirming the horrifying, thrilling, devastating realization, his fingers tightened around your throat, just enough to make you shiver, just enough to make sure you were listening.

He leaned in, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice impossibly dark, impossibly wrecked.

"You knew?"

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a demand. A command for the truth.

Your breath hitched, your pulse hammering beneath his grip. "No," you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper, the confession slipping past your lips before you could stop it. "Not until just now."

Another sharp inhale. Another beat of silence. Until– he laughed. Low. Dark. Dangerous.

And before you could react, before you could say anything else, before you could process the fact that the man wrecking you against this door was the same one you had fought beside, worked beside, known—

His grip yanked you back, spun you around, and his mouth was crushing against yours, claiming you, owning you, ruining you.

"You should have never said my name," he growled against your lips, voice wrecked, threaded with something almost feral, something that sent a violent shudder racing down your spine. "Now you don’t get to fucking breathe without saying it again."

Gone was the teasing, the slow, measured strokes of a man savoring his victory. Now, there was nothing but hunger—nothing but the sharp, desperate edge of need as he wrenched you away from the door, his grip punishing as he walked you back, step by step, until the backs of your thighs hit the nearest surface, a heavy wooden table that groaned under the sudden force of your body being shoved against it.

Your gasp barely had time to escape before he crushed his mouth against yours, consuming you, devouring you, his hands already shoving at what little remained of the delicate fabric clinging to your skin.

"Xavier—"

The sound of his name against your tongue made him snarl, his fingers tightening at your hips, bruising in their grip, claiming, because now he knew, now there was no veil, no mask, no carefully curated illusion between you.

It was you. It was him.

And he was about to make sure you never forgot that.

Your thighs barely had time to part before he was between them, hands gripping the backs of your knees, spreading you wide as he dragged you closer, the blunt heat of his cock pressing right against your dripping cunt, teasing, taunting, not yet pushing in, but making sure you felt it, making sure you ached for it.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice low, guttural, his lips brushing against your jaw as he throbbed against you, as he let you feel just how hard he was, just how fucking wrecked you had made him.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, your breath coming sharp, uneven, a desperate, pleading sound slipping past your lips as you rocked against him, needing him to move.

"Xavier," you gasped, a plea, a prayer, a surrender.

His grip tightened.

"Again."

"Xavier—"

The word had barely left your mouth before he thrust, burying himself inside you in one brutal, devastating stroke that tore the breath from your lungs, that sent white-hot pleasure lancing through every nerve, that had your fingers clawing at his back as you choked on a scream.

"Fucking louder," he snarled, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, his hands gripping your thighs harder, spreading you wider, holding you open for him as he pulled back only to slam into you again, dragging another wrecked, gasping Xavier from your lips.

He was relentless, driving into you with a force that sent the table beneath you creaking, the sound of skin against skin, ragged breaths, and his name filling the empty space of the room.

"You wanted this," he growled, his hand sliding up your body, fingers curling around your throat, tilting your head back so he could watch you, so he could see every inch of your face twisted in pleasure. "Wanted to fucking ruin me, didn't you?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—"

His grip tightened, his hips snapping forward, hitting deep, pulling another helpless, trembling "Xavier—" from your throat, and his eyes darkened, something dangerously satisfied flashing behind them.

"That’s fucking right," he rasped, pounding into you now, his rhythm raw, desperate, claiming. "Scream it for me. Let the whole fucking masquerade know who's fucking you."

Your nails scraped down his back, your body arching, every nerve singing, every inch of you burning, stretched and full as he drove you higher, pushed you closer, forced you right to the edge—

Unitl he took you over.

Your orgasm slammed into you, a sharp, violent wave that shattered through every inch of your body, a sobbing "Xavier—" tearing from your lips as your walls fluttered around him, gripping him like a vice, pulling him deeper, harder, making him swear beneath his breath as he chased his own undoing. And then, with a sharp, guttural groan, he broke, his body tensing as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you in sharp, jerking thrusts, his name still trembling on your lips, wrecked and ruined in the only way it ever should be. For long moments, neither of you moved, bodies tangled, chests heaving, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and hot against your lips.

Then—slowly, still buried deep inside you—Xavier laughed. Low. Hoarse. Dark with satisfaction.

"Fuck," he rasped, pressing his lips against your throat, letting his teeth graze over the bruises he had left behind, his grip still firm at your waist. "What the fuck have we done?"

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers threading into his hair, still barely capable of thought, still feeling wrecked in the best possible way. You hummed, a slow, satisfied sound curling at the edge of your lips as you tugged him closer, dragging your nails down his scalp.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The only sounds in the dimly lit room were the heavy cadence of your breaths, the distant murmur of music still filtering in from the ballroom, and the slow, satisfied hum you let slip as you lazily dragged your nails through Xavier’s silver hair.

His head was still tucked against your shoulder, his body pressed warm and heavy against yours, his arms bracketing your waist as though letting go simply wasn’t an option yet.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice rough, hoarse, still thick with satisfaction as he nuzzled against the curve of your neck. "Fuck."

You laughed softly, still feeling wrecked in the best possible way, still feeling the delicious ache of him deep inside you, the remnants of your pleasure humming through every inch of your skin.

"That bad?" you teased, tilting your head just enough to brush your lips against his temple, the small gesture almost tender despite the absolute destruction he had just delivered.

Xavier let out a low, wrecked groan, his grip tightening around your hips like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull you closer or start all over again.

"That good," he corrected, his voice still raw, still utterly ruined, still settling into something dangerously satisfied.

You smirked, shifting slightly, reveling in the sharp inhale he took as you clenched around him, still warm, still full, still soaked in the mess you had made of each other.

"So," you murmured, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. "Ready for round two?"

Xavier froze. You saw it—the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched, the way his entire body tensed like a man seconds away from losing whatever shreds of restraint he had managed to claw back in the past minute.

"No," he said, voice strained, like he hated the word even as he forced it past his lips.

You blinked. "No?"

His hands tightened on your waist, his head dropping forward as he exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was physically trying to regain control.

"Not here," he ground out, his voice dipping into something dangerously low, something threaded with something almost pained. "Not in a fucking supply closet—"

Your laugh bubbled out before you could stop it, the sheer absurdity of the situation hitting you all at once.

You had just been wrecked—utterly ruined—against an old wooden table in what was, apparently, a supply closet, at a masquerade ball hosted by the Hunter’s Association, by a man who, until tonight, had been nothing more than your coworker.

And now, now, he was drawing a line?

"Xavier," you wheezed, gripping his shoulders as you shook with laughter, "now you have standards?"

His hands flexed against your skin, his jaw clenching so tight you thought he might crack a tooth. "I have always had standards," he muttered, offended, but his voice hitched slightly when you shifted against him again, clearly testing just how strong those standards were.

You grinned. "Uh-huh."

Xavier growled, a low, warning sound that made your stomach flip, but when he lifted his head, his eyes were heated, his pupils still blown wide behind the faint glint of his mask.

"You want round two?" he murmured, his fingers trailing slow, dangerous circles along the dip of your waist, his voice dropping to something just above a purr. "Then I’m taking you back to my place, where I can actually—"

He cut himself off, his nostrils flaring slightly, his gaze dragging over your thoroughly ruined form before his fingers dug into your skin, his restraint visibly fraying at the edges again.

You arched a brow, waiting, breath catching slightly as his gaze lingered on your lips, then dipped lower, like he was already imagining what he was going to do to you when he got you alone again.

"Where you can actually what, Xavier?" you teased, voice sweet, but your smile was anything but.

His grip tightened as he stepped back. You immediately whined, your body protesting the loss of his warmth, of his weight, of the way he had fit so perfectly against you.

"Xavier," you complained, trying to tug him back, but he only grinned, still utterly wrecked but determined, the sharp glint in his eyes promising ruin if you so much as challenged him right now.

"Get dressed," he ordered, buttoning his coat, exhaling through his nose like he needed to physically force himself to look presentable again. "Before I change my mind and fuck you here again."

Heat flooded your body all over again.

You huffed, shifting your sore limbs, bending to reach for the crumpled mess of your gown—only to realize, with some degree of horror, that the delicate ties and fragile silk were completely shredded, torn apart by the very same hands that were now adjusting the cuffs of his elegant sleeves like he hadn’t just ruined your entire evening ensemble.

You turned, glaring. "Seriously?"

He barely glanced at you, completely unbothered, straightening his collar with a satisfied, lazy smirk.

"Looks like you’re stuck in my clothes," he mused, already peeling off his coat, tossing it over your shoulders before pulling you flush against him one more time, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, low and smug,

"Let’s go home, y/n."

#love and deepspace smut #lads #lnds #lads smut #lnds smut #lads xavier #xavier x reader #xavier x you #moongirlcleo #shen xinghui #love and deepspace

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zorlok-if · 1 month ago

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Hello, everyone! Welcome back to Casper.

The prologue has been re-released on itch.io and you can play it now! The first two scenes have been heavily revised while the last scene is entirely rewritten. There have been some quality of life fixes (though I'll also be adding a few more in the upcoming weeks) such as improved audio settings and a skip to final scene option.

If you run into any bugs or errors, let me know. The best way to do so is through an ask here on Tumblr or in the Zorlok Discord server (screenshots are always helpful if possible).

You can find the updated content warnings for the Prologue under the cut. If there's anything you think should be added or reworded, just let me know.

I am so thrilled and happy to share this with you and even more excited to keep sharing this story with you. The next update will be part of episode 1 and I'm hoping to get that out within the next few months (though we'll see since I'm a librarian and summer reading is coming up).

Anyways, I hope you have an absolutely lovely day and that you enjoy the update!

-Albie

Huge thank you to my wonderful playtesters: Arc, Aspen, Aster, Beckdeck, Cassie, Crash Sjordal, Crouton, Equus, Ghost, Jinx, Kazoowhiz, LeafGoldKing, Mansym, Monday, Oddington, Sneky, and Snooga

Updated Content Warnings for the Prologue: Blood Body Horror Insect/Necrotic Imagery Physical Restraint Mental Invasion Memory Loss Self-Mutilation Cursing Bullying Broken Bones (conditional) Wretching (conditional)

#twine game #interactive fiction #indie game #interactive novel #cyoa #update

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prettylilyanime · 2 months ago

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Our Blessing ♡ Chapter 02

♡ Pairing: Toji Zenin x reader

♡ Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesn’t even know it.

♡ tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mama’s boy, reader works at a flower shop, Hidden Baby Trope

♡ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next

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The bar reeked of one thing. Not alcohol, not drugs—opulence.

Perched atop one of Japan’s tallest skyscrapers, Horizon was the kind of place where power and money spoke louder than words.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Tokyo skyline, the glittering city stretching endlessly below, lights shimmering like constellations against the inky night. Inside, the atmosphere was a curated blend of wealth and exclusivity—dim mood lighting casting sleek shadows across black marble floors, deep leather seating arranged for whispered conversations, and servers in sharp-cut suits, trained to serve without being seen.

It was the first Saturday of the month. A tradition, unshaken even after college, no matter how busy their lives became.

At a private table, in a section roped off for only the highest clientele, sat a group of men whose names carried weight across the country. Japan’s most powerful, most untouchable, and most eligible bachelors.

Gojo Satoru, heir to a real estate empire of old money and power, his presence as blinding as the white hair atop his head. Geto Suguru, ever calm, ever composed, the sharp mind behind tech industries that would take most men lifetimes to control. Ryomen Sukuna, the wildcard, draped in arrogance, his wealth tied to underground dealings no one dared question.

Born into one of Japan’s most powerful families, Toji wasn’t just wealthy—he was the Zenin heir.

When his father died, leaving behind a fortune vast enough to sustain generations, Toji didn’t just sit back and preserve it.

He tripled it.

Through ruthless business ventures, high-stakes investments, and an instinct sharper than any financial advisor’s best predictions, he transformed the Zenin name into something more than just old money. It was new dominance.

A force that dictated markets, bought influence, and ensured that the name Zenin wasn’t just spoken with respect, but with caution.

The scent of aged whiskey and smoldering cigars curled through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. The four of them sat back in their private booth, drinks in hand, Tokyo glittering beneath them like a chessboard waiting to be played.

"Suguru, what's got your ass all twisted up? You've been off lately," Satoru drawled, nudging his best friend with a teasing elbow—an oddly childish gesture in a setting so drenched in wealth.

Sukuna snorted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. "Can’t believe I’m saying this, but the idiot’s right. You’ve been acting weird as fuck lately, man."

Satoru turned to fire back, lips already curling into a smirk, but paused when Suguru let out a deep sigh.

They weren’t wrong. He had been acting off.

And why?

His sharp, cat-like eyes flickered toward one of his oldest friends—Toji of all fucking people—and instantly, like a ghost haunting the back of his mind, he saw it again.

That kid.

The pint-sized version of Toji he had spotted weeks ago, sitting by your side eating pizza.

He was adorable, with big green eyes and dark hair that spiked upwards. He was also hauntingly enough, a replica of his dear friend sat across from him.

It gnawed at him.

How the hell was he supposed to sit here, sipping whiskey and smoking his cigar, pretending everything was normal, when Toji had a whole damn child he didn’t even know about?

With the love of his life, at that.

The secret sat like a stone in his gut, pressing heavier with each second. But still, Suguru brought his cigar to his lips, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Don't know what you guys are talking about," he muttered, voice smooth but empty.

Because fuck.

This wasn’t his business to tell.

Suguru forced the thought down, drowning it in another slow drag of his cigar.

Satoru, ever the gossip, rolled his eyes, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he shifted in his seat. “Boring, Suguru. Well, since he’s not opening up, I might as well. Guys, you won’t believe what happened to me today.”

He leaned in slightly, the dim overhead lighting catching on the rims of his sunglasses as he peered at them all, clearly waiting for someone to bite.

Toji raised a brow, finally breaking his silence. “What, lost a bar of that shitty candy you inhale every day on your lunch break?” He snorted, lips curling.

Satoru waved him off, unfazed—and unwilling to admit that, yes, that had indeed happened earlier.

“Fuck you, Toji. No, I had an old hookup show up at my office today, screaming at my intern like a lunatic, claiming that I—”

Toji cut him off with a sharp grin, already amused. “Don’t tell me you knocked a one-night stand up.”

“I’ll have you know, she wasn’t a one-night stand.” Satoru placed a hand over his chest, feigning deep offense. “We met in Ibiza, and we had a magical week together!"

“That’s just a fucking nightmare,” Sukuna scoffed, tipping his glass back. “You, of all people, with a kid?”

“Oh come on, I’d be great! My kid would be gorgeous,” Satoru declared, ever confident. Suguru feels himself turning green with where this conversation was headed.

“Gorgeous with a mouth full of cavities, I bet,” Toji drawled, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“Nothing a great dentist can’t fix,” Gojo quipped, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Anyways, not the point of the story. She’s getting rid of it tomorrow—I had my lawyer draft up an NDA, so it’ll all be fine.”

Sukuna shook his head, amusement curling at the edges of his smirk. “F’course it’d be you out of all of us to have the first pregnancy scare.”

Satoru furrowed his white brows. “Is that a joke? Toji is sitting right next to you, y’know.”

Suguru could throw up right here, right now, all over this table and it still wouldn't be enough to make him feel any better.

Toji arched a brow, unimpressed. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I’m not out here sleeping around like you.”

Satoru grinned, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Well, no, but you were in a relationship for what—six years? And Y/N let me in on your little distaste for condoms, you know. I’m shocked nothing came out of that.”

Sukuna let out a low whistle, nudging Toji’s side. “Yeah, got you there, brother.”

Suguru took a slow, deep breath, staring at the swirling whiskey in his glass.

The conversation was pressing in on him, each word adding weight to the already unbearable tension in his chest. He couldn't do this. If he just stood up and walked out, would it be too obvious?

Toji rolled his green eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I didn’t meet Y/N and start fucking her raw after a week in Ibiza, Satoru. I was with her for six years. Sue me.”

Satoru backed off with his hands raised in mock surrender, a grin still tugging at his lips. “Relax, relax. Speaking of Y/N, I could’ve sworn I saw her the other day at that pizza place we used to go to. Did you see her too, Suguru?”

The shift in conversation hit Suguru like a freight train. His entire body tensed, but he forced himself to keep his expression steady.

He hadn't spoken to Satoru about seeing you and the kid, never even mentioned it.

Toji’s brow quirked up, green eyes flicking toward Geto with sudden interest. The curiosity in them was undeniable.

Suguru’s grip on his cigar tightened. Think. Quickly.

“Y/N?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he brought the cigar to his lips, inhaling deeply.

When he exhaled, he kept his voice smooth, controlled. “I remember the woman you’re talking about but it wasn’t her. Just someone who looked like her.”

Satoru hummed, none the wiser. “Yeah, makes sense. That lady had a kid with her, too. Y/N never even had family or friends like that to be babysitting for.”

Suguru’s fingers curled tighter around his glass. He took another slow drag of his cigar, the smoke curling up toward the dim overhead lights, masking the flicker of unease in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “No way it was her.”

He took another sip of whiskey, but the burn in his throat was nothing compared to the storm brewing in his chest as bright green eyes lingered on him.

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Autumn has settled in fully now, painting the world in warm hues of amber, crimson, and gold.

Leaves crunch underfoot as the wind carries them in lazy spirals along the paved sidewalks. The mornings have grown brisk, the kind that nip at your nose and fingertips, making you pull Megumi’s little coat tighter around him before sending him off to school.

His scarf, a deep navy blue, is carefully wrapped around his neck, though he always tugs at it halfway through the day, complaining that it’s too warm.

He’s been thriving at school, and that alone fills you with a relief so deep it’s almost dizzying!

You worried about him, afraid that his quiet and blunt nature might leave him isolated, unsure of how to make friends. But those fears were put to rest the moment he came home and started talking—really talking—about a boy in his class.

A boy named Yuuji.

Apparently, Yuuji was assigned the seat next to him, and from that moment on, there was no escaping the whirlwind of energy that was his new best friend.

Every day, Megumi would come home with some new story, some ridiculous antic Yuuji had pulled.

And even though this boy you hadn’t met yet seemed like the complete opposite of Megumi—rambunctious, loud, endlessly excitable—you couldn’t be more grateful for his presence.

You had even found yourself smiling, shaking your head in amusement, when Megumi’s teacher gently informed you during a parent-teacher meeting that he had been talking a bit too much in class lately.

Talking too much.

You nearly laughed in disbelief. Your Megumi?

You didn’t mind. Not one bit. Because you were just so glad to hear that Megumi wasn't struggling at all in class, instead thriving academically and socially!

Which is why today is so important.

A playdate.

The next step in any childhood friendship, and truthfully, you’re just as excited as Megumi.

He deserves this—deserves to have a friend he can run around with, someone who makes him laugh, someone his own age to share his days with.

Life can feel a little quiet when it’s just the two of you, and though Megumi has never complained, you’re sure he’s been longing for a companion outside of home.

The plan is simple. You coordinated with Yuuji’s father, Jin, since—according to the kindergarten gossip you’ve managed to gather from Megumi—his mom isn’t in the picture.

You don’t pry, but there’s a quiet understanding in the back of your mind.

First, you’ll meet them at the park, where the boys can run wild, burning through their seemingly endless energy.

Then, once they’ve had their fill of play, you’ll all sit down for lunch at a nearby restaurant, letting them refuel before no doubt finding some new way to tire themselves out again.

The walk to the park is peaceful, the late afternoon sun casting golden light over the quiet streets.

The crisp autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves, dry and earthy, while a gentle breeze rustles through the trees, shaking loose vibrant reds and oranges that drift lazily to the pavement.

Megumi walks beside you, his small hand warm in yours, but his steps begin to slow. You feel the slight tug on your arm before you hear his voice.

"Mama," he mumbles, rubbing his tired eyes with his free hand. "Carry me."

You glance down at him with an amused huff, already anticipating this. "Oh, honey, I don't know if my arms are strong enough anymore."

A darker thought crosses your mind. Toji could probably still carry him like it's nothing, like he's nothing more than a newborn.

You haven't seen the man in years, but if his physique was anything like it was back then—

You push the thought away just as quickly as it comes.

"Please?" Megumi's voice is softer this time, and when you glance down again, he's pouting, shifting on his feet like he already knows you’ll cave.

And how could you say no? Sore arms be damned—this is your baby! One day, far too soon, he’ll stop asking.

You crouch down, letting him wrap his arms around your neck before lifting him with a quiet grunt.

He’s heavier than before, all gangly limbs and growing boy, but he sighs contentedly as he rests his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone. You press a soft kiss to his dark hair, letting him nuzzle into your neck.

He won’t fit in your arms like this forever.

The thought lingers, settling into your chest with an ache. Soon, he’ll be too big to carry, too old to want you to. The weight of time feels heavier than the boy in your arms.

Your mind drifts to the slip of paper tucked away in your apartment. Toji’s phone number.

A part of you wonders if you’re wrong for not reaching out now that you can reach him. If you’re selfish for keeping Megumi to yourself. For letting Toji miss this—his son, growing up.

Megumi shifts slightly, pulling you from your thoughts. His small fingers toy with the pendant on your necklace—the little letter ‘M’ you got just for him.

You shake your head, pushing away the what-ifs. Today is about Megumi. About his happiness.

A sudden vibration against your hip snaps you back to the present. You shift Megumi in your arms to free one hand, retrieving your phone from your pocket.

Jin, Yuuji’s father: Hello Y/N! Something came up at work, so I wasn’t able to take Yuuji today, but my younger brother will instead. They’ve already left the house and will be there soon! Sorry for the short notice.

You type out a quick confirmation before tucking your phone away.

Megumi lifts his head slightly. "Are they here yet?"

"Not yet," you say, adjusting your hold on him. "But they should be soon."

His fingers absently trace over the smooth metal of your pendant before he hums in acknowledgment.

By the time you reach the park, the sun has dipped lower, casting long, dappled shadows across the playground. The cool breeze rustles through the empty swings, and the laughter of distant children fills the air.

You find an empty bench and sit, keeping Megumi settled in your lap a little longer, just because you can.

"Megumi!" He lifts his head, suddenly alert, his green eyes scanning the park.

The excited, high-pitched call is accompanied by the sound of small, eager footsteps. You barely get a glimpse before Megumi squirms out of your arms, landing on his feet with practiced ease. He straightens his posture, stuffing his hands into his pockets, trying to play it cool.

You turn toward the voice, and your heart melts at the sight.

Yuuji is absolutely adorable—fluffy pink hair, big brown eyes, a little shorter than Megumi, with the widest grin stretching across his face as he runs over. His joy is infectious, beaming like the sun itself.

But something about him feels… familiar.

Your eyes linger on the soft pink of his hair. It isn’t exactly a common color. And the longer you look at him, the stronger the unsettling familiarity grows.

No. There’s no way.

The thought barely has time to form before a deep, unmistakable voice cuts through your daze.

"Yuuji! Don't go running off without me, you brat."

Your breath catches.

No. Absolutely not.

Your blood runs cold as you turn toward the source, eyes widening, stomach plummeting.

There, towering over the playground with all his tattoos and his unmistakable aura of arrogance, is Ryomen Sukuna of all people.

You feel like the universe is playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Big. Tall. Tattooed. Another one of Toji’s old friends.

And judging by the way he ruffles Yuuji’s hair—his nephew’s hair—he’s the younger brother Jin mentioned in his text.

Sukuna hasn’t even noticed you yet, too preoccupied with the excitable little boy bouncing in front of him. Yuuji beams up at you. "Wow, Megumi, your mom is really pretty!"

Megumi’s entire body tenses beside you. He steps closer, crossing his arms, his expression darkening.

"I know." he mutters, his glare sharp enough to cut through stone.

You snort, reaching out to rub his back. He huffs but doesn’t pull away, though you can feel the heat radiating off him. His protective streak never fails to amuse you.

The moment cuts through the tension in your chest, but only briefly. Because then you feel it—that unmistakable sensation of being watched.

"Megumi, let’s go play! I’ve been waiting forever! My uncle walks so slow," Yuuji exclaims, practically vibrating with excitement, his bright grin shining under the afternoon sun.

He’s adorable—so full of energy and joy that it makes you want to freeze this moment in time. Your son, on his first real playdate, with a friend who already seems so eager to be by his side.

But you can’t enjoy it. Because standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, towering like a living nightmare, is Ryomen Sukuna.

Of all people.

You blink, trying to process the absurdity of it. How the hell did this happen? What are the odds? What cruel joke is the universe playing on you?

Then, you decide—fuck it.

You’re not going to let Toji who's not even here, his idiot friends, or any other lingering ghosts from your past ruin this for you. This is Megumi’s moment. His first real friend.

You whip out your phone, ignoring Sukuna’s heavy stare as you crouch down slightly. "Alright, boys, stand together and smile!"

Megumi doesn’t really get the smiling part, settling for a neutral stare, while Yuuji doesn’t quite grasp the standing still part, fidgeting excitedly in place. It’s imperfect but perfect all the same, and you snap the pictures, your heart swelling at the sight of them together.

"Alright, go play, but make sure I can see you," you call out.

The second they take off running, your smile drops. You turn to Sukuna, a deep sigh escaping you. He stares right back at you, eyes running up and down your body as if trying to confirm that it is indeed you in front of him.

"Y/N, what the fuck?" Sukuna blurts out, disbelief etched across his face. His eyebrows practically hit his hairline as his sharp gaze flickers between you and Megumi who at this point, was climbing up the stairs to the slide.

Gosh, couldn't even start with a hey, how have you been?

You roll your eyes, already exhausted by this encounter. Seeing Suguru and Satoru was traumatizing enough. This? This is just the cherry on top.

"Ryomen, trust me—I’m feeling the same way. God what are the odds?" You inhale sharply through your nose, leveling Sukuna with a flat stare. His mouth curls into something between a smirk and genuine disbelief, arms folding across his broad chest as he waits for your response.

"Going out on a limb here," Sukuna drawls, tilting his head toward the direction Megumi ran off, "but is the little squirt Toji's?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone. You knew the question was coming—it was inevitable the second he laid eyes on Megumi. The resemblance was too obvious.

Still, hearing it out loud makes something twist deep in your stomach.

"Don't call him that," you say coolly, arching a brow. "And what if he is?"

Sukuna lets out a sharp, amused breath, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. "Shit." His gaze flickers to Megumi in the distance, then back to you, something razor-sharp glinting in his expression. "Does Toji even know? There’s no way he does—he never mentioned it. Not once."

Your jaw tightens. You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you focus on Megumi, watching as he follows Yuuji up the jungle gym. His usual serious expression softens—just slightly—when the younger boy tugs at his sleeve, babbling excitedly about something.

Sukuna doesn’t need a verbal response. Your silence tells him everything.

"This is crazy," he breathes, his grin widening, teeth flashing like the devil himself. "You didn’t tell him?"

You exhale through your nose, resisting the urge to rub your temples. "It’s none of your business, Ryomen."

He lets out a low whistle, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Damn. That’s cold. And coming from you? Toji would never believe it."

Your scowl deepens. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Not about the kid," he clarifies, rolling his shoulders. "I mean, shit, we were literally talking about this last night. But you keeping this from him? He always thought you were harmless."

Something flickers across his face—amusement, sure, but also intrigue, like he’s trying to piece together how the hell this slipped past him. Past Toji.

"You gonna tell him?" Sukuna asks after a beat, gaze sharp, assessing.

Your stomach twists. The question has been haunting you ever since Suguru stepped into your shop weeks ago.

For years, you made peace with the fact that Toji would never know. That there was no way to reach him. That no matter how much it hurt, he had to be let go since Megumi always came first.

You had spent years stretching yourself thin—between your job, chasing after Toji, and most importantly, being a new mother. Something had to give. And bitterly enough, that something was Toji.

Now, after all this time, you have his number. Full access to him.

And you haven’t dialed it once, because something else is holding you back now.

Fear.

You glance back at the two boys, now racing toward the swings, their laughter ringing through the crisp evening air.

"Like I said," you mutter, voice quieter now. "None of your business."

Sukuna clicks his tongue, rocking back on his heels. "Alright, alright, I get it." He exhales, like shaking off the conversation. Then, with a pointed smirk, he adds, "But if you think he won’t find out eventually, you’re dumber than I remember."

Your eyes narrow. "You're not gonna tell him?"

He raises a brow, almost offended. "Why would I? It’s not my business to tell."

You scoff. "Oh please. He's your best friend."

Sukuna just grins, slow and knowing. "Yeah? And maybe I’m being a good friend by keeping quiet." He rubs his chin, tilting his head like he’s savoring the moment. "Wouldn’t wanna tell Toji that his favorite girl’s been keeping something like this from him all these years."

Your breath catches.

There’s something about his tone—something not quite mocking. Not quite amused. Something almost... pitying.

It makes your stomach churn.

Before you can press further, Yuuji’s excited voice slices through the tension like a blade.

"Uncle Sukuna! Push me!"

Sukuna’s gaze lingers on you for a beat longer, unreadable, before he turns away. "Saved by the brat," he teases, already striding toward the swings.

You exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over your face.

Of all people, it had to be Sukuna.

And now, whether you like it or not—one more person knows your secret.

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Lunch is… weird.

The kids, thankfully, are oblivious to the tension radiating off you in waves, too engrossed in their own little world to notice. Well, Yuuji chatters—Megumi mostly listens, nodding at appropriate intervals, his expression neutral but not disinterested.

Still, you have a feeling Megumi senses something is off.

He refuses to sit anywhere but next to you, his small frame pressed against your side, his tiny fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket. It’s a quiet, grounding presence, but it does nothing to settle the storm in your chest.

Across the table, Sukuna is insufferably at ease.

He lounges like this is a casual dinner between friends rather than a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t press, but his amusement is palpable.

You can feel it in the lazy way he drums his fingers against the table, the way his lips curl at the edges, the weight of his gaze lingering on you like he’s waiting—just waiting—for you to crack and curse him out.

You refuse to look at him.

Instead, you focus on the kids. Yuuji is deep in a monologue about a video game he’s been begging his dad to buy, talking between massive bites of a burger that looks almost too big for him.

Megumi, as always, listens quietly, picking at his chicken tenders, offering the occasional hum of acknowledgment.

And you? You’re barely holding it together.

Your food sits untouched, stomach twisted too tight to even pretend to eat. You’ve tried to play it cool in front of Sukuna, to act like you’re unaffected by the weight of this secret, but the truth is, you’re terrified.

Toji’s circle has always been small. Satoru, Suguru, Sukuna—his only real friends. The ones who had earned a place in that impenetrable fortress of trust.

And now, two out of three of them know about Megumi.

But Toji doesn’t.

And that thought alone is enough to make you want to curl into yourself and disappear.

You grip your utensils tighter, swallowing around the lump in your throat, barely registering the sound of laughter and clinking dishes around you.

There should be guilt buried somewhere in the mess of emotions clawing at your insides, but all you really feel is sheer, bone-deep anxiety.

Megumi, at least, has finally started actually eating, nibbling on a chicken tender while sipping a kid-sized soda. Yuuji, on the other hand, is still in a battle with his burger—one that’s about the size of his entire face.

Then, in the way only a child can, Yuuji shatters your already fragile nerves with a single, innocent comment.

"You don’t look anything like your mom, Megumi! You must look like your dad. I look just like mine!"

Your stomach plummets.

You freeze, fork clattering against your plate, pulse spiking so hard you swear your vision tunnels for a second. The world tilts, the restaurant noise fading into a muffled blur, your brain scrambling desperately to think of how to steer the conversation anywhere else before—

“Yeah, I guess.”

Megumi says it so nonchalantly, so effortlessly, that for a second, you think you imagined it.

Your head snaps toward him. He’s still calmly eating, tearing off a piece of chicken tender, unbothered, as if Yuuji hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of dinner.

He… doesn’t care?

You feel like you’re about to combust, but Megumi—Megumi, who never talks about his father, who has never once asked, who you’ve spent years bracing yourself for questions from—just shrugs it off like it’s nothing.

You don’t know if you’re relieved or if it somehow makes the situation worse.

And then, because of course, of course, you make the mistake of looking up—

—only to lock eyes with Sukuna, who is watching the entire thing unfold with the most infuriating, knowing grin.

He doesn’t say anything, but the sharp shit eating smile on his stupid face says enough.

You swallow thickly, dragging your gaze away, forcing yourself to take a slow, steady breath. Megumi is fine. He’s not upset. There’s no need to react.

Even though every nerve in your body is screaming otherwise.

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At the gym, the rhythmic clank of metal echoes through the near-empty space, broken only by the occasional grunt of exertion. It’s just past five in the morning—an ungodly hour for most, but perfect for Toji.

No distractions. No waiting around for machines. Just him, the weight of the bar in his hands, and the steady burn in his muscles.

At least, that’s what he wants.

But Sukuna exists.

The sharp clang of the bar hitting the rack cuts through the quiet as Toji exhales, rolling out his shoulders before reaching for his water bottle. That’s when Sukuna, sprawled out on a neighboring machine like he owns the place, decides to run his mouth.

"You ever think about how you have a type?"

Toji pauses mid-sip, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

Sukuna smirks, the kind that makes Toji immediately regret acknowledging him. "That girl you were with last night? She could’ve passed as Y/N’s sister."

The statement is so absurd that Toji almost laughs. Almost. Instead, he lets out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Didn’t do anything with her. Wasn’t with anybody."

"Sure, sure," Sukuna drawls, clearly entertained. "Just crazy how you only let chicks that look like Y/N within a ten-foot radius of you—"

"Sukuna," Toji grits out, reaching for the bar again, "it’s five in the goddamn morning. I’m finishing this rep and then I’m out."

Sukuna snorts but doesn’t push further. He just leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, watching like he knows exactly what he’s done.

Toji ignores him. He doesn’t have a type. That’s bullshit. And it’s not like he’s been chasing after anyone, anyway.

Not since you.

Sure, there were opportunities. A lingering glance, an open invitation, a number slipped into his palm—but none of it ever went anywhere.

He’d tell himself he wasn’t interested, that he didn’t have the patience for it, but deep down, he knew better. Nothing ever felt right. Not after your relationship.

Sukuna’s words settle in his mind, impossible to ignore.

With each rep, his thoughts betray him, dragging up images—snapshots of you. The way your voice used to sharpen when you were annoyed. The way you always had something quick and cutting to say back to him. The way you—

His grip tightens on the bar, jaw clenching.

And then, before he can stop himself, the words slip out—

"Why has everyone been bringing up Y/N lately?"

A pause.

A fraction too long.

Toji doesn’t miss it.

Sukuna covers it up well, tilting his head in mock confusion. "Just a coincidence, man. I dunno."

But Toji knows a bullshit answer when he hears one.

And it’s not just Sukuna.

It’s Suguru, stiff as a board at the bar the other night, suddenly quiet whenever Toji spoke. It’s Satoru, casually dropping that he saw a woman who looked just like you. It’s the little things, insignificant on their own, but when pieced together…

Something doesn’t sit right.

It’s not suspicion. Not yet.

But it lingers, an itch at the back of his mind.

And for the first time in a long time, Toji finds himself thinking about you longer than he should.

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Back at home, you sit in bed with your pajamas on, scrolling through your phone to try and distract yourself.

The soft glow from your bedside lamp casts a warm, golden hue over the cozy room, the faint scent of lavender lingers in the air from the candle you had blown out earlier, and the plush comforter is pulled up over your lap, cocooning you in warmth.

Behind you, a pile of pillows props you up against the headboard, their familiar softness a small comfort against the weight pressing down on your thoughts.

The room is quiet, save for the occasional hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of cars passing outside.

Megumi is fast asleep after a long day of running around in the sun with his friend. A warm bubble bath and a home-cooked dinner had knocked him right out, and now he’s curled up in his own little bed, lost in whatever dreams a four-year-old has.

You, on the other hand, can’t sleep. Your heart is still racing, unsettled by the events of today.

You can’t stop replaying the moment Yuuji mentioned Toji—how Megumi had barely reacted. No curiosity, no interest, just a shrug, like the thought of his own father meant nothing to him. And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

Guilt.

Guilt gnaws at you—guilt that Megumi doesn’t even wonder about his father. Guilt that Toji hasn’t given him a reason to.

You exhale, your fingers pressing into your temple, trying to massage away the tension that’s been creeping up your neck all night. Just as you’re about to sink back into the quiet, the faint creak of your bedroom door cuts through the silence, making you glance up.

There, in the doorway, stands Megumi.

His small figure framed by the dim light spilling from the hall, his bright green eyes squinting sleepily as he stumbles toward you, his tiny feet padding softly against the floor.

Without a word, he climbs onto the bed, his movements sluggish and heavy with sleep.

His little body wiggles under the sheets until he's nestled beside you, looking almost comically small against the vast, cushioned expanse of your bed, the covers pooling around him like a blanket fort.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” you ask softly, brushing a hand through his tousled hair, your fingers lingering in the mess of it.

“I wanna sleep in your bed, Mama,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible, thick with sleep as he curls himself into the pillow, his small hands gripping it tightly. His face, so peaceful and innocent, presses into the soft fabric, making him look even cuter than he already is.

You can’t help but smile, warmth spreading through your chest as he shuffles even closer. The weight of him, the slow rise and fall of his breaths, lulls you into a sense of peace. Maybe now you can finally relax, let go of the thoughts spinning in your head.

But then, just as you start to relax, his small, unsteady voice breaks the calm.

“I think my dad is stupid.”

Your heart stops for a moment, the words hanging in the air like a sudden chill. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and instinctively, you sit up straighter, facing him fully now.

“Megumi?!” you exclaim softly, your eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

“Whoever my dad is, he’s a dummy,” he mumbles, his voice so matter-of-fact that it almost stings.

A rush of emotions floods you—confusion, concern, and something sharper that you can’t quite place.

“Megumi, what’s this all about?” you ask gently, trying to mask the tightness in your chest. “Don’t say such mean things.”

“A kid from class told me that since I don’t live with my dad, it means that he left us,” Megumi says quietly, curling into the pillow a little more, his tiny body pressed against yours. “So I think he’s a dummy.”

You search for the right words, but they feel impossible to find. What can you say? The kid wasn’t entirely wrong. Toji did leave you at least—he just didn’t realize he was walking away from Megumi as well.

You take a deep breath, ready to say something comforting, to try and ease the hurt in his little heart.

You want to tell him that Toji loved him, that even though things were messy, his father cared. But before you can get the words out, you feel the weight of Megumi's head settle further into your pillow. His small breaths are steady, slow, his tiny body already drifting back to sleep.

He murmurs again, barely audible. "Gnight Mama.”

You glance down at him, his eyelids fluttering as he drifts deeper into slumber, his hand still curled loosely around your wrist. You smile softly, a pang of something tender in your chest. It’s moments like this that remind you of how much he needed the quiet, the calm.

You don’t push him. You just let him be, letting the words hang in the space between you two, unsaid.

With a sigh, you reach over and switch off the bedside lamp, the room plunging into the soft embrace of darkness.

The only sound is the soft rustling of sheets as Megumi shuffles closer to you, his small body curling into yours with the kind of comfort only a child can seek. His little face nuzzles against your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

For a moment, you think you might finally find the sleep you’ve been chasing all night. But the stillness in the room only heightens the weight in your chest, the tightness of unanswered questions.

Your thoughts keep drifting to Toji—the way his absence hung between you, even now, even here.

You can’t help but wonder if he ever thought about your failed relationship, if he ever truly understood what he’d left behind. Maybe not just you, but him—Megumi, the child who would never ask for a father but still had a place for one.

You try to push it out of your mind, focusing on the warm weight of Megumi against you, but it lingers.

You close your eyes, but sleep remains just out of reach.

484 notes · View notes

hoshigray · 1 year ago

Note

hey love can i request brothers bff cho and how he's just down bad for you 🤍🤍🤍

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: omg wait, i fucks with this baddd

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Choso x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - masturbation (m!) - oral (m! receiving) - tit/breast fucking (m! receiving) - cowgirl position - pet names (baby, darling, honey, sweetie) - unprotected sex (psa: wrap it up or get tf up) - implied that reader is big chested - Choso crushing on you hard, lmao - mention of drool/spit.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.4k

Choso knew better than to be attracted to you, the sibling of his best friend ever.

Your brother and Choso have been buddies for a while, meeting during his part-time job at a burger joint as servers and finding out they have so much in common. Being older siblings, lovers of rock music, and relating to so much together, the two often hung out after work and became pretty good friends. Just two people vibing out in each others’ company, and there was nothing to make this relationship complicated!

“Hey, Choso, I’ve told you about my sister before, right?”

You greeted him with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Choso!”

Well, that is until you came and absolutely rocked Choso’s world.

You were the younger sibling of two; a college senior comes home biweekly to take care of laundry and then drives back up for your education. By your gorgeous face and alluring figure, Choso was struck by your image from the first time his eyes ever laid on you. You were such a kind spirit, always so sweet to him and others surrounding you — you’d want to hang with the boys whenever you had the chance while you were visiting, which was hellish for the brown-haired man.

You’d laugh along with the jokes, making Choso’s heart skip uncontrollably, and the way you’d lean to him when you’re sleepy watching a movie with them pushed the guy on the verge of shutting down. He could never get tired of how you’d say his name; it came out so dear from your lips as if he could be under your spell at any second. And it didn’t help that you’d walk around the house with shorts on, the lower fringes constantly threatening Choso on whether they’d creep up to see the mere crevice of your ass.

As said before, he knew better than siblings of best friends were off limits. However, you were becoming too much for him. It’s been half a year of seeing you, and there has never been a day or night where you haven’t popped up in his head one way or another, particularly when his mind would think of you in the most…lustful ways.

He throws his head back, reminiscing about you and your outfit from the pub. The way your breasts were tucked in nicely by the window of your bodycon dress, yet the cleavage was too tempting for his eyes not to notice. The dress sculpted your curves dangerously, Choso fighting the urge to put his hand on your hip to feel your clothed skin. And your lipgloss made your lips shine; every time you spoke to him was a test for him not to kiss you right there in front of your brother. It was so cruel how you looked so good for him!

He was spending the night at yours after a night out drinking with you and your brother, using the basement bedroom to sleep. Sleep evades him; however, he uses this space to deal with the erection he’s been dying to indulge in this entire night instead. His teeth pull the bottom of his shirt, dark jeans discarded to the floor, and his hand pumps his shaft that’s freed from his boxer briefs.

He grunts at the memory, teeth grinding while he strokes his long cock. Precum exuding from the urethra slides down to the base and wets his fingers. “Fuuck, Y/n,” your name is said in choked moans, the horny man fisting himself in a faster motion. Brown eyebrows are trenched, and his abdomen begins to flex. Shit, I’m so close, so cl—

“Choso?”

He never in his life froze still in an instant, and his heart goes to a complete stop, too. No way.

“Ca–…May I come in?”

No words are said from either side, so Choso’s heat immediately shifts to icy cold when he hears the door open, and your frame is all he sees. You’re still wearing the beautiful dress, yet your face is molded into an expression of utter anxiousness. Sweat goes down Choso’s forehead, oh fucking shit!

“I came down to see if you were okay and needed anything,” your eyes were downcast to the floor, chewing on your lips during this awkward situation. “But…I heard you say my name and…”

Oh, it was so over for him. All Choso could do was stare at you in dread, entirely shocked that you saw him masturbate at the thought of you! You were fidgeting with your dress, perplexed about how to handle this predicament, too. He was so done for; not only was he thinking of you, the sibling of his best friend, and using said thoughts of you, but now you are aware of how he pictures you in his fucked up head! Yup, he can never walk into this house again. “S–Sorry, Y/n! I’ll just go and—“

“Can I help?”

Again, his body goes rigid mid-stride of getting off the bed after pulling his underwear up. ….What?

“I mean, can I…help you with that?” You meekly walk into the room and close the door behind you. “I am the one who made you like this, so…I’m okay with it if you are…..”

Choso blinks, too alarmed to make any movements. “But, your brother…” You’re quiet for a few seconds before you spook him by taking steps in his direction. He gulps thickly when your figure crawls on the bed, too close for his brain to comprehend. You take his hand with your soft ones and bring his fingers to your lips to kiss, and his breath hitches when you suck and lick his digits. The boner stuffed in his briefs twitches at the sensation of your tongue running against the underside of his middle finger and sucking on it.

You peer at him, “What about him?” That is what you say before lifting your dress to remove your panties. And just when Choso thought his life was about to be thrown in the gutter, you flipped the script on him again.

In his head, Choso knew he shouldn’t be doing this.

“Mmm…Mmahh! Oh, Choso, you taste so good…”

But in his heart, he couldn’t help but give in to this situation.

You were situated between his legs, ripped him off his briefs for you to suck on his glans freely. Your tinge dances around his cockhead to prompt more come to ooze out of his urethra, and your hand slides up and down to stroke his member. Choso whimpers under your touch, and shivers crawl up his spine as you lick from the base to the tip before sucking hard.

“Fuuck, Y/n,” he grips the sheets, barely containing his hips to buck to your lips. “Your mouth, it’s—Hssshh…!”

“Mmm?” You blink before releasing the tip with a sound. “What about my mouth, Choso baby?” Fuck, the nickname made the pink of his ears creep down to his nape. “You feel good?” He nods at your question, and you giggle before sucking one of his balls, resulting in a sharp gasp from the brown-haired man. “I’m so happy you are…”

Hallow cheeks take in his cock, busying your throat with his length that has you humming blissfully. You massage his waist as you bob your face up and down, and shaky breaths leave his lips while his legs jolt with every swish of your tongue.

“—Shhiiit, oh shit, hnnn,” he can’t do it, you were driving him crazy. “Y/n, you’re gonna make me…Mmmm”

You pick up on his cue, withdrawing your lips from him to maneuver and pull down the top of your dress. Caramel eyes widen at the sight of your breast spilling out, forgetting how to breathe when you bring them to wrap around his long dick. You move them around to please him, taking the tip back into your mouth to slurp his leaking essence that trickles down to your chest.

“Mmaahh, go ahead, darling,” you place kisses on the tip, Choso looking at nothing but your mounds swallow him with every stroke. It takes mere seconds for his orgasm to sneak up on him, his jizz coming out to fall and trickle down in between the rifts of your tits. “There you go, let it out for me…” the way you looked at him with half-lidded eyes took his breath away, especially with the spit that connects your gloss-shining lips to his spit-and-come coated shaft.

And when he’s finally inside you? He’s too far gone to even think of being away from you.

“Ohhh, hoooh!! Chosooo, y’u feel soo good!”

Your dress was cast-off entirely, your nude body bouching up and down on Choso, his cock bullying the inside of your cunt. It’s been a solid fifteen minutes shared between the two of you exploring each other’s bodies, and sweaty skin exchanges heat from the constant motions. And come from rounds prior spill from your chasm as you ride on Choso’s dick with a rhythm.

He has his hands on your hips now, using you to keep him steady before he gets too lost in the feeling. Not that it hasn’t happened already; the man moans with every clamp of your walls around him, tightening around him with every graze of your g-spot. You wail for him up top, and your aroused sounds have to be the cutest things he’s ever heard. And the way your tits jump every time you plummet down to the base of him, it’s an image that will haunt him for the rest of his days.

“Tahhh, ughh, Jesus Christ…” He’s too sensitive right now; he just came not too long ago and is now being chased down for another one. “Y/n, sweetie, too fast, slow d—Ahh…!”

You hear him and titter, “Yeah? Want me to slow down, huh…” You bring your hips up excruciatingly slow, listening intently to the shaky sobs from the brunette as you get to the very top. And then you smack yourself down with haste, sharing a yelp at the rushed sensation. You do it again, “Think you’re about to cum again, huh, honey?”

His hands now come to your ass to grope with the flesh, and you twitch around his girth at the hunger. “Yeahhh…”

“You gonna be good and cum for me again, right?” Another snap of your ass crashing down on him.

“Yess, baby,” he throws his head back to the pillows, his head pounding so hard it could kill him. You can feel him pulsating within your slit. “Almost there…Ohh–ooo..!”

You bite your lip, relishing at the sight of him being desperate for release. You lean forward to him, your breasts meshing with his chest as you snake a hand around the back of his head. You place your lips on his, and he doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate.

The kiss gets hotter when you dial up the speed, tongues swirling and exchanging spit as the friction becomes a lot more pleasurable than before. Choso’s ears ring the deeper you bring him in to kiss, humming on his tongue as you suck on it with harsh rocks on his length from scraping places you couldn’t reach. He’s so fucking addicted to you; his composure long deteriorated the moment he first put his cock inside you.

Choso bucks himself to you in sync, his climax coming in just a few ruts. He howls into you, and you wail along as your hips don’t rest until you’re hit with a crescendo of your own. Contracting your vaginal walls milks him, exerting his load into you again to spill and flow down your sticky frames.

You two heave and pant in each other’s mouth before the kiss is broken, and the string of saliva is evidence of you being one with the other. Although the both of you are dazed, you smile at him before kissing his nose. “Glad I helped you out, huh?” He chuckles weakly as you lay kisses on his chin.

KNOCK!! KNOCK!!

And just like that, the two of you are frozen yet again. Wait…

Too late, the bedroom door busts open with a bang, and in comes your brother!

“Yooo, Choso, my guy—hic,” your brother stumbles inside the room, still a bit loopy and drunk. “Wanna go up and hit a quick blunt with— ah…”

The heat shared between you and the man below you switched to silent torture, awkwardness suffocating the three figures staring at each other. And this is the exact reason why Choso should’ve known better than to mingle around with you…

2K notes · View notes

mister0ctopus · 2 months ago

Text

Server Room (5)

series - jeon jungkook

Pairings: IT!JK x Reader

Summary: Your new IT guy is quiet and shy. But when you accidentally caught him doing something in the server room, while moaning your name, you just had to pretend you didn’t see that, right?

Ratings: 18+ ONLY! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Warnings: Explicit language, Mature Contents

Au/Genre: Office au, Mini Series

Word Count: 4.8K

a/n: we’re back, baby!! lol🥳 sooo sorry for the delay, but we’re picking things up from here on out. thanks for waiting! hope you enjoy this chapter! and pleaaaseee drop your thoughts, feedback, ideas, anything hehe, whatever’s on your mind! hearing from you is the BEST part of this whole journey. i love reading your thoughts, my dear fwendsss!! 🤍✨

🐙 Masterlist / Thoughts?Asks?

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6

Fuck, you’re wet.

Your feet, obviously—soaking and ice-cold. And then there’s the tapping on the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Like when you were a kid, sitting in an exam hall, drumming your pen against the desk. Your mind blank, and the answers wouldn't come, even though you’d studied all night.

Failure looming.

At the test. At being a daughter.

You hate that sound. That insufferable, rhythmic tapping.

And it’s getting closer.

And louder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You wake up.

Your eyes blink against the darkness, adjusting slowly. The room is quiet, except for the steady, insistent rain. Moonlight spills through the window, drawing your gaze to the slight opening.

Oh. That’s why….

The rain has slipped in, dampening the edge of your bed.

You sit up quickly, shivering as you get up from bed, feet meeting the cool floor. The window creaks as you close it gently until you hear a soft click. You rub your arms for warmth as you switch on the night lamp. And that’s when you notice her—Allie, curled comfortably under blankets on her bed, snoring softly.

Wait… when did she get here?

Everyone was in the cottage when you left for the cabin to shower. And then, well… you passed out after coming too hard.

Your gaze flickers to the brush on your bed, and your cheeks flush.

How long have you been asleep?

You press your fingers against your temples, trying to piece things together. The cabin is now still—no voices, no laughter, no footsteps. A stark contrast to the chaos and loudness from your drunk friends earlier.

Just rain. Just the lake, its waves lapping softly against the shore.

Then, the ache in your stomach makes itself known.

Right.

You barely ate at dinner, thinking you’d feast later while hanging out. But you didn’t—because you had… other things to take care of.

You glance down—oversized shirt, bare legs, only your panties.

With a sigh, you grab your pajama shorts, slip them on and head for the kitchen to hunt for food.

The kitchen downstairs awaits, and right now, food is the only thing that matters.

The kitchen light is on when you step downstairs, casting a soft glow over the quiet house. The scent of perilla oil lingers in the air, minty, fresh, and inviting. Someone else is awake—someone who shares your late-night hunger.

You nearly stop, nearly, when you see who it is.

Jungkook.

He’s caught up in his own world, standing by the counter in the center of the kitchen, in matching brown short-sleeved pajamas. You can tell he was almost ready for bed before deciding on a midnight snack. He’s carefully separating the egg yolk from the whites, his teeth catching his bottom lip in concentration. You can’t help but snicker.

His head snaps up, eyes widening. He clearly wasn’t expecting you.

“Hey, you’re awake,” he states the obvious.

“Yeah, I got hungry,” you murmur, stepping off the last few stairs. Your feet are light against the floor as you move toward the counter, pretending not to notice the way he watches you approach.

“I’m making Makguksu Noodles. Wanna try?” he asks, wiping yolk from his fingers.

Your throat tightens as you watch the glossy residue of the egg whites coat his long fingers while he separates the yolk.

You don’t realize you haven’t answered until he’s already plating two portions. That’s when you notice—his pajamas are slightly sheer, just enough for you to see the black boxer shorts underneath.

He glances at you just as you lower yourself onto the stool and the two of you move in silence. Him focused on mixing the noodles in the bowl, and you focused on not letting your eyes linger on how his shirt stretches over his muscles with every movement.

When the food is ready, he slides a plate toward you. You both eat quietly. Aside from a few stolen glances, you’re still groggy from your unexpectedly heavy nap.

You don’t even realize you’ve been zoning out until Jungkook has to repeat himself. “Did you seriously nap that long?” he teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Yeah…” You blink, forcing yourself back to the present. “Didn’t even realize I fell asleep after showering. I was gonna head back to the cottage, but everyone was already sleeping when I woke up.”

Jungkook hums, his smirk still present, but his eyes stay locked on his empty plate, as if deliberating something. “Were you that tired?”

“Yeah…” You trail off as you push your plate away, trying to avoid his gaze.

A beat of silence.

“You took your time in the shower,” he says casually but his grip on his glass is a little too tight as he lifts it to his lips.

Oh.

“Hmm… I kinda did,” you admit. “Needed to cool off.”

Jungkook tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Did it work?”

The corner of his mouth twitches like he already knows the answer. Like he’s waiting for you to lie.

“A little,” you murmur, holding his gaze, daring him to push further.

Something shifts in the air between you. He takes his time clearing the plates, loading them in the dishwasher with unhurried movements.

But that smug expression is still there, taunting you, making you curious.

And then, he turns and walks toward you, drying his hands with a paper towel, closing the distance. He stops directly in front of you, his hands bracing against the table as he leans in, only the table separating you now.

“Just a little?” He asks like he knows something.

“So you still need help, then?”

“Help with what?” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to shield you from his assessing eyes.

Jungkook’s smirk deepens as he tosses the paper towel aside before he leans in just a fraction closer.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. “With anything.”

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then to your throat, then back up again, holding you in place.

“Anything?” you repeat.

He answers with a chuckle.

“I heard you, you know?” his voice is soft, but the words are sharp. “Earlier. In your room.

“What did you hear?”

“Everything”

Oh…

His audacity is shocking, but you don't beat around the bush.

And this, he must know.

“Okay, well… oops? Caught me,” you giggle, trying to regain control. But you won’t let him have all the power.

“I saw you too... In the Server Room.”

A smirk.

No actually, a chuckle.

“I know,” he says simply, his voice low, his gaze sharp. “I saw you leave.”

“So, I guess now we’re even,” you chuckle. But you hold your head high, locking your gaze with his.

“Now we’re even,” he echoes, but there’s no humor in his tone.

“Was that your first time? Touching yourself… thinking about me?” you ask, your pulse quickening.

“Yes.” His voice drops lower, like a caress. “First time in the Server Room.”

Your breath catches, his honesty hitting you in your core, a heat pooling low in your belly.

"How about you?" He tilts his head, gaze heavy. "First time getting yourself off to the thought of me? Moaning my name like that?"

"In this cabin?" You drag it out, making him wait, reveling in the way his jaw clenches.

Then, finally, you answered. "Yeah."

A slow, satisfied exhale leaves his lips, and his tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip.

"Good. Where else?”

Audacious. Bold. You love it.

You lift a brow, feigning thoughtfulness, your voice above a whisper. "Mostly my bed."

His voice drops lower. "Mostly?"

Then, he moves closer, past the table. Closer to you. You’re still seated on the stool, and as you swivel to face him, he stays just where he is—so close, yet not touching. But the space between you is thin, too thin. You can smell his aftershave, the soft, clean scent of his fabric conditioner.

Silence stretches before you tilt your head with a smirk. "Want a list?"

"Uh-huh." His hum is low, amused… and then, he moves towards you, closer, grazing your knees.

You instinctively spread your legs for him, letting him in.

"Shower," you murmur, locking eyes with him.

"Where else?" His voice is rough, all patience hanging by a thread.

"Office bathroom." This time, your gaze drops to his lips.

Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut for a second. "Jesus." He exhales a chuckle, fingers playing with his lower lip, a habit you’ve seen before, one he resorts to when deep in thought.

But there’s no strategy to devise here, no puzzle to solve.

So why is he doing it now?

To ground himself. To pull back from the edge you’re so effortlessly pushing him toward.

That knowledge alone fills you with satisfaction. And the fact that he’s still trying to maintain composure? Still trying to outplay you?

Heat pools between your thighs, a wave of want surging through you.

You love this game.

You don’t miss it— the way his throat bobs, the way his jaw flexes, the way his hand curls into a fist at his side.

"So," he exhales, "How good do I fuck you, then? Slow? Rough? Do I make you beg for it?"

You bite back a smile, fingertips playing with the hem of his shirt.

"Want me to show you?"

Jungkook tilts his head, tongue flicking against his teeth. "By all means," he murmurs, fingers curling beneath your chin, thumb tracing your bottom lip, slowly. "Please bless me with a demonstration."

You don’t hesitate.

You part your lips and take his thumb into your mouth slowly. Your tongue swirls around it. Teasing, tasting. Then, without breaking eye contact, you take his index and middle fingers past your lips, sucking them in—deep, slow, sinful. Noisily.

He hisses. His breath stutters. His jaw clenches.

You keep your gaze locked onto his, peeking up through your lashes. You see his pupils darken, his lips part ever so slightly.

"You’d start by eating me out," you murmur around his fingers, releasing them with a loud pop.

"And once you're satisfied making me cum on your tongue…"

You guide his hand down, past your lips, to your throat, down to your chest, lower, lower— until his fingers skim the waistband of your pajama shorts. Down, down.

“You’d stretch me out using your fingers, making it nice and wet just so you can shove your cock inside me, rough and deep, exactly how I need it."

He exhales sharply and his grip on your thighs tightens. His head drops, eyes slipping shut.

"Yeah?" His fingers press against your panties, feeling your soaked core. "Then spread those pretty legs open for me then, lemme feel how wet I make you.”

You spread your legs a little further, and he slid over your slit, collecting wetness on his fingers.

"Fuck." His voice is barely a whisper, wrecked. “Dripping.”

Your hips grind, seeking more. "Only when I think of you fucking me."

That does it.

Jungkook rips his hand away—leaving you cold and aching—only to grab your waist and haul you onto the counter.

His mouth crashes onto yours, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, shoving his tongue.

Like a starved man.

It happens so fast, your brain barely catches up.

"Oh, god," he groans into your mouth, voice low and pained. His two fingers slide back into your throbbing cunt.

You must’ve been very, very wet because the sound of your slick echoes in the kitchen as he slides his fingers in and out of you.

His lips trail down your neck—biting, sucking, teasing—while you cling to him, fisting his collar, legs around his thighs, dragging him closer.

You feel it—the tight coil inside you, building, tightening, twisting. And he knows. The way you clench and tighten around his fingers, the way your breath stutters, the way your body arches like a fucking offering.

His thumb flicks your clit, before circling it with purpose.

Your legs tremble, and you can't help but let out a desperate moan against his ear.

“Please, YN,” he rasps, his forehead pressing to yours, dark eyes locked onto your fucked-out expression. “Soak my fingers, baby. Lemme hear you.”

His pace quickens, and you cum against his hand, chasing, grinding, taking everything he’s giving you.

The orgasm crashes through you, your walls squeezing, soaking his fingers as wrecked little moans spill from your lips—

So he covers your mouth with his hand.

“Like that, drip all over my fucking hand.”

He grinds against you, his cock heavy and straining through his pajamas, as he keeps his fingers buried inside you, pumping slow, dragging it out until you’re trembling, gasping, overstimulated.

Jungkook smirks, dragging his slick fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean with his tongue.

“Sweeter than I imagined. Bet you taste even better on my tongue.” He groans, as he pulls his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop.

“You’ll show me, yeah? How I eat this pussy.” His fingers slide back between your thighs, lips curling against your jaw, breath hot as he presses a filthy kiss to your neck. “How I fuck you, how I make you cum with my cock?”

You nod, your head still spinning from the high. Just as you were about to meet his lips—

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Your heads snap toward the stairs.

Yoongi stands there, gaze unreadable.

There was a time when you were in love with Yoongi.

Actually, scratch that.

There was a time when you were in love with Yoongi.

There was a time when you thought you were in love with Yoongi.

Blame it on your father issues that any man who has provider vibes, keeps his word, and doesn’t raise his voice could make you fall in love as easily.

He radiated that quiet competence like he could fix your life while being gentle and that he knew what to do.

So when you met him it was a no-brainer. You fell, and you fell hard.

The first time you met him at your first job post-college, he was this cold, quiet guy who looked like nothing could ever faze him. He was a senior in the office, and everyone held him in high regard for how he conducted himself—you know, competent, kept to himself. He barely smiled, rarely laughed—total ‘don’t talk to me unless it’s about work' vibes.

Your type.

But here’s the thing about Yoongi: the more time you spend with him, the more you start to notice the cracks.

It started when you two often got teamed up for projects because you both consistently delivered solid results.

The way he’d smirk at your lame jokes when he thought you weren’t looking. How he’d quietly make sure you had everything you needed before a big presentation. How every time you’d screw up, he’d just shake his head while trying to hide a smirk, and say “it happens.”

It made you wonder what it took for someone to be that calm. How much chaos did he have to endure to become so gentle?

But those feelings weren’t nurtured.

You were focused on chasing promotions, climbing up the corporate ladder in your sharp corporate OOTDs.

He was chasing some on-again, off-again college ex who was probably he had written songs or poems for. At first, hearing him talk about her felt like a stab to the heart. Stab and twist.

You never really had the chance to confess to him. You’d been emotionally constipated for so long that expressing your feelings felt pathetic. So, you admired him from a distance and stayed grateful for his friendship.

Of course, you knew he saw you as a kid back then—fresh out of college, trying to navigate the concrete jungle of the corporate world, pretending you had it all figured out. Taking on heavy tasks fueled by sheer grit and unrelenting feminine rage.

You always felt like you had something to prove. Every second of every day.

Just a bad habit drilled into you as a child, growing up in a suffocatingly traditional and overly religious household where women belonged in the kitchen and childbirth, while incompetent men labored under the illusion that they owned the world.

So you did the one thing they never saw coming—you used education to prove them wrong.

You showed them what excellence truly means.

And oh, you fucking did.

Summa cum laude. A job at a well-known company. Every achievement a middle finger to the system that tried to cage you.

You fucking did.

But at what cost? Nothing.

Excellence costs nothing.

Just anxiety, fear of failure, loneliness.

But Yoongi, for some reason, saw through you.

He silently looked after you, offering sound advice about your career and life, a quiet pillar of support when you needed it most. He never overstepped, never judged you for your mistakes. And he always acknowledged your strengths in that matter-of-fact way of his, like it was simply the truth.

And in return, you found yourself standing taller, speaking louder, growing more confident in how you faced the world.

Over time, you came to realize your feelings weren’t romantic.

Yes, you love Yoongi, but not in that way.

He was your safe space, the only male figure you felt secure with before meeting Jimin and Tae. To be truthful, he filled the void your father—or any other male figure in your life—never occupied.

Now, five seconds—maybe five minutes—of silence.

Because that’s what it feels like.

Yoongi and Jungkook staring at each other.

You staring at the two of them.

One doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out what’s happening. Jungkook is standing between your legs, his mouth still hot against your neck, while you cling to him. Good thing your back is to the stairs—Yoongi can’t see where Jungkook’s hands are.

Not that you care about being seen. Your sex life is nobody’s business.

It’s just Yoongi.

But also… it’s Yoongi.

It’s like an older brother catching his best friend making out with his sister.

You jumped down from the table just as Jungkook jerked away, putting space between you.

“Hyung.” His voice is neutral, casual. But his eyes track Yoongi carefully.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything.

Just walks over to the sink, grabs a glass, and fills it with water. His movements are slow, but something feels off.

You can’t read him. Normally, you can. But now? His expression is different. He’s too…blank.

The sound of running water fills the silence as he fills a glass and takes a slow sip.

“I was just getting water,” His tone is flat, almost dismissive.

Then, without looking at either of you, he turns toward the stairs, glass still in hand.

He’s halfway up when he pauses.

And then—he looks at Jungkook.

“Couldn’t you at least pick somewhere private?”

He is too calm and it’s weird.

“What’s private?” Jimin’s voice suddenly breaks through the tension as he climbs down the stairs, hair a mess, blinking sleepily.

Yoongi doesn’t even look at him. He just keeps walking upstairs, the sound of his footsteps fading.

Jimin glances between you and Jungkook, confused. “What was that?”

No one answers.

Jungkook finally looks at you, biting the ring on his lips.

Jimin sighs, completely oblivious. “Okay…? Anyway, do you guys know where the bucket is? Taehyung’s too wasted and puking his guts out. He also clogged the toilet, idiot.”

He’s still waiting, but the air feels too thick with something you don’t understand.

“I’m going back to sleep,” you mumble and rush upstairs.

The two don’t say anything, but you hear their voices fading into the background as you ascend.

When you reach your room, you shut the door behind you.

You feel your soaked underwear between your legs, a reminder of everything that just happened as you press your back against the door.

What a weird fucking night.

Lord, grant me telepathy to unravel the enigma that is Min Yoongi’s head. Amen.

The next day was torture.

First, you learned the hard way that giant windows weren’t so fun when the midday sun was beaming directly into your sleep-deprived eyes, punishing you for last night’s… activities.

Second, someone was lying half on top of your blanket, effectively trapping you in a duvet like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

You wiggled free, jerking up with enough force to make your head spin, only to come face to face with—Taehyung.

His arm draped over his face, shielding himself from the sunlight.

Right on cue, Jimin pounded on the door, looking annoyingly fresh and showered.

"You two! Get up! We're going kayaking. Jungkook and Allie are already getting ready," he called through the door.

You glanced at Allie’s empty bed before turning to Taehyung. "What the hell are you doing in my bed?"

Taehyung groaned. "Clogged our toilet, used yours, then passed out here on my way back."

"You dumbass," Jimin sighed, arms crossed. "You were so wasted! Why did you even drink that much when you don’t drink?"

Taehyung let out another groan. “Ow, my head…”

"Come on," Jimin stretched out a hand to him. "Let’s get you some painkillers."

"I don’t think I wanna go." Taehyung whined. "I feel like dying."

"This was your idea, and we already paid for the kayaks!" Jimin yanked him up with a dramatic sigh, dragging him toward the door, before turning to you.

"And you! Eat something then join us. You already bailed last night."

You exhaled heavily, checking your phone. 11 am.

Groaning, you forced yourself out of bed. You didn’t feel like doing anything today. But you also wanted to confront Yoongi. And maybe talk to Jungkook.

About what? You had no idea. You just hated unclear things.

You freshen up, and since you're still unsure of your plans for the morning—running or kayaking—you change into something comfy: an oversized hoodie and track shorts.

You make your way downstairs, and there he is.

Yoongi.

His back was to you, still in his pajamas—like he had just rolled out of bed and come down to eat.

Shoving the memory aside, you grabbed a bowl and milk from the fridge before sitting across from him. He was lazily picking at slices of watermelon from a container.

"Is it good?" you asked, pouring your cereal.

"Hmm," he just hummed. Classic Yoongi.

"You coming kayaking?" you asked, stirring your cereal.

He shrugged. "Nah. Kinda wanna finish a book." He flicked a seed off the fruit.

“Just say you hate water.” You chuckled. Then, you decided to rip the band-aid off.

"Wanna talk about last night?"

"Not really. Not my business."

"Okay… so, we’re good?"

He finally looked at you, brow raised. "What do you mean?"

"I don’t know, I was getting weird vibes from you last night," you admitted, chewing. "Which is weird because you never really cared about who I go out with or hook up with."

Silence.

"Actually… I do wanna talk about last night."

You raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to continue.

"I wasn’t gonna say anything because it’s not my place," he continued slowly, obviously being careful in choosing his words. "But I care about Jungkook. He’s like a brother to me. And you…" He exhaled. "You’re family too. It’s just… weird, is all.”

"I’m family?" You rested your chin on your hand.

"You are." Yoongi rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

You grinned. "Wow. That’s kinda sweet—"

"Don’t make it weird."

"You made it weird first," you pointed out.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What I meant was… it’s just weird is all. I never thought he’d be someone you’d…"

"Hook up with?" you finished for him, raising a brow.

He didn’t confirm or deny. He just pressed his lips together.

"Well, I guess he’s my type," you shrugged, going back to your cereal.

"YN, listen to me," Yoongi said, voice low. His eyes met yours, serious now. "Jin and I… we practically helped Namjoon raise Jungkook after their dad died. Jungkook was so young. He was hurt and angry. He acted out, fucked around."

You paused.

Yoongi never really talked about his friends like this.

You knew bits and pieces, something about their vacations, what they did over weekends, silly things, and maybe some history about the past… but nothing at this level of depth.

You realized… he was a private person. There was so much about him you didn’t know.

"Fucked around?" you asked, curiosity getting the best of you.

He shrugged, still careful of his words. "Just got self-destructive. Then got into fights. Ran with the wrong crowd. Slept around and left a trail of crying girls behind.”

You snorted. “Like I said, my type.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. "I’m being serious."

"I know, I know." You waved a spoon at him. "Look, thanks for the heads-up. But you know I’m an adult, right? And that I know what I’m doing? Jungkook’s been good to me, he’s never been an asshole or anything."

Yoongi nodded, but his jaw flexed slightly. “I never said he wasn’t, man. He’s a good kid. Maybe better that most of us, probably why he took their dad’s death the hardest—too soft for this world. He just had a rep, that’s all. I know you’re capable of discernment, so I won’t overstep."

You chuckled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

He just flashed you with his lopsided grin before he went back to his watermelon.

And you to your cereal.

And that was that.

A run seemed like the best way to clear your head, so you ditched kayaking with your friends despite their groans and protests.

The place was vast, giving you plenty of room to let your thoughts settle.

Except, there was nothing to settle.

You had no thoughts, just the nagging feeling that something was off.

Later, after you showered and changed, you joined everyone at the cottage for an afternoon picnic.

The scene was lively—Yoongi and Jimin were manning the grill, Jungkook and Taehyung had just returned from the kitchen carrying a massive icebox filled with drinks, and you took a seat beside Allie to help peel eggs for sandwiches.

But every time you placed a freshly peeled egg into the container, Taehyung swooped in and popped it straight into his mouth.

"Taehyung, I swear, peel your own damn egg!" you snapped, swatting at his hand.

He barely reacted, but his eyes suddenly narrowed as he leaned in close.

"Wait… what's that on your neck?"

Your fingers instinctively brushed over the skin just below your jaw. "What?"

A wicked grin stretched across Taehyung’s face. "Holy shit. Is that a hickey?"

All heads turn to you.

You stilled, your fingers still ghosting over your neck. But you didn’t react beyond that. Taehyung thrived on even the smallest hint, and any sudden movement could make him sniff out the truth, and you weren’t about to give him that chance.

"Oh my god, it is! And it's fresh too! Who the hell were you with?” He continued, louder.

It wasn’t a big deal.

So what if you and Jungkook made out—okay, so what if he made you come? Hard. With just his fingers. And yeah, it was good. Mind-numbingly, toe-curlingly, embarrassingly good.

And sure, you both obviously had the hots for each other. But that didn’t mean anything. Right?

“I knew it!” Taehyung clapped his hands together. “Yoongi? Finally? The ship has sailed!”

At that, you snapped your head toward him, eyes narrowing. “What? No!”

Unfortunately, you have now everyone’s attention. Thanks to Taehyung. The entire group turned to look between you and Yoongi, amused.

Jungkook remained unreadable.

Yoongi remained completely unbothered, simply flipping a skewer.

"Last night? Like… when I went downstairs last night?" Jimin repeated absentmindedly, his brows furrowing as he tried to piece things together.

"I knew something was up! I knew you'd eventually hook up!" Taehyung continued.

"Taehyung, shut up. We did not," you deadpanned.

"Then who? Jimin?" He snorted. "Nah, not unless it was a drunken mistake." His eyes flickered to Jungkook for half a second, "Jungkook? Hmm. Possibly. But Yoongi? I’ve always known."

Then he gasped. "Wait! Didn’t you used to have a crush on him?"

Jungkook shifted on his seat, as he popped open a can of beer with unnecessary force.

You turned to Yoongi, silently begging him to help you out, but he just shrugged as if to say “not my problem, kid”.

"Taehyung," you exhaled sharply. "Drop it."

Surprisingly, he did. He held up his hands in surrender but sing-songed. “Alright, whatever you say.”

The conversation moved on. The food was grilled. Drinks were passed around. Laughter filled the air.

But every now and then, you caught Jungkook’s gaze flickering toward you.

Unreadable.

And you told yourself there was nothing to read, nothing to talk about.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

taglist: @taekritimin123, @vantelover1306, @random-musingsss @likewtaf @jeonmaleficent @almatiarau, @kxthx-b, @lively-potter, @jk-190811, @ilovejungkook9999, @goldietigers294, @dreamyluna18, @va1-erie, @snow-strawberry, @lovieku, @daskewl @jksusawife @daskewl @pp0810 @cherryreadsfics @boyfriendtaekook @michuga @kchukes @ahgasegotarmy116 @michellekosmos @pitchblack0309 @hoseokteardrop @blueberriesm @jkslaugh97 @mysteriousgeminizone @jimintopiaaaa @marvelbun @rayyrayy10 @onlyoursol-ace @rkivesarchive

a/n: please lmk if i missed you, and as always, thank you for reading.

405 notes · View notes

yeonzzzn · 8 months ago

Text

your eyes only ; hyung line

when you send enha hyung line a “your eyes only” text following up with nudes. warnings: swearing. suggestive content MDNI. sending nudes through text message. degrading names. praising.

𝐻𝐸𝐸𝒮𝐸𝒰𝒩��:

you would totally shoot him with the ‘your eyes only’ text while he’s at work. waiting until the ‘read at xx:xx’ to pop up under your message, knowing he was probably freaking out. and freaking out is EXACTLY what he’s doing. heeseung would whip his head back and forth before running his thumbs as fast as he could across the screen of his phone to text you back. heeseung: yn i’m at work please you: ;) you: [2 photo attachments] heeseung’s pants immediately were tight at the sight before him. one hand squeezing your right breast while two fingers spread the lips of your pussy wide showing off how wet you are. whipping his head back and forth to make sure no one else just so happened to be standing behind him or walking pass and see his phone. using his arm to cover his very obvious hard on. heeseung couldn’t make it to the bathroom and locking the door quick enough. his heart racing faster than his thumbs could text you back, taking a photo of just how hard his cock was through his pants. heeseung: look what you’ve fucking done heeseung: [1 photo attachment] heeseung: i’m ruining that pussy when i get home

𝒥𝒪𝒩𝒢𝒮𝐸𝒪𝒩𝒢:

jay would be in the middle of having boys night with his friends when you hit him with the ‘your eyes only’ text. not even waiting for him to read the first message before following up with the nudes. jay would just be laughing and smiling wide with his friends until his phone dings from your text only to quickly lock his phone the minute your messages are open, eyes wide and ears red and praying to any higher being listening that none of his friends saw the photo. he would excuse himself and walk into the bathroom. he’d reach for the water faucet letting the cool liquid cover his hands before splashing his face, hoping it’ll cool him off. but it obviously didn’t. he couldn’t get the photo out of his head. barely saw it for a second and it was imprinted into memory. the way the lamp that sat behind the standing mirror in your shared bedroom illuminated your figure in the dark room left him dizzy. how the light so perfectly shaped the outline of your ass and back. how beautifully your hair hung over your shoulder and one arm covering your breasts. how you were biting your lip and giving him a wink. “fuck,” he whispered under his breath, palming himself to feel any sort of relief as he finally texts you back. jay: baby oh fuck jay: who do you think you are sending me nudes while i’m with my friends? you’d bite your lip as you reply back to him. you: but seongie, i need you :( you: [1 photo attachment he would fling his head back at the new photo of your thighs pressed tightly together, your slick shining against them from the lamp and palmed himself faster. jay: want to act like a slut? jay: just want until i get home jay: i’ll fuck you like the slut you are, baby girl

𝒥𝒜𝐸𝒴𝒰𝒩:

jake would be busy playing video games for hours on end. seeing on discord that he’s in the server with his friends. obviously you wanted his attention, and what best way to get that than to send a cute little ‘for your eyes only, pup <3’ text and attach a cute little photo of your legs spread wide and fingers knuckles deep in your cunt. the match jake was in ended, and the first thing he did was reach for his phone, remembering seeing you texted him just to drop his phone two seconds after opening your texts. “oh, fuck,” he breathed with a shaky voice. his friend instantly questioning him on his random f bomb usage. jake mutes his mic, not even answering them and picking his phone up from the floor. jake: oh baby jake: holy shit jake: please tell me you’re still touching yourself you: i am, pup <3 jake would be biting down at his plump lips, leaning his head back into his chair, replying back asking for a video of proof, which you so obediently gave him. you: [1 video attachment] you: need your fingers jakey :( jake: i know baby, being such a good girl, keep it up. i’ll be there in twenty

𝒮𝒰𝒩𝒢𝐻𝒪𝒪𝒩:

sunghoon dragged you to some family/friend reunion. both of you bored out of your minds. this event has been going on for hours and sunghoon eventually left your side because some old friends dragged him off to the kitchen and now you sat on the couch with his younger sister and a few of her friends, even more bored than before now that sunghoon wasn’t at your side. then an idea popped into your head, remembering the after shower nudes you took earlier in the bathroom mirror. you smirked as you pull your phone from your pocket. you: your eyes only <3 you: [2 photo attachments] you looked up at your boyfriend in the kitchen, watching as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, stopping mid sentence and locking his phone quickly and darting his eyes off to you. you continued to smirk meanwhile sunghoon was losing his mind at the photos you sent. the first one being the condensation mirror, but your naked body barely being seen but exposed enough. the second one being the exact same but a streak across the mirror, showing off only how perky your breasts were while the rest was covered by the condensation. it made him dizzy and pants grow tighter. sunghoon took a few steps back from his friends just enough for his phone to be away from eye level, and reopening your texts. sunghoon: this is a very dangerous game you’re playing right now princess sunghoon: meet me in the car in ten minutes sunghoon: i’m fucking you against that bathroom counter

— tags: @alvojake @ikeuverse @woniebae @shawnyle @jwnghyuns

@in-somnias-world @zyvlxqht @aaa-sia @wonniethepoo @addictedtohobi

@eneiyri @skzenhalove @fakeuwus @cherry-park @vousty

@ladyartemesia @criminalyun @enhaverse713586 @wondipity @lhsvibez

@jaeyunq @rikizm @kaykay11sworld @vixialuvs @onlyhyunjin

@enha-cafe @ppanghoon @sunpov @zeeloveshee @hxxsxxng

@moonrisearies @brownsugarbaybee @nshmrarki @vveebee @teddybeartaetae

@kookify @abysofsteel @aileeeeeeeeeeeee @hee-lvrr @1309zip

@moon0fthenight @jakeflvrz @021894s @sendhelpiloveyeonjun @surrik-i

@heeseungsbm @niki-riki-nishimura-riki

#enhypen hyung line #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #reader x enhypen #lee heeseung #park jongseong #sim jaeyun #park sunghoon #heeseung #jay #jake #sunghoon #yeonzzzn writing

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14dayswithyou · 11 months ago

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💖 Day 3.5 is now available! 💖

For the last couple of months, only Server Boosters had access to the 3.5 update... Buuuuut now it's available for everyone to play in the 14DWY Discord — and soon itch.io once I'm happy with the QA and state of the game — so please don't feel pressured to join unless you want to!!

The full devlog + even more screenshots are under the cut ^^

What's been added to the 3.5 version?

📺 Streamer Mode!

I've been told that it's difficult to stream and monetise age-restricted videos on YouTube and Twitch, so I added an option to remove the sexual content and strong language used in the demo.

Now y'all can invite Ren into your bed for cuddles without putting your streamer career on the line /silly /lh

This won't affect the 18+ rating or dark themes/elements of the game, however! Although Streamer Mode will prevent you from seeing any "gruesome" CGs in the future, most of the core elements of the game will still be tied to the choices and decisions you make. So you won't miss out on the overall experience by using streamer mode!!

⚙️ Custom Pronouns!

It only took me one entire year to get around to it, but you can finally choose your own preferred pronouns (or use a set of pronouns instead)... At the cost of being able to change them mid-game ^^;

Since the original pronoun screen wouldn't update until a new scene was displayed, I temporarily disabled the feature. But once I find a workaround, I'll bring it back!

💗 Choose how others perceive you!

You can now choose how the cast and narration perceive you! Originally, the narration was kept strictly gender-neutral (outside of pronouns and genitalia picked by the player), but this will soon change in future updates.

For more clarity: you don't get to choose the words specifically, but you can choose between masculine, feminine, and androgynous terms!

📋 Separate top and bottom genitalia!

You can now choose your tatas and pps separately! >:3

Alongside that, you can also choose your preferred body type!

I removed the "both" genitalia option because a few players still assumed it was an obscure version of "intersex". That wasn't my intention and I don't want to mislead anyone, so I took it out for now ^^;

I also didn't want to include a screenshot of the new genitalia choices in action (because it's NSFW), so y'all get the same character menu screen for the nth time instead lmao

📱 Relationship Screen Overhaul!

You can now change your own status for more immersion, and long-term Server Boosters will eventually be able to submit and use their own icon within the game as well!

Stalking finding your friends has now become easier by using "Buddy Maps"; a new app that allows you to see the location of all the cast members!

I want to offer players more incentive to check the relationship screen since they tend to miss the status updates, so hopefully this might help ;v;

It also says it "updates every few hours" so folks don't go overboard and check every 5 seconds to see where Ren is gdsghf (also keep in mind that he's a hacker lol)

🖤 Additional Scenes Update!

Day 2 received a brand new CG!!!!! Originally, I planned on only adding a few CGs sporadically throughout the game, but it didn't feel right to leave Day 2 so... empty... so I added a brand new CG to (hopefully) make things feel more balanced and natural!

If you decline Teo's offer on Day 3, Leon will now call and try to convince you to reconsider. However, players are still allowed to decline, and if they do, they'll reach a dead end.

After listening to feedback on itch, I changed some of the dialogue during Days 1-3 to make it seem more consistent! They're only small changes though, so it's honestly not worth looking for sdgjssga

�� Updated BGM and SFX!

I wanted to try out a different style of music to see if it fits the vibe of 14DWY more! The BGM features more acoustics to suit the "beachy" theme of Corland Bay, though I made a conscious effort to include piano elements as well to stay true to the original!!

I figured it'd be better to give players a live example before I make a poll (to see if they prefer the change or not) and publish it to Itch.

Some new SFX have also been added, though it's very minimal and honestly not that noticeable.

How to download and play the update?

(warning: clicking on the following links will open Discord!!) To download the Day 3.5 update, simply join the 14DWY Discord server, verify your age, and visit the "14dwy-updates" channel!

Alternatively, you can also wait until the update is publicly released on Itch to play it as well!! (It normally gets released shortly after a round of QA testing/getting feedback from the server, though I may release it earlier if I feel like it hehe ^^)

Enjoy!!

#14 days with you #14dwy #💖 — 14 days with queue.#🖤 — updates.#🖤 — spoilers.#I'm not gonna say much about my current doxxing situation because I've got it under control now + it's being handled privately #Plus I don't wanna give it/the people involved any unnecessary attention. I just wanna announce the update and Get Back To It™️#(''it'' bein the grind 💪 It never stops lmao /silly)#OG followers will also know that these topics aren't the vibe I normally have on this blog (or any of my accounts); so I don't think I'll—#—make ANOTHER public post about the situation and bring more attention to it (when I just want everything to be over and put to rest ^^;)#However I also don't want people to think that I'm... ignoring?? the situation entirely (because gettin doxxed is a very endangering thing)#So I DO want to quickly acknowledge it here and say that it's all currently handled + I'm safe and okay + this won't stop me from—#—continuing to work on 14DWY (and other future projects). I also don't want to give these awful people more power and incentive to continue #—this kind of pathetic behaviour; so the less attention and encouragement being shown will ultimately be better in the long run :3 #Aaaaaanways!! 😮‍💨#My other accounts will be restored shortly and my askbox will be opened once I feel comfortable. I'll get around to following folks—#—again in my own time; so please don't feel offended if I unfollowed you during a moment of vulnerability and anxiety!!#This is all EXTREMELY overwhelming and scary for someone with SAD/AvPD; and I /gen can't handle seeing it all over my timeline ;v;#Sorry this got ranty and personal again hjdsgjsdh T_T I said I wouldn't say much; so I'll shut up now hehe #🖤 — shut up sai.

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redstonedust · 2 years ago

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god media giants like google and twitter putting in inactive account deletion policies is just. horrific. it'd be one thing if it was just inactive empty accounts. but any inactive account being at risk of deletion fills me with dread. we all pass away one day, and so do our surviving relatives, until one day our online legacy gets wiped out because nobody was around to occasionally check our emails, i guess?

google's statement says that its because older accounts are at more risk of being hacked and repurposed into phishing accounts. but theres no reason they couldnt put in a mechanic of, say, locking inactive accounts from use while still keeping the content up. its not like they cant afford the server space. we've been forced away from physical media only for the internet to continue spiralling its way into a digital dark age. its depressing, man.

#this is a very new policy at least so im hoping it get overturned before december #but auuuugghhhh

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hayatoseyepatch · 5 months ago

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𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓: You swore grief followed you like a cloud. Losing those who you loved at every turn, but there was one positive at least you had Bachira to turn to for comfort. But you were soon to find out the mysterious deaths surrounding you werent such a mystery afterall. 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗: Meguru Bachira (Blue Lock) 𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.9k 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘: Fem!Reader x Yandere!Bachira. ⚠️NSFW Dark Content⚠️. 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: Knife play, stalking, NONCON, mentions of voyeurism, gas lighting, mentions of murder, obsessive behavior, blood, oral (fem!receiving), pussy slapping, degrading, mind break.

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗’𝖘 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊: WE DID IT YALL! We have officially made it to the end of Kinktober!! This was my first time taking a stab (hehe) at this challenge and we may have had a few hiccups along the way, but we got here! I really wanted to end this month with a bang! So this is probably the most intense of the ones on this list. For this one more than all of the others, please be mindful of the tags. This is the most intense and dark fic I’ve done this month. You are responsible for the content you consume, if this is not for you please have a look at my complete masterlist for Kinktober here. This is also my second submission for the "No, You Hang Up" Ghostface server collab that I'm hosting with our other server owner @rindous-starlight I really hope you enjoy and thank you for sticking with me through it! Merry Samhein/Happy Halloween my loves!

Bachira’s eyes were locked on you, unblinking. His gaze was so intense he was surprised that you didn’t feel it through the glass of your window. You were so trusting, but oh so naïve. Not thinking for a moment that your sweet, ditzy, neighbor had such a deep-seated obsession with you. Couldn’t imagine that nearly nightly he sat by his window, the same one that was directly across from yours, eyes locked on your frame. As you changed, danced around, scrolled through your phone, and especially late at night when you let your hands roam your body. To Bachira, in his twisted mind, this was all intentional. Because for what other reason would you, in clear view with your blinds open, let your fingers sink into your delicious cunt? To Bachira he took it as you simply teasing him. Aching for him to make the first move.

You had moved to this neighborhood nearly a year ago. And you would be lying if you said it had been an easy year. The past year had tested you to the extreme. Within only a month your long-term boyfriend went missing. You and Reo had been together for almost ten years, high school sweethearts. You didn’t know what you would do, he had been all you’ve ever known. After spending weeks worried sick, never stopping looking for him, his body had turned up in the middle of the woods. Murdered. You couldn’t imagine who could do such a thing. Bachira had happened to return to his home when you were just wrapping up talking to the police, offering you a kind smile and a warm hug.

Bachira.

You don’t know what you would have done without him this past year. He had been there for you all through your grief, comforting you every step along the way. Despite what anyone said, you were eternally grateful for the sweet man. You best friend, Karasu, hadn’t liked him. Claiming something about “the guy’s vibe being off” and that he “seemed happy with your boyfriend out of the picture”. You two had gotten into an argument that night, after telling Bachira about your squabble the next day you were certain he was right.

Karasu had never liked Reo, claiming you could do so much better. That he and his best friend Nagi’s relationship was weird. But, no, Bachira was right he was projecting. Projecting that Bachira was the one happy Re was out of the picture when it was really him. That didn’t mean that he deserved what happened to him, however. You spent too many nights lying awake relaying the last conversation you both had on repeat. Screaming back and forth before he stormed out. Sure he had been so nasty to Bachira, who all he wanted was to be there for you, but he didn’t deserve…

He didn’t deserve to die.

Enough time had passed since Reo’s passing that you had begun to consider moving on. After Reo, and now Karasu, your late boyfriend’s best friend had begun checking on you more frequently. You weren't sure how it happened, maybe because you were missing Reo and being with Nagi felt like there was still a piece of him left behind. The both of you seek comfort in each other, eventually escalating, blossoming into a bit of an arrangement. The both of you weren't dating by any means, more seeking a body to keep the bed (and your cunt) warm. And it was working, going so well. It was nice having Nagi around, a familiar face you had known for so many years. Not having to rely on Bachira so much.

It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy the sweet man’s presence, but you were starting to feel guilt for leaning on him so heavily. Bachira had been there for you through both tragedies this past year, now being your only friend in the world with the recent developments in you and Nagi’s relationship. When you had moved here, it was a distance away from your family. Having moved here to be closer to Reo’s work. Karasu was a good enough friend that he had found an apartment nearby, not wanting you to be so far away with no one. But, with him gone now too, it seemed like all you had was Bachira and Nagi. You were so grateful for Bachira’s presence, so lucky to have him in your life.

But oh how wrong had you been.

You wished you had listened to Karasu, that you had never moved here in the first place. Not as your feet slammed against the hardwood of the spacious home left to you in Reo’s absence. Not as you had come home that day to see your couch stained in his blood, his lifeless body being hovered over by the mysterious masked killer. And certainly not as the same man chased you throughout your home, his manic laughter seeming all too familiar. Once you were sure you had put enough distance between you both you ran toward your bedroom, slipping inside your closet.

That had been your first mistake.

The hand you had clamped over your mouth must have not been doing its job well enough

“Come on out, honeybee. I just wanna talk. I promise I wont hurt you, I’d never hurt you. I love you.”

You froze in place where you were hidden, your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach. You knew that voice. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t be happening …Bachira?

You let out an audible gasp, in hindsight that was most likely what had led him to your hiding spot. You let out a scream as the closet door is thrown open, mask discarded from his face now, allowing you to take him in. Crazed look in those honey-colored eyes you had grown to feel so safe when looking into, now causing bile to rise in your throat. Blood staining his hands and smeared on his cheek. Knife tossed aside somewhere on the bed as he collects you into his arms. An embrace where you once felt safe, now making you feel trapped, fear creeping up your spine. You let out a full body shudder as his nose nuzzles into the side of your neck.

“There you are my honey bee. Are you done hiding from me now?” His words come out muffled against your skin, tears pricking the back of your eyes.

“Bachira…why?”

His grip tightens on your figure, surely displeased with your words. His hand coming to your face in a harsh grip, eyes narrowed when looking into yours.

“Meguru.” He nearly growls. “You call me Meguru. People who are in love call each other by their first names. Now say it.”

You let out a hush whimper of his name and that seems to snap him back into his bubbly personality. Before you could comprehend what was happening his lips collided with yours, his tongue invading your mouth. Walking you backward until your knees hit the back of the mattress, causing you to fall back your body hitting the plush mattress with hm still on top of you You whimper, low and in the back of your throat, weakly trying to push him off of you.

“Please… Meguru, stop.”

This seems to upset him one again, his fingers curling around the bladed weapon that lay discarded on your mattress. You felt the cold blade caress the side of your face, cold metal, sliding down the column of your throat. His lips pressed to your ear as he speaks.

“It’s a shame what happened to your boyfriend.” Bachira purred, hand still coated in Nagi’s blood, caressing the side of your face. “All those muscles didn’t help much.”

You feel sick to your stomach, the knife against your throat a reminder of what could happen if you continue to disobey him. You shudder as his hand moves swiftly, cutting through the fabric of your dress and bra, eyes locked on your now-exposed chest. Hearing is mumbled ‘so beautiful. Before he ducked down, capturing one of your nipples between his soft lips. The hand not still holding the knife thumbs your neglected bud to a peak before pinching it between blood-stained digits. With every touch to your skin, more of the evidence of what he had down stains your body. He pays attention to your sensitive buds, grinding his hips into your own. You know you should feel appalled, feel disgusted that the very man who had caused you so much grief was on top of you. Touching you.

So why did it feel so good?

Why did you crave more of his touch?

Why were your hips meeting his own?

Perhaps it had been because it had been a while since you had been touched like this. Nagi found most things to be a hassle, often falling asleep almost immediately after he came. Whatever the reason you were mortified to find yourself craving more. Allowing him to slip your clothes properly off of your body. Not fighting when his lips traveled down your frame. And certainly not when he used his index and middle fingers parted your folds so he cold duck his head down and lick a fat stripe up your soaked cunt. Bachira’s body had a visceral reaction to your taste, burying his face in your cunt, his tongue alternating between licking fat stripes against your clit to pointed circles tracing shapes against the bundle of nerves. His hips grind desperately against the mattress in search of friction to his achingly hard cock. But his head was too pussy drunk already, your taste having his eyes rolling back in his head, eating you like a man starved. Like his life depended on the sustenance of your juices.

He leans back after a moment, admiring you being so exposed for him, hand rearing back to slap your exposed cunt. You cry out, pain immediately being replaced with pleasure as he dives back down, burying this face into your folds once more. His nose bumps your clit as his tongue invades your entrance, curling inside you. He collects your juices on the wet muscle, withdrawing from inside you he pushes himself up. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, allowing your juices, mixed with his own saliva, to drip down on your neglected clit. You whine, the warmth contrasting to the cold of the room. You’re shaking, trying to hold the position he’s placed you in.

Hands gripping your waist tighter than before, which you were sure would leave imprints, if not bruises on your skin in the morning. Lips attach to your clit, tongue flicking rapidly, only pausing to occasionally bite or suck on the sensitive flesh. Your hips pick up speed, practically riding his tongue as your hips buck against his face. The familiar feeling of warmth spreads throughout your stomach, your body hurtling toward your orgasm at an alarming rate. Bachira feels your thighs spasm, both hands now gripping your ass, to pull your cunt down further onto his face, head bobbing to coax you into cumming for him. You release with a scream, thighs trapping his head between your legs, only releasing once you’ve come done from your high. Your chest rising and falling with heavy pats, not noticing Bachira throwing the cloak off of his body, freeing his cock from the confines of his underwear. Only snapping back into reality as you feel the drag of his cock between your folds, the tip of him nudging your entrance, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke.

“Now, be a good girl and scream for me, yeah?”

𝕯𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖇𝖞 @/𝖈𝖆𝖋𝖊𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖊 & @/𝖘𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖉𝖎𝖐𝖆-𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖕𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖘.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @pixelcafe-network @interstellar-inn @littleplantfreak @maruflix @umemiaa @stunies @eevees-hobbies @143-ilyuu @uzxotic @princesstiti14 (𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊 𝖋𝖊𝖊𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙/𝖉𝖒/𝖆𝖘𝖐 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖆𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖔𝖗 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖘) (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

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witchywithwhiskey · 28 days ago

Note

For your sweethearts game, I spun the wheel and got sweet talk. Thought Johnny Storm could be a fun combination for the prompt. Hopefully this inspired something 💜

sweet talk

pairing: boyfriend!johnny storm x female reader

summary: in a dark, secluded booth in the corner of a nightclub, johnny storm sweet talks you into getting into some kind of trouble on valentine's day.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, public sex, drunk sex, consensual sexual coercion, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cock warming, hand job (over the pants), roughness and rough body play, choking, marking/hickeys, possessiveness, dirty talk, degradation kink, objectification kink, praise kink, pet names (firelight, baby), aftercare, love confessions, sweet ending, established relationship

word count: 4.4k

a/n: ahhh Em, 'sweet talk' was such a good prompt to pair with Johnny Storm!! we all know that man has a mouth on him 👀🤭 i was originally going to try to write a different fic for this, but then i saw this post going around and i couldn't help but use it as inspiration for our dirty talking Johnny! anyway thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

Johnny Storm could sweet talk you into anything. Even when the thing in question was most certainly a crime and could very likely get the both of you in a lot of trouble. Case in point…

It was Valentine’s Day, and a Friday, and Johnny didn’t want to end the night after the swanky dinner he’d taken you to. So you’d ended up at some exclusive Manhattan nightclub with a hundred disco balls hanging from the ceiling and refracting the strobing lights on the crowded dance floor.

Since Johnny was the Johnny Storm—the most charming and charismatic member of the Fantastic Four—it hadn’t been difficult to get a corner booth on the upper floor of the club with the other VIPs. You’d even been granted your own server, who’d taken your order and returned a few minutes later with your drinks.

The champagne from dinner was still bubbling in your blood as you sipped on the sweet, Valentine’s Day drink you’d ordered. You’d chosen it for the obscene amount of maraschino cherries it came with, and it wasn’t long before half the glass was gone.

The sugar and liquor went right to your head, filling it with fluffy clouds of desire, which thickened the longer you sat on the plush leather seat of the booth, warmth curling in your belly and urging you to act impulsively.

Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you leaned into Johnny’s strong, steady form, your hands smoothing up the planes of his chest, copping a feel of his thick muscles through his dress shirt. He’d shed his jacket as soon as you sat down, loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves, making him look a little rumpled in the most delicious way.

One minute you were watching Johnny take a sip of his drink—an old fashioned that had come with its own cherries—your eyes fixed on the way his jaw worked, the long line of his throat bobbing in a way that was far too enticing… Then, the next thing you knew, you were licking the taste of the sweet fruit and bitter alcohol from his mouth.

Both your drinks sat forgotten on the table as you made out with your boyfriend, your lips working furiously to devour each other. Tongues slipped into hot, greedy mouths, while teeth nipped and lips sucked, fingers digging and clinging desperately.

The rest of the club fell away, your hands growing bolder as you sank deeper into Johnny and the haze of lust clinging to your skin. Moans spilled from your mouth unbidden, being swallowed up by the pounding music of the club.

In the dim corner booth, it felt like you and Johnny were the only two people in the world. But the rational side of your mind—which hadn’t been entirely obliterated by the drinks and desire burning through your body (at least, not yet)—was very much aware you were still in public.

So when Johnny suggested you take things further, right there in the club, where anyone could see, you knew better than to say yes.

“Johnny, we could get arrested,” you whined into his mouth, your fingernails scraping through the thick scruff on his jaw. You loved it this length—too long to be stubble, but too short to be a beard. It felt divine against your smooth cheeks, and especially between your soft thighs…

“Only if we get caught,” Johnny said smoothly, his breath ghosting over your lips and teasing you enough that you let out a desperate, keening sound. His smug chuckle sent a ripple of desire down your spine, settling heavily between your already squirming legs.

The bass of the music in the club was pounding through the floor and the seat of the booth, and you could feel it throbbing between your thighs, matching the rate of your thrumming pulse. A heady, almost feral need pumped through your body, and you shifted even closer to Johnny, kissing him again with feverish lust.

Arousal was clouding your mind, blotting out the rational arguments that had seemed so important a moment before.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you shoved Johnny’s hand underneath the hem of your dress. You were so wet, so worked up by making out, it wouldn’t take him long to get you off. If you were quick, maybe no one would notice…

Johnny must’ve been having similar thoughts because, as he kissed down the side of your neck, sucking on the soft skin hard enough to leave a trail of hickeys in his wake, his fingers circled your wrist and tugged your hand away from where it had been planted on his firm chest.

He brought your palm to the thick bulge in the front of his dress pants, and you sucked in a gasp of sheer desire. He was hot and so hard, and you knew instantly how good he would feel inside you. He’d stretch your tight hole so exquisitely, fill up your warm heat so perfectly.

Even more arousal pooled low in your belly, wetness dripping from your slit and making a mess of your thighs—because, of course, you hadn’t worn panties. It was Valentine’s Day, and you’d expected Johnny to try to sweet talk you into some kind of trouble, and you’d figured panties would just get in the way.

But you still weren’t sure taking things further in the booth of a nightclub was such a good idea.

Johnny seemingly sensed your hesitation and abandoned his endeavor to leave your neck covered in hickeys. He dragged the scruff on his jaw up your neck and over your cheek, nuzzling you in a mesmerizing rhythm as he spoke in your ear.

“C’mon, firelight, ‘m so fucking hard for you.” Johnny’s voice was low and deep and so entreating, it made your core pulse with your body’s own answering need. “My cock’s throbbing for you, baby, can you feel it?”

God help you, but you could feel it. You could feel the way Johnny’s hard length was twitching. You could even feel the wet spot on the crotch of his black slacks where his precum had leaked through.

Without even having to ask, you knew Johnny hadn’t worn his usual boxer briefs, and you had to bite back a smile. You hadn’t been dating that long—less than a year—but the two of you seemed to make a good pair.

A good pair with wildly depraved desires that were bound to get you into trouble one day, but a good pair nonetheless.

Still, you’d never fucked in public before. Part of you was worried about whether you could actually get away with it, like Johnny said, while another, increasingly larger part of you was desperately horny and needy for your boyfriend’s cock.

Would it be so bad? People fucked in public all the time, especially in New York City, didn’t they?

“If we get caught…” you began to say without really knowing where you were going. But it didn’t matter, because Johnny was quick to pick up on the fact that you were being swayed to his side.

“We won’t,” he promised vehemently, his voice steady and sure in that way only Johnny could manage. “I promise, firelight, we won’t get caught, I’ll make sure of it.”

Johnny’s hand was so warm, almost scorching, as he pressed down on the back of yours, curling your fingers around his thick length through the crotch of his pants. He felt so big and hard, and you couldn’t help the way your pussy pulsed with the desire to have him buried to the hilt in your tight heat.

You were just about to give in, to admit you’d let Johnny Storm sweet talk you into yet another bit of trouble, but your boyfriend kept talking. Sometimes he didn’t know when to stop talking.

“But even if we do, I bet whoever caught us wouldn’t mind,” Johnny murmured in your ear, his voice picking up speed as he used your fingers to slowly stroke his cock through his pants. “How could they when they’d get to see your pretty pussy stretched around my fat cock.”

A vicious shiver skated down your spine, arousal flooding your body and making you tremble against Johnny’s chest. Your fingers twisted in the soft cotton of his button-up shirt while you pressed your thighs together against the ache his words had inspired. And all the while, you let him use your other hand like a toy, stroking his length.

“They should be so lucky, to get to see you creaming all over my dick,” Johnny was saying, still painting a filthy picture of getting caught fucking in the club. But he cut off suddenly with a curse. “Fuck, I need it, I need your cunt, baby.”

At that point, you knew you were going to give in, you wanted it too badly not to. But the furious pleading in Johnny’s voice was so delicious, you couldn’t help but try to coax a little bit more out it of him before you relented.

“But Johnny, we can’t,” you mewled pathetically, putting so much emphasis on your last word, you were certain he’d know what you were doing.

Sure enough, when your boyfriend caught your eye, there was a spark of knowing in the dark blue depths. An arrogant smirk curled his soft mouth and he leaned in again until his scruff rasped against your cheek. He chuckled at the way your shoulders trembled in response.

“Yes, we can,” he said, his voice smooth and seductive. “No one’s going to see us, I promise,” he went on, unerringly charming as he shifted his hand from the back of yours to slip between your thighs. “They’re all too focused on themselves to notice us fucking in a dark corner.”

You hummed noncommittally, feigning hesitation even as you continued stroking Johnny’s cock through his pants. When he huffed a sound of mild frustration, you had to bite back a delighted smirk.

“I need to feel you so bad, firelight,” Johnny whined, that furious desperation seeping back into his tone. “I can’t wait to get you home, or even to the bathroom.”

His fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of your thigh, hard enough that you knew he’d leave bruises. But you didn’t care, not when it felt so good when he got possessive and greedy like this.

You squeezed his cock in encouragement, urging him silently to go on; he kept talking, words spilling from his mouth like he couldn’t control them.

“Just sit on it, baby, sit on my cock. No one will notice, no one will catch us, I promise. We won’t even fuck, just keep my cock warm, just to take the edge off. Come on, I know you want it—just sit on my cock, firelight, please.”

You knew there was at least one lie in Johnny’s words. You knew that if you sat on Johnny’s cock, you’d end up fucking. It didn’t matter if you were in a club where anyone would see, once he was inside you, there was no way either of you could control yourselves.

But that was okay because he was telling the truth about the most important part—you did want it. You wanted it so fucking bad. All sense and reason had fled in the face of your overwhelming desire for Johnny Storm.

“Well, since you said ‘please’,” you murmured, a smirk curling the corners of your mouth as you stole a quick kiss from Johnny.

He looked a little stunned when you pulled away, like he was surprised by his luck, but then his expression melted into an affectionate grin and you knew, beyond any doubt—and even if you did get caught—you’d never be able to regret what you were about to do.

Glancing around quickly, you made sure no one was looking in your general direction. Even if they were, they wouldn’t be able to see much with the way you and Johnny were hidden in the dark corner booth, the haze of weed smoke and the shadows of the dim club obscuring you from view.

As inconspicuously as possible, you shifted onto your feet and stepped between Johnny’s spread thighs, turning your back to him and leaning slightly over your table. Curling your fingers in the skirt of your dress, you pulled up the back, baring your ass to your boyfriend’s hungry gaze.

You could feel the heat of his stare and you pressed your thighs together in an attempt to ease the ache in your core. It seemed like an eternity that you held yourself in that position—or, at least, long enough for your thighs to begin to tremble with the effort.

Thankfully, Johnny’s warm hand slid around your hip and he guided you down, having freed his cock while you’d been getting into position. You bit your lip against a gasp when you felt the broad tip of his cock press between your folds, but you didn’t stop there.

As slowly as you could manage, you sat down on Johnny’s cock, sheathing his thick length in your dripping pussy in one smooth move. It felt so fucking good, you had to cover your face with your hands and moan helplessly into them, the sound of Johnny’s groan drifting past your ears.

Thankfully, the loud music in the club swallowed up the sounds of both your pleasure. And when you changed a glance through your fingers, no one was paying you and Johnny any mind.

Once you were seated, Johnny curled himself around your back, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he drew you deeper into the booth with him. Your thighs were still pressed tight together, one of your hands clinging to the front of your dress to make sure it kept you covered.

“Relax, firelight,” Johnny urged, his tone dripping with soothing charm. His hands kneaded your plush hips and supple thighs, coaxing your body into letting go of the tension it was holding. “There ya go, baby, relax for me.”

A soft moan slipped from your lips and your head fell back against Johnny’s shoulder, your limbs loosening and your body resting deeper into the cradle of his arms. It felt so good, being connected to him on such an intimate level, his cock filling you so perfectly.

The fact that you were in public, where anyone could see you, added a deliciously depraved headiness to it. One you let yourself enjoy, all fears and worries about getting caught flitting away into the murky gloom of the club.

“Atta girl, firelight, you’re taking my cock so fucking well,” Johnny went on, his voice low and enthralling, adding to the haze of pleasure settling over your mind and body. “Being such a good slut for me, sitting pretty in my lap and keeping my cock nice and warm—you’re such a good toy, aren’t ya, baby?”

“Johnny, don’t tease me,” you whined, your fingers finding his and hefting his arm up over your shoulder. The move allowed you to bury your face in his bicep, hiding the dirty and debauched things his words were doing to your body.

Johnny chuckled, settling his chin on your other shoulder and brushing a kiss to your cheek, making sure his scruff rasped against your skin.

“I’m not teasing you,” he murmured in a sweeter voice. “You feel so fucking good on my cock, so tight and warm and wet—and all for me.”

Warily, you pulled your face from your boyfriend’s bicep and turned to look at him, catching his eye as he leaned over your shoulder.

Once he saw you were looking, his mouth curved into a devil-may-care smirk, and you knew whatever he was about to say was going to make you even wetter than you already were.

“And you are a slut, baby,” Johnny said, his voice even darker and more shameless as he went on, spilling filth in your ear without even pausing to take a breath. “Only a slut would sit on my cock because you were horny, only a slut would let me cockwarm this sweet pussy in public like this—only a slut would get off on the possibility of being caught with my cock buried balls deep in your greedy cunt.”

Johnny’s hands squeezed your hips, rocking you hard on his stiff length while he was grinding up into you. The head of his cock brushed against somewhere deep inside of you, and you felt your pussy clench and gush with even more wetness, your shoulders trembling as you moaned shamelessly into the dark of the club.

“Oh god, Johnny, I’m—please, I need…” you trailed off. You didn’t know what you needed exactly, whether it was for him to keep doing what he was doing or to bend you over the table and fuck you right there in the club. You just knew Johnny was the only one who could give it to you.

A heartbeat later, a gentle weight settled over your lap and you looked down, finding Johnny had laid his suit jacket across your legs. It was big enough that it hid your lap entirely from view, in case anyone happened to peer through the gloom at what you and your boyfriend were doing.

Before you could thank Johnny for the sweet gesture, he was slipping one of his hands beneath the jacket, wasting no time curling his fingers under the hem of your skirt and finding your clit.

The first brush of his fingertip to your tight bundle of nerves felt like he’d set off a mountain fireworks beneath your skin, pleasure bursting and zipping through your limbs.

Your body tried to curl in on itself, every bit of you trembling while pitiful whimpers spilled endlessly from your lips.

But Johnny chased after you, wrapping his other hand firmly around the front of your throat. He pinned your back to his chest while he bounced you on his cock and rubbed your clit.

“Here’s how this is gonna go, firelight, you’re gonna cum on my cock right here in this club,” Johnny growled in your ear, so much conviction in his tone that it was just as intoxicating as the pleasure coursing through your body. “Then I’m gonna drain my balls in your pretty cunt and keep you on my lap, my cock plugging you full of my cum while we finish our drinks. Got it?”

“Yeah-huh,” you mumbled, your head lolling to the side until you were pressed temple-to-temple with your boyfriend.

His skin was damp with sweat, just like yours, and the scent of his cologne mixed with the sweet tang of cherries and whiskey on his breath.

You wanted to kiss him, but all you could do was sit on his cock and take it, moaning loud enough, you were certain he could hear even over the roaring, pounding music.

Johnny’s fingers dug into the sides of your throat, adding a delicious sting of pain but not cutting off your sounds of pleasure. A moment later, you understood why.

“Yeah, baby, let me hear how good ‘m making you feel, wanna hear you moaning while I choke you and bounce you on my cock like a gorgeous fuckdoll,” Johnny said, barely pausing to take a breath, like he couldn’t stop the torrent of filthy talk even if he’d tried. “You’re my perfect cock drunk slut, aren’t you, baby, just a pretty fucktoy who loves being used anywhere and everywhere to pleasure my cock, huh?”

“Yuh huh, yuh huh, yuh huh,” you babbled, in between desperate, whining sounds of pleasure. “Your toy, Johnny, all yours.”

“That’s my girl, such a good slut—my perfect, pretty fucktoy,” Johnny cooed in your ear, his fingers digging into the sides of your neck and choking you harder. Between your thighs, he rubbed your clit faster, his pace merciless. “Now be a good girl and cum on my cock, firelight—come on, I need to feel your cunt milking my cock, baby.”

Johnny’s commanding words, his thick cock and his ruthless hands all conspired against you, and you stood little chance against the deluge of pleasure he was giving you. It was all you could do to cling to him, your nails digging deep into his forearms as your release crashed over you.

Not a second too soon, Johnny’s hand slapped over your mouth and you screamed your pleasure, your mind going completely blank with bliss as wave after wave of your release flooded through your body. You tensed and shuddered in your boyfriend’s lap, your pussy gripping his cock so tight, it was like you were begging for his cum.

Johnny buried his face in your shoulder and shifted his hand from between your legs, gripping the crease of your thigh and rutting into you as he chased his release. A moment later, he found it, grunting his pleasure and pressing his gritted teeth into your sweat-slick skin to muffle his loud groans.

It seemed to go on forever, the twitching and throbbing of Johnny’s cock in your cunt, spilling his seed deep inside you while you rode out the aftershocks of your own release.

Finally, when you were both spent, you and Johnny collapsed back into the booth, your body sprawled on top of your boyfriend’s, both your chests heaving as you caught your breath.

When you were recovered enough, you twisted your shoulders and grabbed Johnny’s face in both hands, pulling him in for the filthiest kiss of the night. It was all hot breath and vicious teeth, your pussy still pulsing around his cock, and his cum still leaking into your tight heat.

“You’re an impossible menace,” you declared when you finally pulled away, the severity of your words dampened by the undeniable affection in your tone.

Johnny tipped his head back and laughed, the sound boisterous and entirely unrepentant. But when he sobered and looked back at you, there was something deeper than affection in his sparkling blue eyes.

“Yeah, but I’m your menace, firelight,” Johnny said. His tone was much more serious all of a sudden, and it made your heart jump and take off in a gallop in your chest.

Belatedly, Johnny seemed to realize he’d taken a turn in a certain direction, and he looked around as if searching for a way to get the two of you back to your typical flirty and fun conversations. Reaching past you, he grabbed your drink off the table and handed it to you before picking up his own.

“And you love it,” he quipped blithely, clinking his glass against yours then lifting it to his mouth.

You watched Johnny drink, his adam’s apple bobbing and wondered if you should let him get away with turning the suddenly serious conversation back to something light.

“I do,” you murmured, sipping your drink and glancing out at the strobing red lights and the endless sea of disco balls, casting crimson sparkles all across the clubgoers dancing below. You chewed idly on a maraschino cherry, the sweet liquor of your drink clinging to your tongue as thoughts swirled in your head.

It was Valentine’s Day. It was a holiday all about love, why shouldn’t you tell your boyfriend how you truly felt about him?

Impulsively, you turned back to Johnny, catching his eye and making sure you had his attention before you spoke.

For a second, your breath caught in your throat and you were scared you wouldn’t be able to say it—which made you sad, because you wanted him to know. And that thought gave you all the courage you needed to just say it.

“I love you, Johnny Storm.”

It was the first time either of you had said those words to each other, and for one terrifying moment, you worried about how he’d respond. Would he’d laugh it off as too much drinking and fucking, or would he take you seriously?

Johnny’s features went slack with surprise, but only for a second. In the next, his mouth was stretching across his handsome face into a wildly happy grin. Love shone in his eyes, and, though you couldn’t be sure, you thought you saw a glimmer of tears before he blinked them away.

“It’s about time, baby—what’s not to love about me?” he teased, pulling you in for a deep kiss, his scruff rasping against your cheeks and his tongue slipping into your mouth. He kissed you slow and sweet, showing you depth of his feelings.

When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours and said the words you wanted to hear. They weren’t more jokes or teasing, or more sweet talk. They were the truth.

“I love you, too, firelight.”

Your heart soared and you couldn’t help the beaming smile that spread across your face so wide, it nearly hurt your cheeks. For a moment, you basked in Johnny’s confession, and then you kissed him. You kissed him until you were breathless. And then you kissed him some more.

Eventually, the two of you finished your drinks—in between many, many more kisses—while reveling in the feeling of Johnny’s cock still buried in your pussy, his cum dripping from your slit. It wasn’t until it came time to leave that you realized just how much of a mess you’d made of his pants.

Like the dutiful girlfriend you were, you walked in front of Johnny the entire way out of the club, his jacket around your shoulders and his hands holding your hips possessively.

To anyone you passed, he just looked like a guy obsessed with his girlfriend—which, of course, he was.

Once you made it back to his apartment overlooking the Manhattan skyline, Johnny proved all over again just how much of a sweet-talking menace he could be, eating his cum from your pussy before fucking another load into you.

Then he fucked it even deeper, crooning in your ear about how much he loved you and your slutty cunt—and your big, throbbing heart.

By the time the both of you were sated, and had said ‘I love you’ a genuinely sickening amount of times, the sky was beginning to lighten on the morning of February 15, the day after Valentine’s Day.

But you didn’t care what day it was, you were just happy to fall asleep in the arms of the man you loved, the one who could sweet talk you into anything—Johnny Storm.

sweethearts game masterlist

#johnny storm #johnny storm fanfiction #johnny storm smut #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm fan art #chris evans #chris evans characters #chris evans smut #chris evans fanfiction #witchywithwhiskey's sweethearts #witchywithwhiskeywork #writing-for-marvel #established relationship #valentine's day

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jincapableoflove · 8 days ago

Note

hey girl! i just wanted to reach out and say that we have a lot in common! i'm also 18 and am ot7 biased :)

anyways, i loved your house husband series and was wondering if i could request something!! what if mc and jk were at a work party for mc and jk was being flirted with and mc had to step in and diffuse the situation or smth like that..i just love mc being a girl boss lol. if that's a stupid idea just ignore it!!

also, if i could be added to ur taglist that would be fabulous! thank u awesome writer 🙏🫶🏼💜

mrs. jeon doesn't share | drabble

A PART OF 'THE HOUSEHUSBAND DIARIES' DRABBLE SERIES

pairing: jungkook x (f.) reader

genre: househusband! jungkook, corporate office worker! reader, established relationship, flufff, jealousy.

summary: when a bold coworker tries to flirt with your husband at your company's exclusive gala, you must step in to claim what's yours.

word count: 1.3k

warnings: nothing much, just mc being a girlboss and mentions of a flirty coworker.

a/n: hey love! here’s the drabble you requested and no, it definitely wasn’t a stupid idea at all! in fact, i had so much fun writing it, i absolutely loved the girl boss energy too (we need more of that always 👏) also, just a quick note didn’t include smut in this one since it wasn’t specified in the ask. p.s. i added you to the taglist! and omg we’re the same age and ot7-biased? soulmates confirmed 😭💜 hope you enjoy!! let me know what you think <3

requests are open! feel free to send in what ifs and drabble ideas!

you and jungkook walked into the venue, the grand ballroom of a luxury hotel downtown. the moment you stepped inside, soft clinking of champagne glasses and gentle music from a live string quartet welcomed you in.

it was a high-end affair, hosted by your company to celebrate the year’s successes with staff members, executives, and high-profile investors. the lighting was low and golden, tables were decorated with tall crystal centerpieces and fresh white flowers, and servers in black ties moved gracefully through the crowd with trays of drinks.

everyone was dressed to the nines—floor-length gowns, sharp tuxedos, polished shoes. the air smelled faintly of expensive perfume and catered delicacies.

and yet, despite all the glittering conversation and important faces, it was jungkook who stole the attention.

he looked incredible.

he wore a sleek black suit that fit him perfectly, showing off his broad shoulders, slim waist, and long legs. the white shirt underneath was crisp and clean, with the top two buttons left undone. just enough to reveal a hint of skin. his dark hair was slicked back, with one strand falling over his forehead in a way that made him look both effortless and unfairly handsome.

he looked elegant and cool all at once, like he belonged on the cover of GQ, but the way his hand rested gently on the small of your back reminded everyone that he was with you.

your dress was a deep, midnight blue satin which almost looked black under the light. it hugged your body in all the right places and had a high slit that revealed just enough of your leg as you walked. the neckline dipped tastefully, showing off your collarbones and the subtle shimmer of the necklace jungkook had gifted you last anniversary.

together, you were a striking pair. and from the way he looked at you, eyes warm and proud, it was obvious that jungkook knew exactly how lucky he was to be on your arm tonight.

the night moved on smoothly. you were quickly swept into conversations about business with board members and top investors. meanwhile, jungkook, ever the supportive partner, gave you space to work your magic. after all, this was your night.

he found his way to the bar, content to sip on a whiskey and people-watch from a distance. you caught his eye once or twice between conversations, exchanging a quiet smile that grounded you amidst the whirlwind of corporate chatter.

but while you were locked in a discussion about upcoming project launches, jungkook found himself approached by someone far less professional.

a woman in a sleek red dress sauntered up beside him, her perfume announcing her presence even before she spoke. she leaned casually against the bar, her posture relaxed and too confident.

“hi there,” she said sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “i don’t think we’ve met. i’m kim nari, marketing department.” she offered her hand, her gaze lingering a little too long on his face. “and you are?”

jungkook accepted the handshake politely but didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked over his frame. “jungkook,” he replied, keeping his tone friendly but reserved.

nari’s smile widened. “jungkook,” she repeated, as if tasting the name. “that’s a strong name. let me guess, you’re not with the company, are you?”

“no,” he answered smoothly. “i’m here with my wife. she works here.”

“oh, and what do you do, jungkook?” nari asked, her tone dripping with curiosity as she swirled the drink in her hand.

“i stay at home,” jungkook replied casually.

nari blinked, tilting her head. “so… like a househusband?”

he nodded, completely unfazed. “yes, a househusband.”

nari arched a brow, lips curling into a coy smile. “it must be exhausting being home all day, waiting for your wife to come back from work. a man like you deserves a little excitement.”

jungkook’s polite smile didn’t falter, but the edge in his eyes sharpened. “i’m very happy with my life. and i’m even happier with my wife.”

but nari didn’t back off.

if anything, his gentle refusal only seemed to encourage her.

nari leaned in closer, her elbow casually brushing against his as she sipped from her cocktail. “you’re being modest,” she said, voice low, like they were sharing a secret. “a guy like you? you could have anyone you wanted. why tie yourself down?”

jungkook’s jaw ticked, the sharp cut of it more pronounced beneath the warm lighting. still, he kept his tone civil. “because the person i’m tied to is everything i’ve ever wanted.”

a flash of irritation crossed nari’s face, but before she could recover and try again, the atmosphere shifted.

across the room, you had just wrapped up a conversation with some investors when you noticed jungkook alone at the bar, looking polite but clearly uncomfortable. and then, you saw her. kim nari. you recognized her from office, though you’d never spoken much. now she was standing far too close to your husband, clearly unaware or choosing to ignore the ring on his finger.

without missing a beat, you excused yourself and made your way through the crowd.the room was full of people but your focus was locked in on your man.

as you reach jungkook’s side, you seamlessly insert yourself between them, claiming your space without a word. you take the glass from his hand, lifting it to your lips with cool confidence, sipping it like it’s always been yours.

jungkook lets out a quiet breath of relief, while nari’s smile falters.

“sorry,” you say casually, pressing a kiss to jungkook’s cheek. “didn’t mean to keep you waiting, love.”

jungkook smiles instantly, his entire body relaxing at your presence. “not at all,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you in a little closer. “you know i’d wait all night for you.”

you looked at nari then, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “i don’t think we’ve met properly. i’m jungkook’s wife.”

nari’s smile wavered. “oh. right. i’ve seen you around. you look... stunning tonight.”

“thank you,” you said, voice still warm. “and thanks for keeping my husband company. though from the looks of it, i think he’s had about all the company he can take.”

nari laughed awkwardly, sensing the shift. “of course. i was just saying hi.”

“mm, well. consider it said.”

you turned back to jungkook, brushing an imaginary wrinkle off his lapel. “come on, baby. let’s get you something that won’t give you a headache.”

“well,” you tuen to nari once again, “we wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time. i’m sure there’s plenty of appropriate company you could be enjoying tonight.”

the implication lands perfectly. nari excuses herself with a tight nod, heels clicking away faster than yours had approached.

once she’s gone, you turn to jungkook fully. “you alright?”

he leans down, kissing your cheek with a smile. “i am now. that was hot, by the way.”

you chuckle, brushing invisible lint off his jacket. “that’s what i’m here for. to protect my man from women who don’t understand boundaries.”

jungkook smirks. “you’re such a girlboss.”

you grin. “i know.”

the rest of the night, jungkook can’t keep his hands off you. he stays close, his hand resting on your lower back, leaning in every so often to whisper in your ear.

“god, you’re so sexy when you get jealous.”

you feel heat rush to your cheeks, but you play it cool, letting him hold you close.

when you finally get home, he pulls you in the moment the door closes, kissing you like he’s been holding back all night.

you laugh softly, teasing, “so you liked that, huh? watching your wife step in like that?”

his gaze darkens as he cups your face. “liked it? i loved it. you have no idea.”

his hands rest on your waist as he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s savoring it.

the tension melts away, leaving only warmth between you. you both laugh softly as you kick off your shoes and head toward the bedroom, fingers intertwined.

no more parties. no more unwanted attention.

just you and your cute husband.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @iamstilljk @pinkpantheris @xovkhnxo @livi101ful @mah-clarah @alessioayla @taefect94 @yuniesluv @lectrice-ios @daskewl @marblemoonstones

taglist open!! lmk ur thots <3

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